What Was I Made For?

Looking back now, it’s clear how misled I was. What’s less clear is why the adults in charge didn’t do more to stop me.

I was a tomboy throughout my childhood and teen years. Before middle school, I couldn’t have cared less about my appearance. I sometimes tried to justify my choice to transition by declaring that I “never felt close to my femininity anyway,” but that’s not true. I just did not care.

Like many of my peers, I spent my days on Tumblr. I didn’t have many friends but lots to say, so finding a whole site with my interests in fandom seemed like a good place to spend time. There, I was quickly introduced to the LGBTQ+ community. During that time, I was still very much a tomboy, despite wearing eyeliner, more feminine clothing, and trying to fit in with the rest of the girls in my class. At home, I engaged in hobbies typically associated with boys. Funnily enough, although the idea that “boys who wear pink are gay” is now (rightfully) outdated, a new perspective spread by the internet shifted into view: “You like masculine/feminine things? You must be the other gender deep inside!” Or now, as they say, you’re “an egg;” soon to be cracked, showing your “true colors,” by which they mean the other gender. I used this perspective to slowly put the puzzle of my life together by connecting my tomboy phase with the need to change my gender.

Transition

I came out shortly after my 15th birthday. I began looking for a therapist, which took me to my insurance and LGBTQ websites that helped me find doctors near me. Finding a therapist took a long time, I was nearly 16 when I got my first appointment. By that time, I had had enough time to spend on social media and fortify my stance on gender. The therapy was less therapeutic and more of a one-man show. I talked, and she listened. I explained my tomboy phase and my mental issues came up. She nodded, wrote them down, and I continued talking. After the first appointment, which still included some questions from her, these appointments were usually around 10-15 minutes monthly. During the appointment, I just explained how I coped in my new role as a “boy”, and sometimes how I felt mentally, which wasn’t the best.

After a year of these sessions sprinkled throughout, she gave me a letter saying I did my mandatory year of “therapy.” After that, I found a gynecologist to whom I showed the letter, which meant I was on my way to getting hormones. I got bloodwork done and an appointment for my first shot right after. This was near my 18th birthday.

I then started an application for surgery at my insurance, who then sent me two independent appraisers (psychologists) to write down two separate reviews to prove to my insurance I was trans. Again, more of a one-man show, as they were just mainly writing my story down, maybe asking a couple of questions on how things came to be.

Only once did I feel like someone questioned my choice, it was when one of the appraisers, also a gynecologist, told me that she had many young girls come to her for the same reason I had. The only difference was that most of them dropped the transition as they realized they weren’t trans or non-binary at all, other issues led them to her, they just interpreted them the wrong way. I felt threatened by her questions; I wanted her to know that I wasn’t like those girls. I was the real deal.

A few months after they sent their reviews to my insurance, my surgery was approved. I had to wait another six months for my appointment. Sadly, I got severe blood clots, and they had to open me up again after a couple of days in the hospital. In the end, I was left with a butchered, dented, and scarred half A-cups.

I was about 19-20 when I had a revision surgery because it took nearly a year to heal enough to be considered operable again. The revision surgery gave me a flat chest, but as of now, I have a small A-cup again, scarred with small dents and not a very pretty sight when I bend over. But luckily for me in this case, three operations later and it seems even then they didn’t manage to remove all the tissue. Estrogen saved some of the tissue on my chest (cheers to that, I guess!).

Back then I felt it took forever to get any of it done, mainly because getting doctors’ appointments can take months to years where I live, and in my case, not many helpful things were done to aid me in any way. It’s an uncomfortable thought now, that if the waitlists weren’t that long, all these things could have been done in under two years, barely enough time to settle with the change of scenery that your body and mind go through.

I then finally changed my name, which took nearly two years in itself.

But I’ve come so far, I thought. I can’t turn back now.

Less than half a year after my operation, I reached the point of being uncomfortable in my body, even more so than I was before all of it. It brewed and brewed in me until I just realized that all of it was regret over what I had done.

I remember it vividly: I was at my friend’s house, and we had dressed up in stupid costumes and silly wigs. My friend took a picture of me wearing a long brown wig that resembled my hair before I cut it all off. Suddenly, I felt closer to myself than I did in years. When I later went to the toilet and looked in the mirror, I realized that I did not recognize the person I saw. It was just a stranger looking back at me. It wasn’t me, and I wasn’t happy. None of this actually made me happy.

But I’ve come so far, I thought. I can’t turn back now. So I kept quiet. For half a year, I kept quiet as I struggled to figure out what was wrong with me. The only place I voiced concerns was within the LGBTQ+ communities on Twitter and Instagram, but everyone there dismissed my struggles as normal—definitely not a sign that I might have made a mistake!

Then one day, I told my boyfriend, and I broke down. I told him I felt like it was a mistake, and he let me cry and reassured me that he would support me no matter what.

Finding resources for detransitioning was almost impossible. It was not until I found “posttrans” on Instagram that I finally had a word for what I was going through.

In hindsight, most of the professionals involved in my transitions didn’t really ask me any questions. I have heard that from a lot of others, too. Everyone just agreed with whatever we said, no matter how old we were, how long we had been questioning our gender, or how much other complicated backstory we had. You want it, you got it.

This was strange because even way before my transition, I struggled with an eating disorder, self-harm, depression, and other undiagnosed mental illnesses. My self-image was always a blur of hatred and discomfort.

One time, when I was in mid-transition, I tried to take my own life because none of my other illnesses were solved by transitioning. I remember how, in the hospital after that attempt, I was searched thoroughly for anything that I could use to harm myself because I was “not in the right mindset to make decisions to keep myself safe.” Right after that, they explained to me that they knew people who could discuss options for mastectomy with me.

I was not allowed to self-harm, but I was allowed to let others do it for me. Right.

Beyond Transition

I have only just now finished changing my name back. I stopped taking testosterone without telling my gynecologist, I was too ashamed. I had to go through two separate psychologists who had to confirm my diagnosis when I wanted to transition. Stopping testosterone and disproving their confirmation made me feel sheepish, and like I was the one who was at fault for everything. 

After all, all of the medical professionals I came in contact with knew about my history of a blurry self-image and mental state, yet they decided that I was ready for this kind of choice as a minor.

That’s something else I keep hearing: that it’s our fault, we should have known what we were getting into, that we were fake.

But we don’t let kids vote or buy cigarettes and alcohol. If your 14-year-old daughter begs for a chest enlargement, you’ll tell her no. Why then, if that’s the case, would you let her cut them off?  Does she just have to say the magic words?

There is no one to blame; the finger-pointing bounces off person after person. I was old enough at 15 to know what I was doing, right? Or was I not, because so many 18-year-olds on the internet are still getting called children and not held responsible for their issues?

When I found a community of others who also regretted their transition, I realized that every time I got told, “You’re an exception,” I was actually not. Day in and day out, new people join the chats and ask for help. Sometimes people even try to explain to me that people stop transitioning because they are forced to, but in all the group chats and forums, I haven’t met one person who did it for that reason.

I thought I was trans. I really, really did.