Me vs Myself and I

Hi there, it’s your favourite trans lady again! (citation needed)

Today, we’re diving into the incredibly uncomfortable topic of self image, self loathing, and self worth. Namely, how the first of those causes the second, and how the second ruins the third.

For 31 years of my life, I grew comfortable with not caring what I looked like. There was just something wrong about what I saw in the mirror, but in a general sense that I could never put my finger on. It wasn’t about losing weight or finding the right hairstyle. Ultimately, it was like hearing a song from a genre you don’t like: you decide it’s just not for you and move on with your life.

Fast forward to December 2016, when my girlfriend does my makeup for the first time, and I see Ashley for the first time. I was elated. I think it’s the first time I ever smiled at my own reflection. This looked right. Felt right. It was the beginning of a new me.

Then came the honeymoon period. Oh, how I miss it.

I felt amazing. Free. I started taking pictures of myself and putting them online. My Instagram became about more than my pets (but also very much still about my pets). After having written myself off for 30+ years, this was a huge deal for me. Giving a shit about what I saw in the mirror. Liking it. I was through the roof.

This, it seems, was destined to be short lived.

I don’t remember specifically when it started happening, but my daily affirmation selfies started becoming every few days, and then maybe once a week, and so on. The general rule was basically that I posted a picture when I felt like I looked good, and that became less and less frequent as the newness of it all went away.

Soon, the elation of “Hey! I like this!” was replaced with “stupid shitty waist. Stupid shitty hips…”, “my nose is swallowing my face”, “ugh, this fucking hairline”, “I look like a dude today”, etc.

This was only compounded by looks from strangers on the subway, or being “sir”d by people at restaurant counters. I now keep my eyes to the floor on transit to avoid feeling uncomfortable, and rush through food orders. I keep my distance from strangers on the sidewalk so I don’t get looks if they clock me. I’m afraid when my dog interacts with people on walks because I worry about how they’ll react when they see me up close.

I had changed the station to a genre of music I liked, but in doing so, opened myself up to being able to articulate what I didn’t like. “I don’t know, it’s just not for me” became an extensive criticism: “5/10 — ok at best, but lacking in several areas you will obsess over every time you get ready in the morning.”

When I first came out, my hair was too short for extensions, so I had to wear a wig. I grew to hate that fucking thing. It would make me too warm in rooms that were otherwise a fine temperature. I couldn’t style it, so it was constantly in the way. It kept getting tangled. It made my head itch, but because I was wearing it, I couldn’t scratch the itch. Every time something about my wig would bother me, it would make me focus on the why of me wearing it, and I would spiral into a dysphoria-fueled shit mood for, oftentimes, the rest of the day.

Makeup, while I’ve gotten better at it, began causing me a lot of problems. My brain allowed me a period where I excused myself for making mistakes, but slowly, errors in my makeup application would send me into a dysphoric spiral. “If only I had been doing this for the last fifteen years like every other goddamn woman my age, I wouldn’t have this problem.” This was exacerbated by the knowledge that I needed to put this makeup on if I wanted to be perceived in any kind of feminine light once I left the house. This would then lead to an unhealthy focus on the artifice of my appearance, and yeah. Not awesome.

Then, recently, I got engaged. Yay? Yay. My girlfriend made an adorable grand gesture that caught the internet’s attention, and for a brief second, it was fun to see people appreciating the effort she put into the proposal. It wasn’t long before the novelty wore off thanks to a myriad of comments.

“Is that a guy or a girl?”

“Looks like a dude.”

“Dude in a dress.”

Etc.

These comments are shitty enough on their own, but they’re made worse by the fact that they echo all of the worst feelings I have about myself when I look in the mirror. That’s what really hurts. It takes a lot of effort some mornings to want to leave the house and face the world, and on the days I convince myself I’m just being overly critical myself, I have a small, personal win. Things like this, though, just highlight how naïve I’m being when I look in the mirror and think “Yeah. I look cute today.” They destroy every ounce of credibility my self affirmations work to achieve, and all of the “They’re assholes, ignore them” type comments from friends do nothing to repair the damage done.

This is a harder blog to structure, because now is usually the part where I would say “but it got better!” The problem with that is that it hasn’t. In fact, today I just feel like curling up into a ball under my desk and crying until I fall asleep.

I’m a little over a month on blockers, and won’t begin estrogen for nearly two months still, so I know I’m very early in this process, and that I have a long road to go. I know I need to be patient. I spend a lot of time looking at trans timeline photos hoping for similar results and worrying I won’t get them. I worry that I’ll never get my voice where I want it. I worry that I will never be happy with myself.

All I have right now is frightening uncertainty and hope, and much more of one than the other. I still don’t know what to do about it. All I can really do is wait. I hate that.

Fingers crossed, I guess.