Breasts. Boobs. Jugs. Melons.
Whatever you want to call them, I have them. I don’t want them. I’d much rather say ta-ta to my ta-tas than save them.
It’s not often I have dysphoria about my gender. But when it happens, holy cow, does it suck.
Mira and I went out to the theatre as we often do, to see a play put on by one of our local acting troupes. My week had been good, albeit busy, but good. I was interviewed, with Mira, and was on TV. I wore my binder and got to dress up at work (we had clients visit) and I’d been more than content with my appearance, including my profile. But, by Friday, I think my binder was as sick of my body as my body was of my binder.
We arrived at the theatre and when I sat down in my seat, it happened. My binder shifted.
Upward. Not rolled, not moved slightly, but shifted upwards. I felt uncomfortable, but shrugged it off. Mira asked if I needed to use the bathroom, but everyone had sat down in the seats next to us, and I didn’t want to be that guy who makes everyone move in their row so he can get in and out for no good reason.
The play started, and when the lights dimmed, I tugged and shifted, hoping to move it back into place, all the while trying to convince myself it was no big deal. I got into the play, and was greatly enjoying myself. Intermission came, and Mira went to talk to a friend. I took the opportunity to go use the restroom so I could fix my binder.
I stood up from my seat (after arguing with myself about going), and made it out of the main theatre into the lobby, down the ramp, and about twenty steps away from the restrooms. Then I froze. Which bathroom should I use? I thought I looked like a guy. I mean, I did, didn’t I? But there would only be like one stall, and what if someone was in there? I’d look kind of odd standing around waiting for the stall, right? But I’d get weird looks if I went into the women’s room, right? I looked more like a guy than a butch lesbian, right? I could feel the panic quickly rising, ironically, in my chest. In fact, I looked down at my chest, and was absolutely convinced the binder was doing nothing for me at this point.
I felt my face flushing with embarrassment and shame. I quickly walked back into the theatre and sat down, trying desperately to keep myself together. Mira sat down and quickly saw my discontent and asked what was wrong. I felt myself getting very angry. Not with her, but with myself. I tried brushing it off and saying I had an issue going to the bathroom, but I was okay.
I wasn’t. She asked me to talk to her about it in the car on the way home, which I agreed to.
I told her about the shame I felt, and the embarrassment, and how I wanted my breasts gone. I told her about struggling to figure out what bathroom I should use. We both agreed that the group of people who go to see this group perform wouldn’t care which restroom I used, and certainly wouldn’t accost me, but I still struggled. And I cried. I was ashamed of myself for not having the strength or confidence to walk into the men’s room with my head held high. I was embarrassed by my appearance, convinced my chest was showing. And then I was ashamed for being embarrassed…and it spiraled for a bit.
We went to the store to pick up some late night junk food to help me feel better. Mira asked me if I wanted to wait in the car. I told her no. Because it’s important to me to be able to move through my days as I am in the moment, and be okay with that. Things won’t be changing physically for me anytime soon, so I need to be able to cope, and going into the grocery store is part of that.
I struggle at work, knowing which restroom to use. It may seem ridiculous to some of you reading this. You’ve always known which bathroom to use. It’s not that easy for me. I mean, I know I’m a trans man. I’m a guy, I should use the men’s room. But my confidence level isn’t always that high. Especially when it comes to my chest. I don’t have large boobs, but they’re big enough to be noticed. And that’s difficult to deal with, when you know your body is supposed to look different, but there’s nothing you can do about it, at least not right now.
I’ve struggled with my weight, and the only thing I can liken my struggle with restrooms with is buying clothes – when a medium has always fit you, and now, suddenly, it doesn’t, or when you find a shirt you really like, but it’s not in your size, nor are any of the clothes you like – your confidence and self-esteem takes a very heavy hit. It’s like that with bathrooms. But more visceral. It’s a reminder that I’m not the man I want to be yet. That while my head says one thing, my body is clearly saying something different.
I understand some of the issue is created in my own mind. My breasts weren’t that noticeable, nor would it really have mattered which bathroom I used, no one would have really cared. But this struggle is real, regardless of whether what I feel is created in my own mind or actually happens.
Mira and I went out today, to buy some dresses for some upcoming events. One of the places we went to, the staff was incredibly helpful, and very kind, but she made the assumption that I was a ‘lady’, and when I made mention that I would be attending some of these events as well, tried to hook me up with a dress, and then with a ‘really nice pantsuit’. She clearly didn’t understand me by appearance. It made me a bit uncomfortable, but I’ve gotten use to shrugging it off.
There are times when I look in the mirror, and it doesn’t bother me. There are other times I look in the mirror, and I picture myself with a flat chest, and it makes me happy. And yet there are other times when I look in the mirror and it hurts, knowing I have these physical barriers which aren’t changing fast enough for me. I wish the bathroom thing wasn’t a big deal. It really shouldn’t be. I mean, I just want to go to the bathroom. I don’t want to be hassled any more than I want to hassle anyone else.
And some day, that won’t even be an issue for me anymore. Mentally, I’m quickly becoming the man I want to be, the man I’m proud to be. Physically, that will follow too. In the meantime, I’m learning how to deal. I’ll continue to struggle, here and there. Some days it will be my chest, some days it will be my voice. Sometimes I’ll wonder if I’m ever going to be happy with my appearance. Some days will be filled with doubt, and some days will be empty of confidence. People have talked about having a bad gender day. I’ll have my share of those.
But the path to who I am isn’t supposed to be easy. If it were, would it be worth it? I’ll have my days of gender dysphoria – days when I don’t want to leave the house because I’m exasperated by my genes. I will though, because it’s all a part of becoming me. My struggles shape my successes.
And I plan on being successful in my life.
(Aiutami is Italian for Help Me, and the song, Aiutami is in the play we saw that night, The Light in the Piazza. It’s sometimes how I feel…)