I often sit down and try to write about being trans, try to encapsulate the experience in a phrase, an image, a parable. Something memorable that I can give to others to turn over in their own minds, to help them understand. But that simplicity eludes me. The best I can do, it seems, is try to convey the gestalt of the experience through anecdotes. It's a sum of things—small, abrasive moments that erode your confidence, your identity, your will to do anything.
The refusal to help signalled by a sad face and a 'I couldn't possibly understand.' The implicit rejection of my closest friend telling me that thinking of my body having male aspects makes him uncomfortable and please don't mention them. The blind platitudes, the scripts, the 'you seem so much happiers' as people try to reconcile my life with those they see on TV. People asking in hushed tones if I'm 'going to get my penis cut off'. The dehumanizing stares of strangers as they try to figure out what I am. The hatred and the fetishization.
Being painfully aware of the suffusion of gender into nearly every aspect of society while everyone else navigates through it obliviously, effortlessly. Showering with my eyes closed and staring at the ground whenever confronted with a mirror, terrified of catching more than a glimpse of my own body. And the omnipresence of it all.
It is disheartening that the idea of 'transition' has been corrupted in the public mind to mean that there is a 'cure'. Some hormones, a few surgeries maybe, and you get a happy person. When I confront people with my unhappiness, my disappointment and my struggles, they say 'I thought you were done with transition?' like the process itself is all there is to being trans. Every day I question whether transition was the right decision, whether it has all been worth it, whether I would do it over again. And every day I answer 'no'.