So on Friday I bit the bullet and decided to come out to the managers of both gyms I attend, as well as my Personal Trainer. I haven't been going to the gym since my last post on the subject as I've been struggling with the dysphoria that was triggered by that post I'd read… but I decided that I need support if I'm to regain my comfort in the gym.
The first gym started out very well. The manager is a lesbian and she was very supportive, friendly and sympathetic. She agreed to look into options to make me feel more comfortable in the gym, particularly in the changing areas an on the treadmills - all of which are in front of mirrors. So that went well.
My personal trainer? Not quite so good, actually. I've been working with him for a couple of years now so he knows me quite well, but he kept saying things like "I never would've guessed" and "But you really do look like a woman!" (yeah, thanks for that - how do you think I feel about having that little fact pointed out to me, arsehole?). He then told me quite proudly that he'd once met a 'tranny' who 'even though he was really a guy, looked quite attractive' and he seemed to think this story showed just how enlightened and tolerant he is if even he had fancied that 'tranny'. Ugh.
Well, he gets ONE opportunity to talk trash like that whilst adjusting to the surprise of meeting his first transgender client. But I expect (nay, demand) that all my future dealings with him must be far more respectful and must not include words like 'tranny'.
So I had mixed feelings about that particular 'outing'. The good work done by the manager was kind-of negated by my personal trainer. Unfortunately the only other personal trainer in the place is a woman and I've seen how she operates - it's all about femininity with her and I'd be even more uncomfortable working with her under those circumstances.
My second 'outing' session was at my other gym, which is closer to where I live. I phoned the manager and organised an evening appointment with him… and when I arrived I was delighted to see that he turned out to be the campest gay guy you could hope to meet. Well, this is promising, I thought - there's a good chance that he'll be sympathetic to LGBT issues.
And sure enough he was.
I had a lovely long chat with him in which he promised me all the support the club could offer. I'm very uncomfortable with using their ladies' changing rooms (and I don't pass well enough to use the men's yet) so he's offered me the use of the single-stall disabled changing room. It's not ideal, but it's the best that we can come up with within the confines of this club and its facilities.
He also got his senior management involved as they're always on the floor when he's away so I have three people making sure my gym experience is as comfortable as it can be.
However, the (gay) manager did also say: "But you look very female". URGH!!! Twice in one day. :'-(
Goddamn it. I can't wait to start on hormones.
Monday, 22 October 2012
Monday, 15 October 2012
Surgery
The other night Eldest Daughter and I were having a chat and she mentioned that she wants to eventually have cosmetic surgery on her nose. I somewhat understand where she's coming from… when she was little her nose looked a lot like mine (small & button-like) but as she goes through her teenage years it seems that the bridge is becoming quite pronounced, giving her a bit of a hook nose.
She gets this from her father's mother, who has a rather generous hooter herself. Daughter's nose is nowhere near as pronounced as her grandmother's but she is very image-conscious, so she compares her nose unfavourably to everyone around her and she clearly has some dysphoria about it. Nothing to do with gender; just general dysphoria with the way it fits on her face.
Boy, can I relate about dysphoria.
So she said that if she could have plastic surgery some day, she'd like to get her nose done. I tried to reassure her that it doesn't look bad, but I'd understand if she'd feel happier with having it done. She then asked me what plastic surgery I'd have done if I could.
A meaningful glance downwards and a salacious wink was all the answer she needed.
She gets this from her father's mother, who has a rather generous hooter herself. Daughter's nose is nowhere near as pronounced as her grandmother's but she is very image-conscious, so she compares her nose unfavourably to everyone around her and she clearly has some dysphoria about it. Nothing to do with gender; just general dysphoria with the way it fits on her face.
Boy, can I relate about dysphoria.
So she said that if she could have plastic surgery some day, she'd like to get her nose done. I tried to reassure her that it doesn't look bad, but I'd understand if she'd feel happier with having it done. She then asked me what plastic surgery I'd have done if I could.
A meaningful glance downwards and a salacious wink was all the answer she needed.
Friday, 12 October 2012
Private Person vs. Public Property
A thought occurred to me this morning while I was driving in to work. I know I can be dense at times, but I've just spotted a major difference between men & women in our society. And it's one of the problems I've always had with being female-bodied because people treat me incorrectly.
I've spotted that men in our society are treated as private persons. By this I mean that the public has no say in how they live their lives or the decisions they make. If a man wants to get an education in a respectable field, that's his right. If he wants to work an 80-hour week, he's a dependable husband providing for his family. If he goes grey, that's just his age. If he wants to dress to his comfort, he's just a bloke wearing what he wants; why would anyone ever even think of passing an opinion? He's treated as an adult who is sufficiently competent to make his own decisions. Granted, he can be judged or criticised if he makes decisions that are considered harmful, but most of his life choices are supported by society by default.
On the other hand women are treated as public property. The public thinks it has a right to an opinion on what a woman chooses to do with her life. If she wants an education, well that's fine but she'd better not get too big for her boots by studying any traditionally male field such as engineering. If she wants to work an 80-hour week, why is the selfish bitch neglecting her husband and kids? If she goes grey, she's a washed-out old hag. If she dresses to her comfort, she's a slut who deserves to be attacked in the street for wearing revealing clothes; or if she prefers less revealing clothes, she's 'frigid' or 'a lesbian'. She is treated as someone who is not only incompetent to make her own decisions, but she is heavily pressured to conform to society's expectations of what a 'wife and mother' should be. And if she doesn't, she fails as a woman.
That realisation hit me like a ton of bricks this morning. Society in general, spurred on by the media, thinks it is entitled to comment on every aspect of a woman's life but they wouldn't dare say some of these things about men. I had a look at the sidebar of articles on the Daily Mail's site (the most heavily visited news site in the world) for some examples of this. Here are three actual headlines from today's Daily Mail, along with my take of what's wrong with them, and a suggestion of what a similar headline could look like if the story applied to a man:
Actual Headline: Something to tell us, or just a REALLY good bikini? Frankie Sandford's curvier cleavage sparks boob job speculation.
What's wrong with it: the media (and public) thinks it has a right to comment on a woman's choices regarding her body.
Imagine this: Something to tell us, or just REALLY tight trousers? Justin Bieber's larger bulge sparks penile enhancement speculation.
Actual Headline: There's a rat in the kitchen (and it's not Alex Reid!) Hysterical Chantelle Houghton fails to keep her composure as she discovers vermin in her old house.
What's wrong with it: the headline implies that a typical stupid hysterical woman gets ridiculously emotional in public.
Imagine this: There's a rat in the kitchen (and it's not Chantelle Houghton!) Hysterical Alex Reid fails to keep his composure as he discovers vermin in his old house.
Actual Headline: Even J-Lo needs a bit of help! Ms Lopez keeps her famous curves in check as she sports Spanx under her skintight catsuit.
What's wrong with it: A 43-year-old mother apparently fails as a woman because she needs a little support to keep her figure up to the required standard.
Imagine this: Even Frasier needs a bit of help! Kelsey Grammer keeps his famous belly in check as he sports Spanx under his skintight shirt.
I'm willing to bet your reaction to the imagined headline involving a man is not quite as positive (or as neutral) as your reaction to the actual headline involving a woman. I'm willing to bet that most people would think that the women in the actual headlines are 'fair game' for such public scrutiny; and the men in my imagined headlines are having their privacy invaded.
Right?
I'm not sure why our society operates in this way, but clearly it does. This also goes some way towards explaining why so many women feel they need to 'dress sexily', including wearing loads of make-up: it's because they know they're under intense scrutiny everywhere they go and they'll be damned if they let some other woman look better than them.
Why do we think it's ok to invade the privacy of women, but unacceptable to do the same to men?
I am a private person, and I always have been. I refuse to allow others to judge me, particularly on my body parts or appearance. That's one of the many, many reasons why I dropped out of the 'female' game, and I feel a whole lot more comfortable now that I'm not under the same pressure.
I've spotted that men in our society are treated as private persons. By this I mean that the public has no say in how they live their lives or the decisions they make. If a man wants to get an education in a respectable field, that's his right. If he wants to work an 80-hour week, he's a dependable husband providing for his family. If he goes grey, that's just his age. If he wants to dress to his comfort, he's just a bloke wearing what he wants; why would anyone ever even think of passing an opinion? He's treated as an adult who is sufficiently competent to make his own decisions. Granted, he can be judged or criticised if he makes decisions that are considered harmful, but most of his life choices are supported by society by default.
On the other hand women are treated as public property. The public thinks it has a right to an opinion on what a woman chooses to do with her life. If she wants an education, well that's fine but she'd better not get too big for her boots by studying any traditionally male field such as engineering. If she wants to work an 80-hour week, why is the selfish bitch neglecting her husband and kids? If she goes grey, she's a washed-out old hag. If she dresses to her comfort, she's a slut who deserves to be attacked in the street for wearing revealing clothes; or if she prefers less revealing clothes, she's 'frigid' or 'a lesbian'. She is treated as someone who is not only incompetent to make her own decisions, but she is heavily pressured to conform to society's expectations of what a 'wife and mother' should be. And if she doesn't, she fails as a woman.
That realisation hit me like a ton of bricks this morning. Society in general, spurred on by the media, thinks it is entitled to comment on every aspect of a woman's life but they wouldn't dare say some of these things about men. I had a look at the sidebar of articles on the Daily Mail's site (the most heavily visited news site in the world) for some examples of this. Here are three actual headlines from today's Daily Mail, along with my take of what's wrong with them, and a suggestion of what a similar headline could look like if the story applied to a man:
Actual Headline: Something to tell us, or just a REALLY good bikini? Frankie Sandford's curvier cleavage sparks boob job speculation.
What's wrong with it: the media (and public) thinks it has a right to comment on a woman's choices regarding her body.
Imagine this: Something to tell us, or just REALLY tight trousers? Justin Bieber's larger bulge sparks penile enhancement speculation.
Actual Headline: There's a rat in the kitchen (and it's not Alex Reid!) Hysterical Chantelle Houghton fails to keep her composure as she discovers vermin in her old house.
What's wrong with it: the headline implies that a typical stupid hysterical woman gets ridiculously emotional in public.
Imagine this: There's a rat in the kitchen (and it's not Chantelle Houghton!) Hysterical Alex Reid fails to keep his composure as he discovers vermin in his old house.
Actual Headline: Even J-Lo needs a bit of help! Ms Lopez keeps her famous curves in check as she sports Spanx under her skintight catsuit.
What's wrong with it: A 43-year-old mother apparently fails as a woman because she needs a little support to keep her figure up to the required standard.
Imagine this: Even Frasier needs a bit of help! Kelsey Grammer keeps his famous belly in check as he sports Spanx under his skintight shirt.
I'm willing to bet your reaction to the imagined headline involving a man is not quite as positive (or as neutral) as your reaction to the actual headline involving a woman. I'm willing to bet that most people would think that the women in the actual headlines are 'fair game' for such public scrutiny; and the men in my imagined headlines are having their privacy invaded.
Right?
I'm not sure why our society operates in this way, but clearly it does. This also goes some way towards explaining why so many women feel they need to 'dress sexily', including wearing loads of make-up: it's because they know they're under intense scrutiny everywhere they go and they'll be damned if they let some other woman look better than them.
Why do we think it's ok to invade the privacy of women, but unacceptable to do the same to men?
I am a private person, and I always have been. I refuse to allow others to judge me, particularly on my body parts or appearance. That's one of the many, many reasons why I dropped out of the 'female' game, and I feel a whole lot more comfortable now that I'm not under the same pressure.
Tuesday, 9 October 2012
Turning the oil tanker
Graham Norton, the Irish TV presenter & comedian, noted in his Telegraph advice column a few weeks ago that "Turning a life around is like trying to turn an oil tanker, it will take time and involve thousands of small manoeuvres". He was answering a letter from someone who was stuck in a rut and wanted to find more enjoyment in their life. But the words struck a chord with me; they were exactly what I needed to hear at the time.
I suppose I'm privileged in a way to have access to the NHS, which is frustratingly slow and sub-standard at dealing with most things (you can go a couple of years without treatment, and even then it is often of the 'budget' variety) but it does get things done eventually if you're persistent enough. I have a lot of sympathy for people in other parts of the world where gender reassignment is an impossible dream due to a lack of finances.
I recently participated in a local NHS survey about services for LGBT people, in which I asked them to consider the fact that many patients with Gender Dysphoria suffer terribly for a long time - sometimes many years or decades - before getting to a crisis point at which they realise they can no longer persist in living as their birth gender. This is a very common and it is certainly what happened with me. I've known that 'something' was wrong since I was 5 years old, but it wasn't until I was 19 that I first heard of someone having had a sex change and figured out exactly what was wrong with me. Then I tried to avoid/ignore my deep-seated problems with my body for twenty-one years before I arrived at a crisis point where I realised I couldn't possibly continue any longer being treated as a female by society.
The problem is: I went to my doctor because I'd hit a crisis point. The last thing someone in crisis needs to hear is that they'll have to wait months before they can actually do anything to make themselves feel better. I hit the wall in June but I still haven't even heard from the Gender Clinic that will eventually be treating me. That's not good enough. Many transgender people consider or attempt (or commit) suicide when we hit that crisis point so we need to be seen much more urgently, and I don't think the medical profession fully appreciates the huge mental and emotional anguish that accompanies living in the wrong body, and what it can drive an otherwise sane person to do to themselves.
So I have a period of several months before I can get any treatment, and in that time I'm trying to keep myself sane by making whatever small changes I can to help me feel a bit better:
Last night I watched a documentary about FtMs in the UK, and whilst I found their stories inspiring I was a bit disheartened by the long time periods for which they had to wait. It was quite an old documentary (I think it was from 1999) but still, seeing those poor guys waiting months between appointments, and having to pretty much beg medical professionals for permission to let them be who they are, was a bit of a downer to say the least. Cis people don't need someone else's permission to get on with their lives; why should we? Oh, and one of the people assessing a patient to determine whether he would be 'allowed' gender reasssignment was a vicar. A VICAR? I don't want any damn vicars involved in my case. I'm a staunch atheist and the Church of England has no relevance to my life or my decisions. I sincerely hope they don't still require a vicar on the panel.
So I'm still waiting to see the Gender Clinic in London. My local shrink told me there was about a 3-month waiting list, but the Clinic's website says their wait is more like 6 months - so it's unlikely I'll be seen before February next year. And that will probably just be for an initial consultation, followed by another consultation some time later (months, maybe?), before I can actually do something about the gender dysphoria that has plagued me for almost 40 years now. The wait is agonising.
On the one hand, I've been waiting so damn long I shouldn't be concerned about waiting a bit longer. I know that. But on the other hand, I've been trying (and failing) to cope for so long, including about 20 years of trying unsuccessfully to be a 'woman', that I'm at crisis point and I need to move forward NOW, not at somebody else's leisure.
Dammit!
I suppose I'm privileged in a way to have access to the NHS, which is frustratingly slow and sub-standard at dealing with most things (you can go a couple of years without treatment, and even then it is often of the 'budget' variety) but it does get things done eventually if you're persistent enough. I have a lot of sympathy for people in other parts of the world where gender reassignment is an impossible dream due to a lack of finances.
I recently participated in a local NHS survey about services for LGBT people, in which I asked them to consider the fact that many patients with Gender Dysphoria suffer terribly for a long time - sometimes many years or decades - before getting to a crisis point at which they realise they can no longer persist in living as their birth gender. This is a very common and it is certainly what happened with me. I've known that 'something' was wrong since I was 5 years old, but it wasn't until I was 19 that I first heard of someone having had a sex change and figured out exactly what was wrong with me. Then I tried to avoid/ignore my deep-seated problems with my body for twenty-one years before I arrived at a crisis point where I realised I couldn't possibly continue any longer being treated as a female by society.
The problem is: I went to my doctor because I'd hit a crisis point. The last thing someone in crisis needs to hear is that they'll have to wait months before they can actually do anything to make themselves feel better. I hit the wall in June but I still haven't even heard from the Gender Clinic that will eventually be treating me. That's not good enough. Many transgender people consider or attempt (or commit) suicide when we hit that crisis point so we need to be seen much more urgently, and I don't think the medical profession fully appreciates the huge mental and emotional anguish that accompanies living in the wrong body, and what it can drive an otherwise sane person to do to themselves.
So I have a period of several months before I can get any treatment, and in that time I'm trying to keep myself sane by making whatever small changes I can to help me feel a bit better:
- I'm spending a lot of time in the gym doing cardio (to reduce my female fat distribution) and weights (to improve my overall musculature).
- I've cut my hair short, in a surfer-dude style. It's hard to find a short style that won't lead to me being misidentified as a lesbian, which is something that would make me extremely uncomfortable.
- I came out to my immediate family, who have responded in various ways. My elder brother is supportive, and my husband & kids are trying to get used to the idea. I have a long road ahead of me... but I only have one life and I don't want to go to my grave having spent my entire life trying to be something I'm not.
- I've selected a male name that I use in public places. Apart from Starbucks, who write that name on my take-out cup - and I'm not yet ready to be 'outed' at work!
- I've spent quite a bit of money on men's clothing, which I wear exclusively. Shoes are a problem as my feet are a size 4/5, but that's what the boys' department is for. ;-)
- I bought an excellent binder from Amazon, which was delivered in very discreet packaging. I wear this every day.
- I've always spoken with a lowered voice since I was about 12, but lately I've been deliberately lowering it and speaking more slowly, particularly when in public.
- Since my hips widened (age 8) I have deliberately walked with my feet slightly further apart than is natural, to alleviate the hip-swaying gait that comes from my (unfortunately) gynaecoid hips. I've been concentrating on doing this a lot more now, and have changed other aspects of my gait by giving myself permission to walk with my hands in my belt loops and by pushing my chest out - something I've not done since The Girls started developing when I was 7. My shoulders are permanently slumped forwards due to many years of trying to conceal my chest.
Last night I watched a documentary about FtMs in the UK, and whilst I found their stories inspiring I was a bit disheartened by the long time periods for which they had to wait. It was quite an old documentary (I think it was from 1999) but still, seeing those poor guys waiting months between appointments, and having to pretty much beg medical professionals for permission to let them be who they are, was a bit of a downer to say the least. Cis people don't need someone else's permission to get on with their lives; why should we? Oh, and one of the people assessing a patient to determine whether he would be 'allowed' gender reasssignment was a vicar. A VICAR? I don't want any damn vicars involved in my case. I'm a staunch atheist and the Church of England has no relevance to my life or my decisions. I sincerely hope they don't still require a vicar on the panel.
So I'm still waiting to see the Gender Clinic in London. My local shrink told me there was about a 3-month waiting list, but the Clinic's website says their wait is more like 6 months - so it's unlikely I'll be seen before February next year. And that will probably just be for an initial consultation, followed by another consultation some time later (months, maybe?), before I can actually do something about the gender dysphoria that has plagued me for almost 40 years now. The wait is agonising.
On the one hand, I've been waiting so damn long I shouldn't be concerned about waiting a bit longer. I know that. But on the other hand, I've been trying (and failing) to cope for so long, including about 20 years of trying unsuccessfully to be a 'woman', that I'm at crisis point and I need to move forward NOW, not at somebody else's leisure.
Dammit!
Monday, 8 October 2012
Binding
I've been using a binder for the past month, and it's been absolutely fantastic.
I had been worried about binding because I have a rotator cuff injury in my left shoulder which makes getting dressed quite difficult and painful, let alone putting on something as constricting as a binder… but I just got to the stage where I had to bite the bullet. I have had severe dysphoria ever since I started to hit puberty (34 years ago!) and have tried to cope by simply not looking down. I had resigned myself to the fact that I couldn't do anything about my equipment and so since the age of about 10, I have felt a bit like Rapunzel: trapped in the highest room (my head) of an inaccessible tower (my body) that stands between me & my freedom. How's that for an analogy? (If only Rapunzel wasn't a girl it would be perfect).
So I did some research and found a decent-looking gynaecomastia vest on Amazon - the Underworks 997, which incorporates both chest and abdominal compression - and placed my order. It arrived a couple of days later in a very discreet package - the small, brown package that Amazon usually uses if you order a music CD - and I gave it a whirl.
Well, it's brilliant.
It's not as hard to put on as I feared it might be, and it's not uncomfortably tight either. I put it on by stepping into it (like a skirt) and pulling it up to waist level, then I put my arms in the armholes (starting with the injured one). Once I've repositioned The Girls by pushing them downwards and towards my armpits it leaves me looking almost completely flat-chested, to the extent that people are treating me differently in public. Unfortunately for me I'm rather short and quite 'pretty' and I'm a 34D so I don't pass very well, but this vest is definitely causing confusion amongst people I deal with. They seem uncertain as to my gender and they tend to address me generically rather than by gender. Which is about as good as I can hope for at the moment, so it's great to have a tiny bit of freedom from femaleness.
I try to give myself a break from wearing it over the weekend for two reasons: 1) I'm at home so I can just lay around in comfortable clothes without worrying about how I'm presenting; and 2) my hubby & kids still a bit uncomfortable about my GID so at present I try to leave my binding for when I'm out in public.
So this weekend I went without my binder for two days. Saturday was fine - I stayed indoors and just wore a very baggy shirt - but on Sunday I wanted to go to the supermarket but the binder was in the wash, so I simply popped on the sports bra I was using before I bought the binder, thinking that that would be good enough to get me round Sainsbury's.
It wasn't. Not at all.
I've become accustomed to looking down at a relatively flat chest and masculine profile, so when I looked down and saw those two enormous mounds on my chest (yet again) I felt badly dysphoric in a way I haven't done for the past month. Those familiar but unwelcome lumps made me look 'female' again and I hated every minute I was out of the house. I also got 'madamed' everywhere I went; clearly people aren't confused about my gender if I'm not binding.
So. Clearly I can't make do without binding in public. And clearly I'll feel a lot better once I get top surgery - I just wish it wouldn't take so damn long to get there. But it was an interesting (and enlightening) experiment to see whether I could cope with going binderless in public after binding for only a month. And the answer is: I can't.
I had been worried about binding because I have a rotator cuff injury in my left shoulder which makes getting dressed quite difficult and painful, let alone putting on something as constricting as a binder… but I just got to the stage where I had to bite the bullet. I have had severe dysphoria ever since I started to hit puberty (34 years ago!) and have tried to cope by simply not looking down. I had resigned myself to the fact that I couldn't do anything about my equipment and so since the age of about 10, I have felt a bit like Rapunzel: trapped in the highest room (my head) of an inaccessible tower (my body) that stands between me & my freedom. How's that for an analogy? (If only Rapunzel wasn't a girl it would be perfect).
So I did some research and found a decent-looking gynaecomastia vest on Amazon - the Underworks 997, which incorporates both chest and abdominal compression - and placed my order. It arrived a couple of days later in a very discreet package - the small, brown package that Amazon usually uses if you order a music CD - and I gave it a whirl.
Well, it's brilliant.
It's not as hard to put on as I feared it might be, and it's not uncomfortably tight either. I put it on by stepping into it (like a skirt) and pulling it up to waist level, then I put my arms in the armholes (starting with the injured one). Once I've repositioned The Girls by pushing them downwards and towards my armpits it leaves me looking almost completely flat-chested, to the extent that people are treating me differently in public. Unfortunately for me I'm rather short and quite 'pretty' and I'm a 34D so I don't pass very well, but this vest is definitely causing confusion amongst people I deal with. They seem uncertain as to my gender and they tend to address me generically rather than by gender. Which is about as good as I can hope for at the moment, so it's great to have a tiny bit of freedom from femaleness.
I try to give myself a break from wearing it over the weekend for two reasons: 1) I'm at home so I can just lay around in comfortable clothes without worrying about how I'm presenting; and 2) my hubby & kids still a bit uncomfortable about my GID so at present I try to leave my binding for when I'm out in public.
So this weekend I went without my binder for two days. Saturday was fine - I stayed indoors and just wore a very baggy shirt - but on Sunday I wanted to go to the supermarket but the binder was in the wash, so I simply popped on the sports bra I was using before I bought the binder, thinking that that would be good enough to get me round Sainsbury's.
It wasn't. Not at all.
I've become accustomed to looking down at a relatively flat chest and masculine profile, so when I looked down and saw those two enormous mounds on my chest (yet again) I felt badly dysphoric in a way I haven't done for the past month. Those familiar but unwelcome lumps made me look 'female' again and I hated every minute I was out of the house. I also got 'madamed' everywhere I went; clearly people aren't confused about my gender if I'm not binding.
So. Clearly I can't make do without binding in public. And clearly I'll feel a lot better once I get top surgery - I just wish it wouldn't take so damn long to get there. But it was an interesting (and enlightening) experiment to see whether I could cope with going binderless in public after binding for only a month. And the answer is: I can't.
Tuesday, 2 October 2012
Why I couldn't transition in South Africa
I've mentioned previously that I figured out that I'm transgender back when I was age 19, around 1990. I'd felt very uncomfortable in my own skin since puberty started around the age of 7 but I've known since I was about 5 that I feel male inside.
The difference that made me start to feel uncomfortable around age 7 was down to other kids' socialisation with me. I had this wonderful year or two around that age, between when I was able to start influencing my appearance and when the hormones hit. You see, when I was little my mother was hugely enamoured of the idea that she'd given birth to a pretty blonde daughter, so she always dressed me in pretty dresses and kept my hair long.
I didn't really know anything about anything at first but as soon as I became aware of my appearance, of gender norms, and of the differences between the way my brother was dressed and the way I was dressed, I vociferously demanded that I be allowed to cut my hair short (she wouldn't let me cut it too short though) and that I be allowed to wear t-shirts and shorts instead of dresses. My mother kind-of allowed this, but she had a lifelong pride in her achievement of giving birth to a pretty blonde girl and she assumed I would simply fit into that role. Until I told her otherwise and became a 'tomboy'.
For that bittersweet brief period I was able to pass as a boy - provided my brother didn't out me - but from 7 onwards I started to go through puberty and my body started to become obviously female, which meant that boys simply didn't want to hang out with me any more. Boys who used to quite happily play with me suddenly started to shun me because it was becoming obvious that I was physically a girl, which meant that I was left with very few friends as I don't socialise easily with most girls.
When puberty started to make major changes to my body I was devastated. Puberty is supposed to be an awkward time, but for most people it is the time when you start changing from a girl to a woman or a boy to a man, and whilst the changes might be somewhat daunting they don't feel 'wrong' to most people. However, many trans* people are desperately unhappy during puberty, anxiously crying out inside that we DON'T want to arrive at the destination our hormones are taking us as it doesn't fit at all with who we are. That was certainly my experience and it's not at all uncommon if you're trans*.
However, I had the added complication of living in South Africa. For those of you who haven't lived there, white South African culture is very paternalistic. Or at least, it was when I was going through my teens in the 1980s and 1990s. Adding to that, many white South African men have Dutch ancestry, and the Dutch are the tallest race on Earth… which means that South African men tend to be pretty tall on average. I'm 1.55m, or 5"1', which means I'm very short by female standards let alone male standards.
South African men are cruel to their shorter brethren. They cannot take seriously anyone of either gender below a certain height (in my experience, about 5"4) and they mercilessly bully short men. I was shocked by my discovery during a business management course I completed when I was 19, in which our lecturer asked all of us to write down 5 characteristics of a good leader. Most of the men (predominantly white and in their 40s) in the class wrote "he must be tall"… which means that in their eyes, a leader must be both male and tall. I presented as neither, and I knew that this meant I would never be taken seriously in South Africa due to my lack of height.
Then a couple of years later I worked for a company in Johannesburg where one of my colleagues was a man of 5"2'. He had been mercilessly bullied his entire life about his height, to the extent that he bought himself a monster truck so that he could at least feel adequate on his daily commute. Bear in mind, he was slightly taller than I am... and he'd suffered daily mockery due to being short. He was actually a nice guy, but he had no significant other in his life because nobody wanted to date a short man.
So I knew I couldn't possibly transition in South Africa under those circumstances. In fact, my height has been one of the main reasons why I have held off for so long. However, when I finally reached crisis point several months ago and decided I just couldn't carry on living as a female any longer, I really looked around me for the first time in a long time and I noticed that many of the men around me (here in the UK) are actually quite short. Some are even shorter than I am; I spotted one just today who was under 5". In fact, it's not at all unusual here in the UK to see men who are around my height.
So I'm letting go of my fear that my height will hold me back from transitioning. And as long as I don't move to South Africa, Holland or even Kenya, I should be just fine. :-)
The difference that made me start to feel uncomfortable around age 7 was down to other kids' socialisation with me. I had this wonderful year or two around that age, between when I was able to start influencing my appearance and when the hormones hit. You see, when I was little my mother was hugely enamoured of the idea that she'd given birth to a pretty blonde daughter, so she always dressed me in pretty dresses and kept my hair long.
I didn't really know anything about anything at first but as soon as I became aware of my appearance, of gender norms, and of the differences between the way my brother was dressed and the way I was dressed, I vociferously demanded that I be allowed to cut my hair short (she wouldn't let me cut it too short though) and that I be allowed to wear t-shirts and shorts instead of dresses. My mother kind-of allowed this, but she had a lifelong pride in her achievement of giving birth to a pretty blonde girl and she assumed I would simply fit into that role. Until I told her otherwise and became a 'tomboy'.
For that bittersweet brief period I was able to pass as a boy - provided my brother didn't out me - but from 7 onwards I started to go through puberty and my body started to become obviously female, which meant that boys simply didn't want to hang out with me any more. Boys who used to quite happily play with me suddenly started to shun me because it was becoming obvious that I was physically a girl, which meant that I was left with very few friends as I don't socialise easily with most girls.
When puberty started to make major changes to my body I was devastated. Puberty is supposed to be an awkward time, but for most people it is the time when you start changing from a girl to a woman or a boy to a man, and whilst the changes might be somewhat daunting they don't feel 'wrong' to most people. However, many trans* people are desperately unhappy during puberty, anxiously crying out inside that we DON'T want to arrive at the destination our hormones are taking us as it doesn't fit at all with who we are. That was certainly my experience and it's not at all uncommon if you're trans*.
However, I had the added complication of living in South Africa. For those of you who haven't lived there, white South African culture is very paternalistic. Or at least, it was when I was going through my teens in the 1980s and 1990s. Adding to that, many white South African men have Dutch ancestry, and the Dutch are the tallest race on Earth… which means that South African men tend to be pretty tall on average. I'm 1.55m, or 5"1', which means I'm very short by female standards let alone male standards.
South African men are cruel to their shorter brethren. They cannot take seriously anyone of either gender below a certain height (in my experience, about 5"4) and they mercilessly bully short men. I was shocked by my discovery during a business management course I completed when I was 19, in which our lecturer asked all of us to write down 5 characteristics of a good leader. Most of the men (predominantly white and in their 40s) in the class wrote "he must be tall"… which means that in their eyes, a leader must be both male and tall. I presented as neither, and I knew that this meant I would never be taken seriously in South Africa due to my lack of height.
Then a couple of years later I worked for a company in Johannesburg where one of my colleagues was a man of 5"2'. He had been mercilessly bullied his entire life about his height, to the extent that he bought himself a monster truck so that he could at least feel adequate on his daily commute. Bear in mind, he was slightly taller than I am... and he'd suffered daily mockery due to being short. He was actually a nice guy, but he had no significant other in his life because nobody wanted to date a short man.
So I knew I couldn't possibly transition in South Africa under those circumstances. In fact, my height has been one of the main reasons why I have held off for so long. However, when I finally reached crisis point several months ago and decided I just couldn't carry on living as a female any longer, I really looked around me for the first time in a long time and I noticed that many of the men around me (here in the UK) are actually quite short. Some are even shorter than I am; I spotted one just today who was under 5". In fact, it's not at all unusual here in the UK to see men who are around my height.
So I'm letting go of my fear that my height will hold me back from transitioning. And as long as I don't move to South Africa, Holland or even Kenya, I should be just fine. :-)
George
In High School, I insisted on being called 'George'. Much to the ridicule of my classmates.
I've always absolutely hated my birthname. It's old-fashioned and inescapably feminine, and so are all of the options for shortening it. And my middle name is no help either. So I've never been comfortable with people referring to me by name; it jars me every time I hear it. Even my husband calls me 'love' or 'darling' or similar, never my name. I can just about cope with my kids calling me 'Mum', but I'm uncomfortable with being called a 'mother' because that's a distinctly female title with all sorts of social connotations and it just doesn't sit right with me. I prefer 'parent'. How PC am I? ;-)
So throughout my childhood, any time I'd introduce myself to a new boy in the neighbourhood, I'd tell them I was a boy and I'd give them a boy's name to call me by. Usually it'd be the name of a current TV or movie character, because when I was on my own I would fantasise that I was that character so that I could imagine interacting with my friends as a man. I did this to a very small extent in primary school, but when puberty hit and I started High School I used to do it much more frequently. Why? Because I have a very feminine body, and as soon as that manifested itself people started dealing with me as if I were female, which has been a nightmare for me for around three decades now. If my everyday interactions with other people left me in such discomfort, the only way I could have a break from the way other people made me feel was to escape into a fantasy world in which I was male. And powerful. And handsome. And popular. And later, virile. ;-)
So when I was in High School I used to tell my classmates that I preferred being called 'George', and that I wanted them to use male pronouns with me. A couple of them did do so, bless their hearts, but most of my classmates just ignored me as a weirdo. Of course, that was back in the mid-1980s when very few people had even heard of trans* people, so I don't think many of them had a clue what was going on with me. And I sure as hell didn't know what was going on with me either. I just knew that I hated being treated like a girl and I felt more comfortable being treated like a boy. Who knew there was a word or a diagnosis for that?
I've always absolutely hated my birthname. It's old-fashioned and inescapably feminine, and so are all of the options for shortening it. And my middle name is no help either. So I've never been comfortable with people referring to me by name; it jars me every time I hear it. Even my husband calls me 'love' or 'darling' or similar, never my name. I can just about cope with my kids calling me 'Mum', but I'm uncomfortable with being called a 'mother' because that's a distinctly female title with all sorts of social connotations and it just doesn't sit right with me. I prefer 'parent'. How PC am I? ;-)
So throughout my childhood, any time I'd introduce myself to a new boy in the neighbourhood, I'd tell them I was a boy and I'd give them a boy's name to call me by. Usually it'd be the name of a current TV or movie character, because when I was on my own I would fantasise that I was that character so that I could imagine interacting with my friends as a man. I did this to a very small extent in primary school, but when puberty hit and I started High School I used to do it much more frequently. Why? Because I have a very feminine body, and as soon as that manifested itself people started dealing with me as if I were female, which has been a nightmare for me for around three decades now. If my everyday interactions with other people left me in such discomfort, the only way I could have a break from the way other people made me feel was to escape into a fantasy world in which I was male. And powerful. And handsome. And popular. And later, virile. ;-)
So when I was in High School I used to tell my classmates that I preferred being called 'George', and that I wanted them to use male pronouns with me. A couple of them did do so, bless their hearts, but most of my classmates just ignored me as a weirdo. Of course, that was back in the mid-1980s when very few people had even heard of trans* people, so I don't think many of them had a clue what was going on with me. And I sure as hell didn't know what was going on with me either. I just knew that I hated being treated like a girl and I felt more comfortable being treated like a boy. Who knew there was a word or a diagnosis for that?
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