Let’s not bury the lede. I am writing this blog because I, at the very least, have gender dysphoria. Frankly, I already know that I am writing this blog because I am finally willing to admit that I know what I am—transgender. Whatever the future may hold for me, I figure this blog will help the therapist I will inevitably need to see, should I ever decide to share it with anyone.
I don’t want to mince words—not yet. I am known for my flowery writing, so there will be plenty of time for that later. This post will simply be an introduction, because every story has to start somewhere.
I don’t know why I am this way, but I do know that it’s not a recent development, despite how much of a hot button issue this has become in recent years. Nearly as far back as I can remember, to the onset of puberty (if not earlier), I have secretly harbored a deep-seated longing to be female. In this blog, I am going to write about some of those early memories, as well as some later ones; recent anecdotes will also make an appearance, and likely, so will my thoughts on the future.
I’ve started so many journals of different kinds over the years, and inevitably, I quickly fail to keep up with them. Or I throw them away. I can only hope that neither of those ends come to this one, but time will tell.
I don’t know what will happen when I finally graduate with my second Master’s in a week, and get my first “real” grown-up job. I do know, when I can force myself to do it, I need to spend those grown-up dollars on therapy. It’s never really been an option for me before (this is an excuse, read: I haven’t been able to stomach admitting this side of me before), but it has to be one I take in the somewhat near future.
Who will read this? Well, you, for one, even if you’re just my future self. Maybe I’ll eventually share this with others, or maybe it’ll just be another secret I bury in the vault. If I do share it, it’s not to make friends. You may even decide to hate me after you find out who I am. That said, I assure you, you cannot possibly hate me more than I already hate myself. And to those few reading this who love me more than I do, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Hurting you hurts me so much more than hurting myself.
But I can’t live with the depression any longer. I’ve bottled up so much over the years, that something has to give, and I’ve decided that I’d rather that something be my pride, than be my life. So welcome, and read on.
I am terrified of the tears the road ahead may hold–for my girlfriend, for my family, for my friends…for me. But just writing this post, if I never write another, has brought a peace to me that I have not known in some time.