Now of course we can agree that, when seen from a certain perspective at least, I am actually a fairly amazing person with all sorts of ridiculously impressive accomplishments to my name. Indeed, for the past week and a half, I have scarcely received anything other than praise; I feel I am really distinguishing myself in this program here, and it is certainly a nice change of pace after the near monastic exercise in ego-destruction that was my Master’s Program to remember that, yes, I actually am pretty brilliant*.
And yet there are certain days–such as today–whereupon I just hate myself so fucking much.
Well no; that’s a lie. I don’t hate myself: I hate my body.
The truth is that I will never, ever look like a natal female; no matter how hard I try. And I thought that I had made my peace with that fact, but every so often it just creeps right back and jabs a stiletto in between my ribs. I am six foot four; two hundred and thirty pounds, and possessed of grotesquely oversized hands and feet; my shoulders are broad, my hips are non-existent. I have sunk more than a thousand dollars into the cause of burning my facial hair out with a laser beam, and the damn things are still there. Every time I pass by a mirror, all that I can do is to furiously hunt for signs of who I am.
I feel like a freak. I worry that every one of my friends who treats me as a woman is only humouring me. I have yet to meet anyone who genders me correctly right off the bat without my having to explain the situation.
I decided to transition so that my life could be own, rather than controlled by some accident of biology. But sometimes I wonder if I can ever be free…
*I do apologize if this comes across as arrogant; if it’s any consolation to you, I’m about to follow it up with some pretty hard-core self-loathing.