A Transgender Journey - In Transition: Part 7
By Leela Ginelle
I’ve always felt like nobody wanted me to do what I wanted to do. Partly that’s because I didn’t want to do what I wanted to do. I wanted to wear girl’s clothes, except I didn’t want to wear girl’s clothes.
I wanted to wear them because they were an expression of who I am. I didn’t want to wear them because they weren’t an expression of who I am. Confused? Me, too.
I’m androgynous. I’m not a girl trapped in a boy’s body, or a boy trapped in a girl’s body. I’m me in the body I was born in, only I’d like to make my body look more like me. To me, that means more androgynous. I’d like softer skin, rounder hips, less hair and small breasts.
Medically, that’s all possible. Psychologically, I’m not there yet. The thought of looking like I feel scares me. It’s not a very populated category. I can think of a few people who match what I describe, but they call themselves women, and I don’t identify that way.
Right now, that’s easy. I look male enough that people relate to me that way. That feels safe. What if that went away, though? It depends on when you ask me. When I feel vulnerable, I think it would be dangerous. I think everyone would think I was female and would hate me.
That’s because I’ve always thought females have hated me, and I’ve always thought the female side of me hated me, especially. It would certainly have had reason to. I tried to hide and squash out anything feminine in me to protect myself.
Now I’m consciously trying not to use the words male and female, masculine and feminine, and he and she. When I do that I feel better. So what is it that happens when I feel vulnerable? It’s as though my mask has fallen, and people can see what was always there.
When I see it from other people’s eyes it scares me. I feel weak and helpless. I expect ridicule. Where do those thoughts come from? The male in me. I think he despises my femininity, and, thus, I think everyone around me does, as well.
If I don’t consciously use those words, how do they keep popping up? They seem to be hardwired. Something happens, I feel vulnerable, and they’re there. On my own, they’re not such a bother. I just go back and rewrite them.
When I’m with people, though, I project the words, and their attendant feelings, onto them, and those people become my judges. As a result, I seek approval, and feel safe when I sense it. When people are intrigued by my gender, I feel exciting and cutting edge. When they seem uninterested, I feel afraid and rejected.
That can be exhausting. An alternative would seem to be acceptance: just assume that others accept me as I am. When things are going well, I do just that. I forget what I’m wearing and how I look. When I’m bored or alienated, though, the words come back, and I want the approval to change my mood.
If it’s inaccessible, I feel helpless and resentful. Life seems unfair. “How will things ever work out?” I wonder. I keep those thoughts to myself, as I assume they’re unattractive. They’re just between me and the universe.
Now that they’ve seen the page, I’m optimistic they might change, as that’s the way my transition’s seemed to have gone. I sit down, not knowing what I’m going to write, my darkest secrets tumble out, and growth occurs. I think I’m going to write and sex and gender, and I end up writing about spirituality and life.
All the time I wonder if there’s a “plan,” a secret hand arranging things. I assume there is, although it embarrasses me to admit it. “How would I have had the courage to do this if something wasn’t help me?” I think. And so I bring my fears and worries to the universe.
Things change, but I wonder if they would even if I didn’t bring them. I can’t say, because when I’m bored and alienated, and find no release elsewhere, it’s all I know how to do. Am I just making my problems bigger, though?
With the androgyny I don’t think so. It already seems better than when I started working on it. With masochism, I’m not sure, though. The problem doesn’t seem to be bringing problems to the universe. It seems to be believing that the universe, in its plan, created the problems, and is now the only force that can fix them. The universe as mistress and savior.
What’s the alternative to the “arranging hand” model, then? It’s believing that the universe and I are connected somehow. Imagination, sexuality and spirituality are flowing through both of us, and everyone else, minute by minute. With this model I lose my safety net, but I also lose my agony.
I’m thinking about hormones now, and it scares me. I imagine being on a roller coaster, with my body changing at a hurtling speed. When I believed in “God,” I used to think, “Where are all the things I want in my life?” I believed I didn’t have them, because “He” hadn’t given them to me.
I didn’t know why, other than that “He” didn’t love me. I’m waiting on hormones. I tell myself, “The universe will let me know when I’m ready.” Maybe that’s half-right. I’ll let myself know, as well.
Leela Ginelle is a journalist and playwrite, whose works include “The Gender Trilogy: Three Plays.” Please visit zer blog at www.leelaginelle.com.
