So it took me until 38 to figure out I am trans.
Thinking back, there were several weird things that caused some undefinable suffering.
- whenever I'd get a massage from my partner, my mind would check out and I'd get incredibly sad, lonely. For hours.
- for a whole summer, I'd walk around telling my friends that "everything in my life is wrong". But I didn't know what. I just had this strong, scary sense of wrongness, off-ness. And that no one would ever understand me.
- I tend to keep myself very busy. I don't have a lot of empty space in my life. During long car rides, my partner says, I'd always provoke big fights and be miserable and desperate. He has a point there. I noticed that being strapped into a car seat and doing nothing for 7 hours gives me too much time to think. This weekend, a 7h power outage at a cabin forced me into hours and hours of doing nothing, and I fell apart.
- When people suggested I do yoga or meditation, I'd laugh at them and (without knowing where that came from) tell them "that sounds like the scariest thing ever; I can't be alone with myself"
The wrongness, the lack of sense, the scary disconnect from my body, the anger, the lack of hope for ever being understood, that was all dysphoria. I just didn't have a name for it.
I don't think I ever really saw my own suffering. Even after coming out. I never really let myself feel the pain. Because admitting dysphoria also means admitting the life-sentence of dysphoria. And that's enough to want to hit my head against the wall. Except there is no use in hitting my head against the wall because nothing ->-bleeped-<-ing makes it go away completely and forever.
This past weekend, when I fell apart, spending most of the days in bed sobbing, it hit me that all my life I have run away from dysphoria. And that it will never go away. That I have to accept that.
And I think what I figured out there is that I can't just transition. The pain resulting from those 38 years is still baked into my body. It can easily get triggered because I won't look like a cis male ever. I can scream, cry, bang my head against the wall, wear a packing device, get all the surgery, the whole 9 years (or 8 inches
). But it. Will. Never. Go. Away.
For example, I pack and it makes me incredibly happy. But then again, the packing device also reminds me that it's not real. And then I fall into an even deeper hole.
So I watched this youtube video where someone (FTM) admitted that one has to mourn first. Mourn that you will never have a cis male body. If I don't, it'll just continue to pull the rug under my feet.
I don't have a question. I just felt the need to write this down. If you have useful comments, I'd be happy to read them.
