So many people “mean well”. That’s what my mother said. And my grandmothers. They “mean well”. As if the insult shouldn’t hurt because they didn’t mean it as an insult.
I don’t believe that. That’s a piece of sexism trained from birth for anyone they claim is female. Don’t fight. Don’t fuss. Be quiet and nice. Look pretty; smile. Be kind. Don’t take up space. Don’t talk back. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.
I can rant on sexism. There’s plenty to rant on.
But that’s not what hurts right now.
It’s before you get to sexism that hurts.
The doctor pulled me out of my mother in December of 1985. They claimed I was a girl. I was raised as a girl. I was told and given all the society requirements of a female.
I am forced to look like one.
I must follow the laws as if one.
There is no exception to the rule. “That’s how society works.”
You know what that denial of myself lead to?
Does anyone want to take a wild stab in the dark what denial of my truth lead to? Because science and studying have a rather high percentage of the trans community as suicidal. Why?
It has nothing to do with being trans. You might think trans means you’re suicidal as if that’s the normal.
Nope. I can manage without a penis. I can manage with the big globs of nonsense on my chest. I can manage wearing ill fitting dresses. Or various other issues that come when everything doesn’t “line up”.
What I cannot manage is my family, my friends, random people on the street commenting.
Every time a friend- someone I can supposedly trust- calls me female or uses ‘she’… It hurts. It’s this massive dagger being shoved into my chest.
I close off. I pull away. I can’t.
I am called Cyro’s Mom. Generally I’m fine with it. Except when I’m far enough into male to feel the crushing weight of those words not being right. Try having that happen on Father’s Day. Cyro made cake I couldn’t eat. For people who’ll never accept them.
I am the only parent. I got nothing.
People assume I am female. They assume long hair + boobs + high voice means female.
When my hair was short, I still checked enough boxes in people’s mind to be automatically female.
And nothing I say to them changes their minds.
Nothing I do changes their minds.
Humans need society interaction. We need conversations and touch of some kind. Lately it feels as if the only person who truly understands me is Nugget, my cat. Because I can tell him anything. He’s happy I talk to him and cuddle.
But it’s not enough.
I need so much more. And none of it is available to me.
Even just one close friend I can truly be myself would matter. Someone I can sit with and chatter without having to hide anything. Someone who can help me move forward as a human, learn more about myself and about life and how to be better.
Why is it I am surrounded by those who ignore who I am? Why am I surrounded by people who won’t let me be me?
Why are trans people committing suicide at higher numbers? Because we aren’t believed. We are denied our true self. And everyone seems to think we’re playing a game or a joke or we’re crazy.
I don’t need a suicide hotline. I don’t need a warm line. I need a best friend.
Why is it everyone gets lucky with best friend? I never had one. It feels as if I never will.
All my attempts lead me to someone who’ll never accept me as a whole person. Just someone who checks off enough boxes to fit into a stereotype. It leads me to masking and never feeling fully myself.
I’m tired of lying. I’m tired of living in a closet. I’m tired of not being me.
I don’t want to go back to pretending to be female; pretending to follow society’s guidelines. You’re lucky I never tried to succeed. Because I know how. Stop pushing me that way.
Either accept me as me or go away. Far away. Where you can’t hurt anyone. Because if you can’t believe me, you’ll never believe Cyro. I may close up when you deny my chances of humanity, but I’ll fight back if you try to deny my child’s.
I will never tell my child “They mean well.” Because they don’t.
If they did, they wouldn’t fight against the minimal change requested.