Ever since I could identify the feeling, I’ve always felt insecure about three very specific things: my eyes, my small feet, and how my body fat distributes around my hips. These three insecurities have not changed since I’ve transitioned. I used to feel insecure about the amount of hair I grow (my bushy eyebrows, dark hair like kudzu covering my arms), the fact that my hair was curly (for a long time I didn’t know how to treat it), and my babyface. Eventually, I grew to love both the abundance of hair and the curliness of it and appreciate my youthful look because it meant I would age well. But those other three things? They make my stomach clench, make me feel uncomfortable in tight clothes, make me avoid taking straight-on selfies.
These insecurities are normal. Everyone on this Earth is insecure about something. I can guarantee that while you’re on a date preoccupied with your own insecurities, your date is most likely preoccupied with theirs. They may be incredibly irrational, an unnecessary obsession that keeps us from engaging in certain activities or situations, debilitating. It helps that it’s normal to have them (not easy to remember that when your thoughts are spiraling and you want to disappear). However, for me and perhaps for other trans folx, it was difficult to separate these run-of-the-mill insecurities with gender dysphoria.
According to the dictionary, gender dysphoria is defined as:
Sure, yeah, makes sense. I learned later (because it isn’t always easy to find reliable resources) that not all transgender people experience gender dysphoria. Oh, and that depending on your insurance or doctors, if you identify as transgender, they normally loop you under “gender identity disorder” “transsexualism” or “gender dysphoria” anyway. Gender dysphoria used to be called “gender identity disorder”, a diagnosable condition that could be found in the DSM. Now, gender dysphoria isn’t classified as a mental illness.
I will say, for me anyway, gender dysphoria was definitely present. I’m not really sure how or when it started. I remember vague things like not wanting to wear a bra when I hit that stage of puberty (but, who really looks forward to that?), feeling as though I didn’t quite look like other girls and feeling as though I would never stop looking like a girl and never be a “woman” – that kind of thing. I focused on solving my insecurities – get my eyebrows waxed, straighten my hair, wear makeup, wear strategic clothes that wouldn’t highlight the things I disliked. Through all that, there was this overarching feeling that none of it was helping and I was a fool for thinking it would.
I still remember my first school dance. It was sixth grade so I hadn’t started wearing contacts yet and my hair was still past my shoulders. I probably either straightened it or asked Mom to put it up in a nice hairdo. She helped me apply makeup but I still had to wear my glasses and I was worried that my friends wouldn’t be able to tell the shade of eye shadow I picked. I don’t remember what I wore but I probably wore a pair of short heels to match. I was anxious about the reactions of my friends; they had never seen me go to these lengths for school. But this was a special occasion and this was what was expected. Maybe it’d be like the movies and they’d all be surprised in a good way. I couldn’t wait for the compliments. But this nagging voice kept telling me I still didn’t look right. I shook it off. I had places to be!
When I got to the dance, I distinctly remember one of my friends, a boy in my grade who was nerdy and incredibly funny and who made me feel welcome when I wanted to hangout with the guys, got one look at me and said, “Whoa, are you wearing makeup? You look weird!” I felt weird. I was uncomfortable. I only wore heels and makeup because I thought I was supposed to. Normally, I was the tomboy. I wore jeans that usually had scuffed up knees, Payless Converse, and t-shirts with Beatles lyrics like “Can’t Buy Me Love”. This wasn’t me.
Out of nowhere, a few weeks ago, I decided to line my upper eyelids with black eyeliner. I was careful – it’d been a while since I’d worn any makeup – but I was pretty practiced when it came to eyeliner at least. I went to Golden Boy and drank coffee, read my book, and wrote a little. I waited for someone to say something either complimentary or curious, maybe even harmful. Despite our progressive town, I still worry about going against gender stereotypes. But no one said anything! I posted a selfie. Later, feeling comfortable and attractive, I went out to Wine Squared and had a few glasses. I felt so entirely like myself. There I was wearing makeup, the thing that I shoved as far away from myself as I could, and now I wore it with pride. No one expected me to. There wasn’t a special occasion. I just did it.
I guess that’s why I still obsess over the things I cannot change because I cannot completely change this body yet. I still face myself in the mirror, push the fat around my hips until I can’t see it straight on anymore, and imagine having Brad Pitt’s torso. I still long for the day I can get bottom surgery. I still pray for the day when they come up with a surgery where they can elongate my hands and feet.
Those aren’t just insecurities, I’ve known that for years now. When it comes down to it, I still fear the day that someone will shake my hand and address me as “ma’am” or someone will see me from behind and call out my dead name. Maybe you’re thinking, c’mon that’s ridiculous. But that’s gender dysphoria for ya.
Some transgender people use phrases like “When I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t connect to the person looking back” a lot (probably why a lot of us love the song “Reflection” from Mulan so much). But I want you to understand just how mind boggling that is. Imagine waking up, stumbling into your bathroom to pee, brush your teeth, give yourself a motivational speech, whatever you gotta do in the morning, and you catch the eyes of a stranger in the mirror. Distantly, you know that’s you. But the longer you stare, the more the self-hatred builds, the more the discomfort threatens to strangle you, the more you want to die. What’s the point in living if you actively avoid looking at yourself in the mirror after moments like that?
I’m happy that I can accept other insecurities now, that I feel more comfortable wearing makeup now that I pass, that I’m considering wearing a skirt again. Because the problem wasn’t the things themselves – makeup, clothes, shoes, etc. – it was the body wearing them. It was what others perceived as I wore those things. It was the expectations and gender stereotypes. It was the fact that my body was betraying me and showing everyone something I was not.
A lot of transgender people desperately need things like hormone replacement therapy, gender affirming surgeries, the simple joy of wearing clothes that better fit their gender due to societal expectations. We choose how we present and we choose our style of course. But we didn’t choose the hell that is gender dysphoria. It would’ve been much easier if I had felt comfortable wearing pushup bras and buying the right shades of makeup to accentuate my features and having people call me “ma’am.” But that’s not me. I may dislike this body sometimes and gender dysphoria still rears its ugly head but at least now I can recognize myself in the mirror and smile.
James Jackson 