A Life Belonging to Me

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Gay and Lesbian  |  House: Booksie Classic
A response to my moment of weakness poem; A Life Belonging to Them.

Submitted: April 28, 2017

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Submitted: April 28, 2017



I am Markus. I am a 17-year-old transgender boy. I chose the name Markus because I liked the sound of it much more than my birth name; the birth name I hated so much I would mispronounce it, ever since I was a little kid.

When I was 7, I wrote a very short fanfiction based from Digimon Adventures, the only one I had watched and the series I was completely obsessed with as a child. Albeit very short, the story described the first episode in the series, but with a short twist at the end; I was a self-insert character by my own name, and I had entered the digital world with the main cast. Upon arrival, I had transformed into a Digimon. This Digimon was male.

In 2009 I wrote another fanfiction about Sonic the Hedgehog this time. The whole premise was around copying various games' storylines while also having my 40-something OC's inserted. I digress; the main start of the story was a huge Robotnik robot arriving, capturing me and a few friends, and forcing us to transform. I transformed into my (Mary Sue) character, Spark the Hedgehog; a male character.

At this same time, I was being told I could never be a boy, and that I am a girl no matter what. It made me hate girls, and it made me hate being a girl because I was shoeboxed into a place I felt uncomfortable. I was told I couldn't play with “boy toys” until my family gave up fighting me, and every birthday I would get a dress or some awful big pink barbie or my little pony toy set. I would barely play with them, instead, playing with my gender neutral toys and the (much superior in interest – transforming figures rather than static baby dolls) boy's toys I owned. I began to hate girls because I was told I was to be grouped with the people I had only seen to be boring and creeped out if I was boisterous.

After I turned a certain age, the horror stories started. “Sex changes make you unable to move for weeks!” and “If you get your parts changed you won't be able to pee ever again,” and “transsexuals are just men who dress up as women and tomboys who want to feel special!” etc. Every time I showed interest in being a boy I would be laughed at and told I meant I was a tomboy. The horror stories scared me and pushed me towards forcing myself to become more female. This enters the time where I joined an all-girls' secondary school (11 to 16-year-olds).

I tried to be a girl for the entirety of my secondary school life until the age of 15. This made me depressed. Very depressed. Even when I wasn't being bullied remorselessly I felt wrong and dirty for being forced to be womanly. I left that school when I was 14 due to suicidal contemplation.

In the summer of 2015, I came out as trans. The horror stories swirled in my head and worried me, but I didn't care. I was male and I knew it. I had transitioned to agender before then, then bigender, then gender fluid, then just neutral, then decided none were for me. My parents told me I could tell them anything. Honestly, I thought I could.

No more than a week after I came out, my dad emailed me a link to a page claiming how there was a 20-year waiting list for transgender people to get therapy. More horror stories. It didn't deter me, but I should have gotten the message.

I joined my new school and got very many disgusted students, and many more frustrated teachers. It didn't bother me too much but I saw that I was entering a society that I wasn't welcome in.

After I moved to 6th form (16 to 19) I changed my name to Mark on the registers and asked only that they gave me respect. They did, to my surprise; nobody questioned it, really.

Other factors made me drop out, but that's beside the point.

Things started to get sour in the family at this point. I was still called by my long dead name, and I was still called a she or her, my things were her's. After 2 years, it's a bit of a problem; I was starting to see my parents didn't really care for me being more me than I was when I was born.

Cut forward to this week: the week I am writing this. I was told the “truth I will be thankful for” by my mom, then my dad. I was asked why I chose to be male. There isn't really a clear-cut answer; I like male names, pronouns, attitudes and personalities much more than the female way of life, and I have always been a fan of the male figure, much more than the female figure. I was asked why I can't just be neutral, why I can't just be me and have no gender associated with it. I didn't know how to answer; I felt more “me” if the “me” I am is male. I tried being neutral but it really didn't work. I was told I act more neutral than male, but then I was told I act more female, that the way I react is more “feminine”. Thinking back, the only ways I react to things that could be seen as feminine is my previous reaction to spiders: a high-pitched yelp, which I have had many hours of grief put upon me for; “You'll never be accepted as male if you act like that.”

If I looked more manly, I doubt this conversation would be happening. If I had a deeper voice, if I had more muscle than breasts, if I had shorter hair, this conversation wouldn't be a thing that occurred.

My therapy, they told me, is to gauge my reactions to talking about topics to see if I'm “really trans”, and that if I don't pass, they will send me to a type of conversion therapy-lite to convince me I am really female with an identity crisis and helping me get over myself in order to not go through being transgender.

After all of this they began telling me that the idea of me taking hormones and getting surgeries (only the top surgery, mind you – the surgery hundreds of other trans men and cis women have every day and are completely fine afterwards) are hurting them in ways I couldn't understand, and that it's scaring them. They tried to pass it as they were more scared than I am – that they were hurting more than I could ever be because they're watching their little baby grow up. The took offense at the fact I was saying they're attacking me for saying they didn't believe I was really trans, and that it was just a stress reaction to how I was bullied so long ago. The can't explain their logic if I asked why I insisted I was male when I was a kid, they can't explain their logic if I asked why my mood jumped amazingly when I came out.

My life belongs to me. Their “truth I will thank them for in the future”, the truth they believed will bring me closer to them is just making me want to leave them quicker.

My life belongs to me. I see the dangers more than anyone else because I remember the horror stories they so kindly seem to have misplaced telling me in the memories. I see that this could damage my ability to have kids in the future and that it's a one-way track, but that's why I'm waiting until I'm 20 to even consider anything permanent.

My life belongs to me. If I decide I am male, if I feel happier and more secure without breasts and with a beard and a deeper voice, so be it. Nobody, not even the ones who created me, has the right to tell me what gender I should identify as.

My life belongs to me. Even though when I was announced as a girl because of what's in my trousers, how puberty affected me, and the fact I can give birth, doesn't mean I am that gender and nothing else.

My life belongs to me. Not them. I doubt myself sometimes with the comments I have thrown at me. People affect me, yes, but they can't change me if they believe their opinions trump my well being.

My life belongs to me. I was raised female. Now I am not. I want to be treated as Mark. Look at me differently, see me as a different person to who I was when I was born, but I am still me. The transition is hard, but every parent to a transgender child should value their son or daughter's well-being over their worries that they will lose their little girl or boy.

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