Haunted masculinity
Other trans masculine people often talk about wishing to be a boy growing up and that was never my experience, but when I read about their experiences, I am then surprised by how much of it I relate to.
I have these memories of feelings that I knew were wrong, such as my hatred of my chest, or my weird obsession with having masculine knees or the way I would actually kind of liked it when someone accidentally sir’d me. I could never admit to myself the things that I wanted and so I would silo those memories and feelings off behind thick brick walls. Each memory separate and alone, and so I was unable to construct a narrative of who I was.
“Men are trash”. That was something I was taught to believe, and something I still struggle with. To desire something so monstrous must mean that I must really be a monster. So, I walled these parts of me off, both from others and from myself. If you’ve ever watched a horror movie then you know that thick brick walls never keep the dark things away. The dark water seeps through the cracks in the mortar and then your basement is flooding but you don’t understand where the water is coming from.
When you tell the story of who you are, each event is the story is selected with meaning. Chosen to create a thread from who you started as and how you came to be. Then those threads are woven together to create a sense of self. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted because I had walled off all these parts of myself.
“I’m here”, the ghost wants you to know, and through the continued flooding of your basement attempts to force you to contend with them. I never knew that I wanted to be a boy but also, I did know, in a way, that I did want to be something like a boy. That there was something about the way my body mapped out to me that yearned for other possibilities. To hide something so forcefully from myself, meant that in some way I was aware of what I needed to hide.
When my egg cracked, it was less the cracking of a delicate eggshell than the crumbling of brick walls where the mortar had worn away from years of no longer being maintained. The walls crumbled, and the bright morning light shone through the windows to reveal that the water wasn’t actually dark, but clear and blue and clean. I could see myself through the water, standing in it, and if I reached down to drink the water it was actually sweet and good.
When my egg cracked, I could see those memories and feelings and they were still painful, but I was no longer so afraid of them but saddened. I could take these memories and connect them, and I started threading and then weaving them into my own narrative of who I am.
“Oh.” I suddenly thought to myself. “My life makes so much more sense now.”
My body had felt bloated and waterlogged and immediately I began to stand up straighter and feel taller and that felt good. I started finding my way bit by bit to how I felt more like myself. When I wear my binder, I stop having to push down my thoughts about my chest. After starting testosterone, my body moved and changed shape and I began to feel human, much of the time.
I had spent so much of my life agonizing over the hair on my body and removing it. Now, as it grows in thicker and darker, I am surprised by how much I like it and how good it feels.
I feel this quiet space in my head where a loud demanding voice once resided, always guarding me against how I moved and took up space, how I spoke or how I dressed. How I loved.
I am often in amazement, even still, at how it is to feel human and not monstrous. I am often at a loss, not knowing how to be a person, although I’m learning as I go along.
It’s a double bind often, being a transmasculine person. I am drawn to and desire to be masculine but the thought that this makes me a monster still slides into my thoughts on occasion. I want to be able to be a masculine person who is gentle and caring and loving. I like to think that I am, most of the time. It’s something I strive for. But that is also at odds with what masculinity is supposed to be, as understood by the wider culture that I live in.
When I am assertive or take up space I might be accused as being “toxic”. That particular accusation is new but it’s something I’ve always dealt with, being pushed to make myself as small as possible and to let other people determine who I am, to be accommodating. It’s hard to push against the way I’ve existed my whole life and it hurts when people accuse me of being the monster I have always deeply feared that I am. Yet, if I am to show myself as vulnerable then people will say that it is proof that I am really a woman. I don’t have the kind of power that many cishet men have, but I make an easier target for that anger. I know this is an experience I share with many trans people.
I don’t know what the future holds, everything is so uncertain now, and frightening. But I’m here, and I exist, and I’m telling you who I am, telling my story into the void. I hope that maybe once in awhile someone will hear me and feel something good from my words. I think that may be what it is to human, to crave connection and understanding.