I morn and grieve for that little boy who had no support. Who was not allowed to emerge, who was told by his family and experts that he was a girl, that he had to be a girl. I use to cry alot and feel despair that led to only suicide and self destruction.
I cry now, not for me now, but for that little boy, I used to be, hidden in the performance and the clothes of a girl, who had no one, who had to deal with it entirely on his own without any explanation, and without any support.
But mostly I morn and grieve really for the ordeal of living through this myself. The weight of this burden led me to self-destructive behaviors. Cutting, bulimia, anorexia, overeating and obesity, and even to true alcoholism. A rage that no psychiatric treatment could fix. Finally escaping psychiatry and all their pills. Escaping councilors who thought they knew better, but didn’t know better, and shutting the door on endless medicalized abuse even.
In my recovery, it has been like putting down a million-ton boulder being out and seeing yourself finally in the mirror. Wondering how the hell I carried it all my life. How the hell did I ever carry all that and in secrecy? How did it not kill me?
One thing is for certain. I now know I am not alone. There are many like me. Anyone assigned wrong at birth gets it. So I now dedicate my life to the service of helping others like me and teaching the psychological and medical complex how not to do this ever again to an innocent child.
Finally, four years later, and with self-determination, I am the man I was supposed to be.