Hello. I'm sorry to introduce myself in such a way, but I sincerely hope someone has the patience to read this. Here goes:
I'm 26 years old. Most people reading these lines would probably not pick me as a friend. I'm not very confident, and I'm not skilled at conversations. I'm not very manly or reliable in my behavior. Still, I'd like to share something that I rarely share even with myself.
I don't want to be a man. My dreams of being a girl started in early childhood. The first clear memory of this comes from age 3 or 4, when I lived in a tall apartment building in downtown Sofia. One day, looking through the closet in my room, I found an old wooden doll, dressed in an exquisite Bulgarian folk costume. It was beautiful. In my dreams that night, I saw a witch turning me into that wooden doll. The feeling was strange, somehow warm and happy. I remember trying to recreate this vivid dream the following nights, just to experience that feeling again. The wooden doll is probably still there, somewhere in that old apartment, along with all the trucks, planes, monsters and other boys' toys that I grew up with.
Not much later, in kindergarten, I had the joy of participating in a Christmas festival, where girls wore colorful dresses, and the boys – men's suits. The girls received a light tone of lipstick to make them stand out more on stage. However, one of the boys, who seemed to have pale lips, also received a few dabs. Stunned and without any prejudice or shame, I asked the lady to do the same for me. My lips were red enough without makeup, so she politely replied that there is no need for it. I insisted. In my young mind, that was a repeat of what made me feel good earlier – to be beautiful like a girl. The lady fulfilled my wish, but the slight whiff of disapproval remained etched in my mind. Still, that wasn't enough to make me give up on my dream. In the hot summers of the following years, I still remembered that nice feeling, even as I played boyish games with my younger brother and friends on the countryside. My two best friends were the neighbors' girls – beautiful sisters, both older than me, with warm, cheerful, but radically different personalities. The younger one was vigorous and honest, and the older one – calm and happy. Every day, we played different games, hiding around the large house, telling stories. One day, the sisters invited me to play a game of dress-up. I agreed with excitement. Very soon I found myself with hair clips in my hair and bright colors all over my eyes and lips. I was so happy. I waited impatiently for the next time we would play the same game. And so we did. I don't remember how many times we did it, but I remember the last time. The younger sister asked me to go outside, wearing make-up, and sit on a small wooden stool in the middle of the street. I was afraid. Part of me wanted to do it, while another trembled in uncertainty. The intentions of the younger sister made me hesitate. I knew she was looking for an entertaining view. The big sister protested and said that there is no need for me to go out. But in a fit of childhood courage, I decided to do it. Led by the hand, I stepped shakily towards the fence. I opened the door. Then I walked into the bright midday sun. I sat on the chair. There was no one outside. Only the two sisters stood beside me. I continued to sit there in the middle of the street, waiting for someone to come and see me ... maybe even give me confidence. But it didn't happen. The frustrating wait made me hesitate, feel shame. I hurried home and cleaned the makeup from my face. My hesitation at that moment had perhaps weakened my courage in the future. The games went on as usual. One day, we had a conversation about our future professions. "And what you want to become?" - asked the younger sister. I was unsure what to answer. I recited a few random jobs that I had heard of, but some of them were female and I quickly stopped myself. "But, you want to be a she, right?" - the younger sister interjected. The ugly expression made me quickly deny her words. Without realizing it, the young girl, who I remember with good feelings to this day, had for the first time, made me feel truly ashamed of my dream of becoming a girl.
With age, my dream became more and more distant. In elementary school, I made friends with girls first, then with boys, but the camp to which I belonged became more and more obvious. In conflicts between boys and girls, I was called to the side of the boys. With each passing grade, I behaved in a more and more standard boyish way and girls grew more distant from me. I myself grew up fast enough. Even before the end of primary school I was the tallest boy in my class, despite my slender figure. Things became more complicated with puberty. My behavior worsened, even towards my younger brother. Furthermore, I noticed that I was beginning to like girls. My old dreams were dying as I realized that I was a boy who likes girls ... who also wants to be a girl. From my conversations with classmates, it became increasingly clear that such ambiguity was not tolerated. You're either "a normal boy, or gay", and "being gay" is the worst thing you could be. In school, or in life. This was the slogan that kept playing on the loudspeakers throughout my search for self-understanding, as is the case, perhaps, for most children in the world. To my "great joy", boys have never attracted me. So I'm not gay! Not only that, but female beauty attracts me! How lucky not to be "abnormal" in a society of "normals"...
The satisfaction that I had from finding the path that I was supposed to walk got me through the rough road of manhood. Like clockwork, my voice mutated, body hair and acne appeared, my bones grew and my face started developing irreversibly masculine traits. From time to time, I put on my mother's lipstick and makeup, but the fear and shame, accumulated in school had turned this into a taboo. What was supposed to be normal, was now only a perverse enjoyment. Against this ugly scene, I again started becoming more insecure. What am I? Is there a word for it? Transsexual? A man who wants to be a woman? But a woman should like men. So do I want to be a lesbian? The lexicon didn't seem to have the proper word to describe what I knew I was. А tide of guilty conscience was again enough to quell my courage. What a huge disappointment it would be for my mother if she knew what raged in my head. It would inevitably make her suffer. The scorn and hatred of society would surely amplify that pain many times. My flight from a normal family future would be the final blow she would have to endure. I don't want to put her through this! Moreover, the dream of defying nature and becoming a girl, isn't that as childish and far-fetched as the dream of flying like a bird, or roaming through the cosmos? I'll have to give it up! It shouldn't be that hard to do. The burdens people manage to live with are far worse than this. Man Up! I'm probably too late anyway! My mind is stable enough to handle it! Maybe one day the discomfort will simply go away.
And still. What if it doesn't? What if it gets stronger? With advancing age, the unpleasant traits of a male become more evident. Still, there was one last hope that reignited the fire that even I was now trying to extinguish. The roads of thousands of transsexual people in the world, the hormone therapies and surgeries, the success they achieved – all of this made me dream once more. Most of these techniques are relatively new – only a few decades old. The transformation from woman to man can be achieved much easier, except for the genitals. But with men, things are far more difficult. There's no way to shrink the bones or return the voice to its previous state. That's why so many transgender people in the past have had trouble achieving convincing feminine look. Does that undermine the whole endeavor then? Why be an unnatural-looking woman, if you can remain a natural looking man? The cruelty of this question still makes me uneasy. And still, so many people take that risk, knowing all the terrible consequences, including the risk of losing loved ones. Sometimes I think it's all about the gamble – weighing the benefits and disadvantages of the road to come. There can never be a definitive answer, because we can't see into the future. And still, the most amazing piece of inspiration for me remains the process of early transition – those amazing people who managed to transition before puberty took its toll. The confidence and happiness with which they live their new life, the acceptance with which society treats them! This is the greatest consolation that I can have in moments of despair.
So, is it too late for me to start? I'll be 27 years old next month. I'm 6"2. Despite still being slender (160 lb), the size of my hands and feet is too large. My voice is now deep. My facial features are male and almost nothing can bring them far enough in the opposite direction. And still. Is it too late? Despite everything, for me the answer is still as unclear as it was in my childhood. I'm afraid, just as I was that day in the dusty street, waiting for someone to pass by and give me some encouragement. I'm genuinely happy, at least for that. I'm glad that little flame still keeps burning.
