I’ve probably spent my whole life asking myself whether I was actually a boy. whether I was trans. Why can’t I be different. What’s the difference. Does it matter.
I’ve spent 18-19 years asking these questions. Since I was 2-3, I remember seeing the bits that made the other people in my class different from me, and thinking- that’s it? That dinky little bit, and you get trucks and you get dolls? It’s such a minor difference, and it boils down to what part your body can take in eventually making another baby, and it just flipping doesn’t matter.
My whole life I’ve been disillusioned with romance and marriage. I found a person to marry at 2 so I wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of finding a person to marry, of dating and crying and being betrayed. We swore we’d always be together. I haven’t seen him in 16 years.
And now here I am, going about my life, and people are asking me from all sides when I plan to be like everyone else. I want to have a queer community but I always feel like the odd one out. I want to fit in and be loved by my family, which means being cis and het, and I could absolutely play at those for the rest of my life if I thought it’d pay off. I’d probably even be able to find happiness in it.
But it still makes me sad that every time I learn something like this about myself, it’s to find that there’s nothing to be done. I will have to keep this life, this body, these ideas inside me. Sometimes it’s like there are galaxies within me which allow for the storage of such big feelings, but more often it’s like I’m a thimblefull of ocean, and everyone who knows me sees only through the eye of the needle what I could be.
I don’t know who I could be. I want to say I’d know him if I met him, but I don’t even know if he’s a him. I’m so tired of carrying this burden alone. The cradle of my hips can only contain these ideas for so long before it cracks and shatters, and the ocean in this thimble overflows and fills my world. We’ll see how that goes.
Till next time,