A few people have asked me to explain what Gender Dysphoria feels like FOR ME. A lot of people use the term "in the wrong body" which, again, FOR ME, isn't how I feel. This is my attempt to explain how i felt, in a manner i think most people could relate to. I don't want to pretend that everyone has this experience, everyone is different.
Hopefully someone will find it useful.
This explanation came from a dream I had and after I woke up I was compelled to scribble it down.
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Imagine you love singing. Ever since you were little, since your first memories you've always enjoyed it, but you don't just like any singing – you love to sing Soprano.
You love everything about it: the way it sounds, the way the makes you feel, the shivers that go down your spine when you sing. You feel right when you sing Soprano.
You walk into the opera house and you are ready to stand on stage, open your mouth and let the soprano soar.
But the director doesn't want you to sing Soprano. You're told to sing Tenor.
You're a bit confused as to why. You ask him a few questions and he looks at you with an incredulous eyebrow raised towards the ceiling.
"You're not a Soprano – You're a Tenor," he says. "Now go and practice with the other Tenors."
So you go and you practice. You realise you are actually quite good at singing Tenor too. Maybe you were meant to sing Tenor after all. These other Tenors are alright. You get along with them fine but they all seem a little more content than you to be singing Tenor. They are happy singing. Are you happy when you sing? Yeah, you think so. You're a Tenor and this is what Tenors sing.
But you look across the room and you see the Sopranos. You feel upset when you look. You remember what it is like to sing Soprano, the joy you felt. They're all happy to be there, just like the Tenors are. You feel like you're the only one in the world who wants to swap from Tenor to Soprano.
You're weird. No one else wants to swap. No one else thinks of swapping. Tenors are Tenors and Sopranos are Sopranos.
You've heard stories though – you know that people can swap and you've heard how they were ousted from the theatre group. Surely it's better to sing Tenor than to not sing at all? You don't want to be like that. You don't want to lose your friends – the Tenors are a good group. They all accept you. You're one of them.
So rehearsal ends and you go home for the night.
You're frustrated with everything. Why can't you just be allowed to sing what you want to sing? Why the hell are you a Tenor? You know you're a Soprano. You were made to sing Soprano.
You close the door to your room and you hide yourself away. You isolate yourself. Now you're alone you can finally sing. You can sing Soprano to your hearts content. No one will judge you when you're alone. No one else needs to know. You feel happiest at this point, when you are finally free.
But you have to be careful. What if the neighbours overhear you singing? What if your family walk in and you're blasting out Think of Me from Phantom of the Opera. What would they say? You can only imagine. You'd be ostracised. Your singing days would be over.
So you keep your Soprano hidden. To the outside world you're a Tenor. You turn up to the theatre group every day and you sing the lines you are given to sing. You're so good that no one would doubt that you could even dream of singing Soprano.
But there's only so much you can take. You can only stay in role for so long. Living a double life is wearing you down. Lying to the cast becomes too stressful. You only get one singing career and you want to enjoy it. You want to be happy when you're on stage.
And so one day, when you've had enough, when you've sung the part you don't want to sing one time too many, you just give up.
You're not a Tenor. You're a Soprano. There's nothing wrong with you being a Soprano. If others can't tolerate you being a Soprano then it is their problem and not yours. Who are they to tell you what to sing? Who does the director think he is? He doesn't have to be in your shoes, he doesn't have to sing your part.
And so you walk on the stage. Your audience of friends is there. Sweat dripping down your forehead. You open your mouth.
And you sing.
You sing the way you were always meant to sing. You open your heart and you let it all escape. The frustration, the fear, the anxiety, the stress, the lies, the heartache, the tears – they all rush into the air and out into the theatre.
There's a smile on your face as you do it. You almost can't believe it. You're actually singing Soprano.
You dare to look at the audience.
One or two friends to their feet and walk out in disgust, but most are sat there, dumbfounded, surprised. They came to hear a Tenor. They didn't expect this.
But you carry on. You're a Soprano now. The world knows you're a Soprano and no one will ever tell you any different.
And so your song ends.
You tremble, waiting for a reaction. You've never felt so naked, so exposed. You've just bared your soul to the world.
And then a friend in the front row gets to their feet and starts to clap.
And then another, and another. The audience applauds.
And you realise your true friends don't care if you're a Tenor or Soprano. They care if you're happy when you sing.
