In the time since I have figured what “might be wrong with me” (story for another chapter), I have occasionally dared to look for more information. Sometimes in passing, skimming through links, not really wanting to read the answers to my half formulated questions, sometimes with more determination. Since I have decided to allow myself to think that I am most likely trans (I have yet to speak it out loud), I have looked at various Q&As, checked if there are any local support groups, probed the sea with a finger for reactions and finally ordered some books.
One of the books was the personal story of Swiss gynecologist Niklaus Flütsch, who transitioned in his forties. Browsing for material and seeing someone take that step so late in life gave me hope; and the informed and documented decision and process described in his book were an eye opener (especially about the mandatory therapy part around here, which is frankly frightening). It was within his book that I came to know about the Professional Standards of Care for transgender people. They recommend trans people to “live in the shoes” of their inner gender for a while – acting like the respective gender, dressing like it, etc. before allowing hormonal or surgical treatment to start.
I find that pretty harsh, as it forces trans people to potentially present themselves as something in between, not quite passing without the aid of treatment, and thus rendering them vulnerable – even if “only” to mockery, to weird looks, to raised eyebrows, to hushed whispers. I have only once tried ordering a binder, which was the first thing that came to my mind – “the boob issue” is in my head a major obstacle to being a guy. All I can say is, good luck to anyone with DD cup size breasts hiding them; I can barely find a decent sports bra that prevents painful bouncing when running, let alone a binder. Also, am not quite sure that squeezing huge boobs into invisibility would be such a healthy and smart thing to do…
However, the more I think about it – trying to walk in the shoes of a guy – that’s what I have been doing or trying to do for most of my life now.
If someone who didn’t know me walked into my bathroom, they’d assume some guy lives here. My shampoo and shower gel and perfume are all men’s and have been for decades. I use shower gels from Axe and Gillette and Nivea for men. I have a unisex perfume from Calvin Klein and some no name store brand simply labeled “For Men”. I had somehow always assumed that they “smell like guy” so that must be why I like them. Close, but not quite it (also a story for another time). I do own some eyeliner and a couple of whatever-the-make-up-things-are-called that I bought two years ago for Halloween – they were used precisely for Halloween.
I do not own a single skirt, blouse, dress, pair of stockings or shoes that would pass as female. I have boots and sneakers and running shoes. I have jeans. And I have a ton of mostly black t-shirts – bands, games, movies and city trip souvenirs (and mostly unisex or for men too, no girly shirts). I have socks with Snoopy and all my underwear are simple slips.
In my mind, I look something like in the picture. The mirror severly disproves it – in size, shape, proportion and with body parts that should not be there. What I see is an ugly, oversized manatee busting seems trying to pose as the cool kid and failing.
I can recall the last two times I wore something “feminine”: once, in my second year at the uni, I went to a New Year’ party wearing a skirt that reached to just below my ass, with striped knee high socks and combat boots. I guess I was going for a 4NonBlondes look. The time before that was in 6th grade. I had a blue and black striped dress that fitted like a t-shirt on top and was slightly twirly at the bottom. I wore combat boots to it, too. The wind kept blowing it this way and that when walking home, I had to hold it all the time. I never felt more exposed walking down the street. Before that, it was early childhood when I couldn’t dress myself. I always hated dresses and skirts with a passion. Just like stockings, blouses, lacy and frilly stuff and anything girly or lady like. I have owned precisely one pair of high heel sandals in my entire life and I wore them probably twice (to trousers).
So… back when I thought something is “wrong with me”, I always assumed I am just an odd sort of tom boy. I guess the “Tom” in the phrase was wrong. That’s not the name I’d pick for myself.
