I'm a transman (female to male transsexual) and I pass way, way more as female than as male. I don’t pass as male at all.
...I mean, I did once. I was hanging out with this guy at night and a gay couple passed us and said, "Are those two guys making out?" in that super exited way we note whenever a homosexual act is happening in public. Another time a homeless guy called me "young man." But other than that, I don't pass. Not really my fault, I seriously just moved away from my parents (who are f****** p*****) and I haven't had a chance to go shopping for men's clothes; I'm stuck with men's-wear-as-women's-wear. Whenever I shop with my mom, by the way, she is always clearly near the hysterical, irrational, emotional tears she constantly expects me to identify with whenever I pick up an article of clothing that isn't pink and covered with frills.
I am so sick of having my emotions ripped and pulled out of me, I swear to God. Maybe it's good, considering how emotionally backed-up cisguys are, but f***, pretending to give a crap about EVERYTHING is really exhausting. Even my father demands that I constantly share and gush and have a never-ending fountain of non-existent emotions. F***, if I have them I'll express them, like I am now; if I have them I usually do express them, unless it will cause my stupid pathetic parents to wail hysterically and roll around on the floor cutting themselves because I'm not the fictional person they wish I was. And I'm not even out to both of them!
My mother, my hysterical beyond-blaming-estrogen time-to-blame-drugs crazy emotional endlessly expressive mother, has been poking and prodding me about being transsexual for the longest time but reacts with scathing negative comments meant to be construed as jokes whenever I express my masculinity. She used to kind of yell at me for being male when I was a kid, like "I hate this and this about men and you're doing the thing I hate! Boo hoo!" kind of thing. Well mom, you're a woman and I hate how much you f****** cry. Seriously, I would cut off my own arm to avoid that nails-on-chalkboard sound, the endless emotional manipulation, and I will definitely avoid coming out to avoid her stupid breakdown. When I was a kid, I'd try to comfort her but she'd just push me away and scream, cuss, yell in my face. Now, when she cries I want to beat the living s*** out of her and I have to leave the room, because I know I would never be able to physically bring myself to beat the living s*** out of her but I cannot physically bring myself to be in the presence of her worthless tears. I hope I'm 100% gay, even though I know I'm not. F***. Hopefully not all women are this crazy; I'm 99.999% sure my mom is bipolar, so that’s a good thing if you look at it one way. You know what’s really ironic? My dad yells at me for doing "female" things that he hates.
Is this post really emotional? It is, right? Not good enough for my parents. They demand more emotion, constantly. To the point where I sometimes just make s*** up to placate them. They do not understand the concept of "back off and let me have my own emotions" at all. Even if I, quite literally, get down on my knees and beg them to back the f*** off (true story), they will continue to pry and poke and drag and wrench my feelings from me, and now I am so in the practice of talking about my all-important feelings that I can't seem to keep them to myself and I feel like I have absolutely no privacy or filter at all. They will poke and prod and INSIST INSIST INSIST that I "share" even five minutes after the oh-so-emotionally dramatic getting-down-on-my-knees display. Anyway.
I'm teetering on the edge of insanity. Really. If I told anyone the thoughts going through my mind I'd get committed. Seriously, I'm two seconds away from killing myself every second of the day, and maybe taking a few people with me, but I'm not going to do that, because I like Twix candy bars and I have homework and s***. And people wouldn't be such a******* if they knew what I was really going through. So I forgive them, kind of.
I've been on youtube and I'm looking foreward to passing well enough so that I don't go completely insane, and if I bind tight enough to crack a rib maybe it'll look like I have as little as a B cup one of these days. My binder hurts so, so, so f****** much, you guys. After I start passing a little better or at least looking slightly androgynous and not like a busty, curvy lesbian that all the creepy straight guys want to f***, I'll probably be able to get my hormones which will make me look like a curvy, busty lesbian with muscles and a beard. Just what every gay man wants.
I would join a support group, but I have a life. Right now I'm postponing homework to blab about this. I simply do not have time to take 2 to 4 hours out of any given day for a support group; I have to plan weeks ahead on MY schedule if I want a 4-hour break, and my schedule is booked right now. The transgender places I've looked at that offer counseling have time slots that radically interfere with my life, or have done so up until this point; I do not have time to visit a clinic as my art school demands that I give 100% of my attention to drawing bottles and shapes endlessly, yet somehow I have managed to fall drastically behind in every single class.
I do not have any friends. Literally, no friends whatsoever, save for this one guy I knew a long time ago who texts me when he's bored. I've met some acquaintances here and there. One time I even made time to hang out with someone, but I regretted it; I should have gone to the clinic instead, but then I looked online and they weren't even open the one day that I was free. I have absolutely no one to talk to about this save for random voices on the Internet and no matter how much I "share," no matter how much information I divulge it will never ever change my situation; there is nothing you voices can say to me to cheer me up or placate me. I just want to be able to say "I want to die." to someone, I guess. Those are my true feelings; I guess they've finally been dragged out.
Oh, and the Trevor Project's a f****** joke. The guy laughed on the line at me when I called and I sat curled up in my bed for 3 hours (when, btw, the clinic is not f****** open) wondering if I should just f****** kill myself since obviously the gay suicide helpline didn't count me as important enough to listen to for 2.30 minutes. I could hear his impatience and he sounded as if he was barely choking back hysterical laughter as I hurriedly said words I don't really remember saying.
I want to die. And now I'm sitting here wondering if this is a suicide letter or a post. No, it's a post, because I do not have the b**** to commit suicide. I always chicken out whenever I try it; I know that there is nothing beyond this life, and like I said I like Twix and whatnot. I just can't seem to get through the day, some days I can't even get up in the morning and I just lie there. Probably contributing to me falling behind in class.
Can't wait till next thursday. Clinic will be open. Maybe I can talk to someone then.