I thought I was crazy. I thought I was insane and needed medication or serious psychological help. I thought I was bad and filthy and everything other people said about me was true. I was retreating so far inside myself, there was nothing around me but blackness and hate. I was trapped in a permanent dungeon, consigned there by own will, and built by own self-loathing.
I didn’t need to die—I was already dead.
And I was 14 years old.
But.
But then I kept living and I kept speaking and I sought out my own community. I realized that being Transgender wasn’t an illness or a malady or a curse, that I was worth something and that I had something to say—and that I mattered. And I began to take up space: things expanded in front of me and I lived my life. I lived my life the way I needed to—beyond what I simply wanted—and the people around me began to change as the world began to change. I began to open my eyes for the very first time.
And I realized there are just as many good people in the world as there are bad, and that the bad ones need just as much sympathy as the good ones, and that I could help by speaking, and by loving the person I wanted to love. By living my life. Truthfully. Completely. And with dignity and care. I was finally living my truth. I was finally at home.
And that saved me.
And because I was saved, I was found. And now I take up space. I breathe as deeply as I need and I shout as loudly as I want and I love as hard as I can. And none of that would have ever happened, if I would have listened to anyone else, except myself. My true self. My authentic self. Those other voices that tried to pull me backwards actually weren’t mine. They were given to me by unseen hands. But they weren’t mine. They were not my responsibility any more. I owed them nothing.
I’m not perfect, and I don’t care to be.
But I’m alive, and I’m thankful.