Funny how one can be getting on with enjoying life when suddenly dysphoria strikes changing everything.
My sweet wife and I were entering a local hall going to a ceilidh ( traditional dance) when suddenly a horrible black cloud descended. In truth, I am not sure it descended, it felt more like I walked straight into it.) It’s times like this when I am confronted by the mismatch between the woman in my mind’s eye (the woman I see myself being) and the reality of a male body fashioned by the poison that is testosterone.
I know I am luckier than some, my body isn’t particularly masculine, but then there are others who recognise their true gender in their teens and twenties (or before) and thorough hormone blockers limit the damage done. At 68 I am so used to seeing a face in the mirror that I ‘see’ as male, that it is difficult to imaging anyone will ever see it as female. That might be reality, or it might just be conditioning in the sense that I am so used to seeing my face as a male face, having only truly recognised my true gender late in life.
I know there is a lot of discussion in transgender circles about this desire to ‘pass’ as cis and a large part of me agrees we are best served by celebrating our true selves and rejecting generally held ideas of what constitutes a ‘woman’ and what ‘beauty’ and ‘feminine’, but when I walk into a room of cis women I feel a freak. Or I did last evening. I felt like I was a ‘man in a dress’ (even though I was wearing jeans), a ‘fake’. I so hate feeling like this.
The day had started well. My new drivers licence arrived with the magic 5 as the second digit, denoting ‘female’. Sort of nice photo too.
I’m still a ‘work in progress’, so much to learn.
And there’s no going back. Never. Not ever.