Day 2, 10/3/2018.
Doubts hammering away at me again. “What if you’re wrong. What if you’re wrong. What if you’re wrong. You can’t go back. You can’t go back. You can’t go back.”
I’m scared. I’m not gonna lie. I didn’t get the narrative of “I always knew I was born in the wrong body,” or, “When I was little I wanted to play with trucks and Legos instead of Barbies”. There’s a reason for this narrative to be so common-looking, and it’s so that we could “justify” transitioning in the past. Not to say that it doesn’t apply to people. But I don’t have that narrative to reassure myself with.
I liked Barbies and I also went through a motorcycle phase. I liked dragons and Pokemon and A Series of Unfortunate events. I like makeup, fashion, and weightlifting, though it has been a very long time since I last lifted. I drool at classic cars. What can I say, no matter what gender I subscribe to, I’m bad at either.
I just keep going back to that moment. That moment at the counseling office, where I said, “I’m a handsome man. No, I don’t need to be handsome. I’m cute.”
I’m a cute man. A cute man in a dress.
A scared boy in a dress.
It’s tiring. I’m tired. But at the very least some things are changing for the better. I’m eating a little less garbage, because I want a decent body when I transition. Maybe I’ll go running sometime, maybe I won’t. I managed to draw my first picture for Kinktober, and I was proud, though my understanding of the penis leaves some to be desired.
I suppose another thing that’s nice is that my fear of penises has gone down rather nicely. I am interested in sexual activities with them involved again. Something frustrating, though, is that sexual activities with my own body have become more difficult. Hard to look down at those DDs. Bottom surgery or not (unlikely because orgasming is nice), I just want my chest to be gone. I hate looking at it. I hate seeing it. I want it out of my outfits; it feels like a disruption of my narrative. I’m a man in a dress. And there they are, making me look like what I no longer can pretend to be.
I’m not in class at the moment, when I should be. Or at my psychiatric appointment. I’m here at home, trying to cope. Trying to hide. Trying to escape. I wish I was different. You know that feeling? Not different as in “not trans or not queer”. But different. Functional. Even better, a brilliant person capable of exhibiting work ethic and intelligence.
I’m a sad sack of a man hiding in here. I wish someone could just take my hand and help me escape this hole, forever. But that’s not possible, at least it doesn’t look like it. I just want sanctuary. Not escaping, but a sanctuary within. Somewhere that I can carry wherever I go, a safe space that reminds me of the man living inside, the man who wants to succeed and thrive and be beautiful in his dress, rest by the sunset with his friends, fall in love with life all over again. I’m getting rambly aren’t I?
Will update as the day goes along.