It’s Sunday evening. The last remnants of spring snow are still holding on for desperate life, and I’m staring out my window into the haze of dusk. I left birdseed out a few hours ago, and a few robins have already stopped by to pilfer some back to their nests. The wind combs gentle fingers through the wind chimes I hung last spring, and I listen to their music in silence. My Dane is sleeping in her bed behind me, snoring softly for once, and she twitches when I reach a hand down to ruffle her ears. It’s a quiet, gentle evening.
Perfect for committing thoughts to paper.
I’ve started to feel heavy over the past few days. Usually that’s my cue that I’ve been storing up words, experiences, and dreams. I need to share them with the paper, purge myself, or they usually manifest into restlessness, wanderlust, and I-don’t-know-what-the-hell-I-feel-ness. It makes me cranky and hard to be around.
So, I suppose I’ll start with a recap of the past couple weeks.
I came out to my family and it didn’t exactly go well. We fought over it, cried over it, and certainly exchanged misunderstanding and hurt like they were playing cards. It has been an exhausting time emotionally. Some days I just want to suck all the words I’ve said back inside, because in those moments, it feels like it would be easier if I had never said anything at all. I wouldn’t have to go through these trials because I would still be lying.
But then I remember…lying is what got me into trouble in the first place. It’s what drove me to self-harm, to plan my own suicide, and to eventually commit myself to a psych unit. It’s what made me quit job after job, drop out of college, and lose just about every friend I ever had. It kept me isolated, afraid, and constantly searching for a way OUT.
Truth was the way out. Coming out…that was the way out for me.
Despite the immense ups and downs of these past few weeks, I remind myself daily to choose to view the positives that have come from this. There are so many, it’s almost hard to remember them all if I’m being honest, but I’ll try. It’s good to repeat them if only to remind myself why I’m doing this in the first place.
For starters, my dysphoria has been more manageable. Wearing the clothes I like, binding as much as I can safely, and presenting in a more masculine way has been so gratifying. I feel exuberance now instead of dread when I go to my closet each morning. I’ve donated all my feminine clothing that I so detested, and I now live in jeans, t-shirts, and boxer briefs. I see myself in the mirror, and for the first time since…well, ever…I think I might actually look good. Yes, the outside still doesn’t match the in, and it won’t for a long time, but putting a more accurate name to myself, allowing myself to live in that, has been incredibly freeing.
I got a haircut a few days ago, and I gave the name Connor to the receptionist. The person who cut my hair lifted a brow, but they said nothing. They cut my hair into a fade, shorter than my already short hair, and I left feeling about three feet taller and twenty pounds lighter. More like…me.
I’ve never felt more energized than I have in these past couple weeks. I’m emotionally drained, pissed as hell, and heartbroken…but somehow I still have space for this boundless joy and enthusiasm? I can’t understand the physics of it, nor do I think it would do me well to try. But I do know it’s something spiritual, something related to Jesus’ love of truth and me and everything in between, and I’ve chosen to accept it. This acceptance means I have space for myself and others that was previously occupied by self-hatred and fear.
I’ve been eating better, exercising consistently, and praying more than ever. I’ve been organized in my personal life, more patient in my relationships, and more efficient at work. Others have noticed this, and I can only attribute the change in me to God’s unrelenting love and my relief at finally, blessedly being myself.
I visited my primary care about a health issue unrelated to transgenderism, and when I told her I was transgender and wanted to eventually start T, she didn’t even bat an eyelash. She excitedly referred me to a doctor friend of hers who is very connected in the transgender community and she went to talk to the nurse outside about making a note in my chart regarding my preferred name. Hearing her say “he” outside the doorway, probably when she thought I couldn’t hear her…was just incredible.
One little word. Just a tiny, seemingly inconsequential bit of acceptance and validation, and it reduced me to tears. I sat on crinkly paper with antiseptic in my nose as my doctor murmured my correct pronouns outside the doorway, and I cried quietly. I shed a few more tears when she popped open the door to confirm the spelling of my name, and she gave me a smile that was knowing and kind when she saw the tears. She bumped my shoulder, told me to call if I needed anything, and she wished me luck.
This little act of respect…it meant so much to me. I can’t say how deeply it affected me. I have no words for it.
Every time I am gendered properly, or my brother Gavin uses my proper name, my stomach tingles like I’ve just seen someone I deeply love. He. Him. His. Connor. Terms of respect, validation, understanding, trust…I cherish them up in my heart, and I replay them, over and over and over again whenever someone misgenders me or uses my deadname. I keep them as a record set on repeat, drowning out the rest of the world, until all I can hear is the truth.
It’s always been there, mouthed, whispered, and eventually shouted. But I’m not ignoring it anymore. I’m listening.
My name is Connor. I’m a son and brother. I was created in the image of Christ. I am real. And I am just now beginning to see it.
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