If I ever did attempt to find love, it would have to be a cliched, life-guarded secret.
I wished I was one of the boys from the moment I got into preschool. I begged and begged for boys' clothes in department stores all the way until my teens. It couldn't be because I wanted them, oh noooo. It had to be because they would "fit me better."
I've despised my body ever since youth for daring to sprout the world's 37th heaviest tits. I would gladly give them to someone else. "But it does something to you psychologically to remove your breasts!" Yeah. That would be the whole fucking point.
I wept like a child when the Red Stain reared its head. My mom made it to be something wonderful. I didn't think something was wrong with me like I told her. I'd been dreading it's arrival because I knew it was the last nail in the coffin. I was female. And it was all Right.
Over the years, I've learned to live with it. I only tell people online I'll never meet that I’m gender fluid. Saying that in real life to people you think will accept you is the #1 Fastest Track to Alienation and Ridicule. So I still say “female” to make it easy, even though another slice is cut into me Every Single Time.
It all comes down to practicality with gender now. I can't be my own normal—I can’t reflect whatever gender is most me as they ebb and flow. Life calls for me to be female, so I have to fill that role without further comment. Just like it calls for everyone to be straight.
I've made myself accept I was just confused or bi for several years. I know better now that too isn't true.
I never once looked at boys until it became pertinent that I'd be found out as gay if I didn't force myself to develop an interest in males. It was all wrong. I never wanted to look at them like that. They were more like brotherly figures than something I should want like that.
But the self-conditioning worked. I've learned to believe my own lie, and had even forgotten it was a lie. Until I remembered.
It's never been them. It’s those that are lovely. Feminine. Wired in from my earliest memories, girls to me were the most beautiful and deserving of affection.
But none of these realizations matter because real life isn't kind to those that are different.
I’m an ailing stream, struggling over a dusty riverbed, taking the path of least resistance and trying not to dry out.
Since I can't be myself, I'm mad at the only people that love me. I'm so bitter that I know they won't look past their own book and just accept me. Through it all, I still believe the same book for the love in it, but I'd be cast aside without hesitation.
They've always got to have a hand in "righteously" changing those that have been "steeped in sin."
Makes me feel like a used teabag every time they say it. They have no clue that their "wonderful girl" is one of Those.
I'd be the first to come out in my entire family. I can't. I don't want that title.
I will not even try to imagine what it would be like to have an entire town worth of people shun me for being myself.
So it's better to lie and agree with their views. It's survival, and it's tolerable. But it's not even compromise. It’s unlife.
It's welding shut the closet door in front of me. It's painting my face even though I lose more of myself every time.
Why couldn't I have been a normal stream that joined the main river? Why did I have to flow all alone down a dry ditch instead?
Because, it's a selfish "choice." It's the same old same old everyone has heard 100 times before.