Let’s see if I can get this down coherently. A good chunk of it is taken from scribblings at 2 a.m., so I wouldn’t forget it now.
Well, to start, I’ve been attending the Culinary Institute of America for about 3 weeks, now. I don’t count the Thanksgiving break in between, obviously. They run us ragged. One of my classes (my only kitchen class, currently) runs from 2 p.m. to 9 p.m., with 45 minutes for dinner. I think we technically are supposed to get out around 8:45, but we are slow with setup and cleanup, so we’re often walking out around 9:15.
Going back earlier (must be almost a year, now), I determined I’m transgender. Especially of late, with so much time to myself, this has been worrying me. When my therapist and I first came to this explanation (conclusion is NOT the word for it, since the problems are far from over), it caused me relief. I had a word for “it.” I had an answer to these stupid questions. But as time went on, I started feeling unsure, and anxious about this “answer.” The more I heard about transgenderism, the more often I caught myself thinking, “I don’t do that. I don’t think that. I don’t feel that.” And I started thinking that maybe I’m just imagining things. Maybe I don’t really feel that way, and I just misinterpreted something else.
A lot of my friends tell me I shouldn’t bother with trying to label myself or my behavior. But maybe I want a label. Not to fit in, but to UNDERSTAND. I’ve grown up with bipolar disorder. Before that, they thought it might have been depression. Before that, who knows? I am tired of vague symptoms that might be any disease, 1 through 2,000. That might be stress. That might be lack of exercise. I just want some certainty. I want to have a cat scan, and have the doctor point at my brain and say, “See that dark, *physically present* spot? That means you’re transgender. It also shows in this blood test we took. You can stop asking yourself now, and actually get stuff done about it.”
Oh wow. I just looked down at what I had written last night, and it pulled me right out of that little sulk. It says:
“I’ve never quite felt sure that I’m trans. I’ve been waiting for some feeling to ‘click,’ and suddenly everything will feel right. Now I know it will never ‘click.’ If it was that easy, this wouldn’t be a plunge into the unknown. Nothing will feel right. I will make it right. I am not a formula. I am not a standard. I am not ‘the recipe for trans.’ I am me.”
Of course, now all I can think of is “I am vengeance. I am the night. I… am… BATMAN!” Anyway, I suppose this is just “don’t label yourself,” reworded, but this is catchier. Copyright Alexandra Pollard, by the way.
Another thing I wrote down was the following, and once again, it helps me to reread it.
“Lack of progress led to complacency. I thought this content state meant I wasn’t really trans. What it actually means is that I’m scared of moving forward, and I take comfort in the safety of not doing so.”
It’s true I don’t look like most people’s conception of a trans-woman. Actually, I just look like a guy. I still have facial hair, I don’t wear makeup, my hair is long, but certainly not feminine by any means, and my clothing is mostly male, and not noticeably otherwise. And although that bothers me immensely, it’s far easier than the alternative: actively transitioning. Like a warm, comfortable safety blanket… that smells like cat pee.
Moving on, I’ve ditched my pill case. I used to use a special case for my pills, that had compartments for AM and PM for seven days. But not anymore. A couple weeks ago, I realized I don’t need it anymore. I’ve gone down on or just stopped so many medications over the years, I don’t need it anymore. Anyone who’s had to take half a dozen kinds of pills, twice a day for years on end, or still does, will probably understand the liberation I feel from such a simple change. Hell yeah!
And that’s all I have to say about that.