Trans Clothing Exchange, Inc

I am the toddler who wished for a cool sounding name, like Kevin or Jake. 
I am the kindergartener who didn’t understand why I could run in the cool evening shade with no shirt on. 
I am the child who’s only dress was the one I wore to my grandma’s funeral.
I am the pre-teen who wished the girl parts would just disappear.
I am the teenage who felt so disconnected that I tried to end my life.
I am the 2-time divorcee who didn’t know her place.
I am the 4-time divorcee who didn’t know me.

I eventually found me:

I am that little boy who was born in a little girl’s body.

A hell of a thing to deal with, this transgender business: WHAT THE HELL WAS WRONG WITH ME?! I screamed to my God nightly.

​Sometimes that question never escapes your lips. Sometimes you die before it can.

Too many of our children and loved ones live in fear of being erased from existence, just because of who they are.

​I have come to a decision.

I will not stand silent while my fellow humans are terrified and perishing.

I will not be erased before raising my voice:

I am the “T” in LGBT.​

That statement gives a name to a part of me, but is still eclipsed by the core of me:

“I AM.”

...He explained that I wouldn’t be happy with those results; and, wouldn’t I love a nice,

full, perky C? My husband sure would like that, of this he was fairly certain. I was afraid to

argue, I was afraid they would know, I was afraid insurance wouldn’t cover it anymore, so I

resigned myself the thought that at least binding them would be easier.

 

The weeks leading up to the surgery seemed to take forever and I kept imagining what

my chest would be like without breasts, even though I knew they would just be made smaller.

Every night before bed I scoured the web for stories about other transmen who had

undergone top surgery and tried to feel empowered and excited. I wasn’t nervous or afraid,

but I was numb. I just couldn’t be excited about having smaller breasts, it felt like a defeat....

 Dysphoria- by Casey NineDreams

​

He tells me, “this is no way to live.”

He says, “I am amazed you function.”

I told him

I am amazed I function too, because it all seems so precarious, so dependent on utter discipline and dissociation.

I told him

I am amazed by the boundless pain of this body, by my eternal processing of these cold hard facts.

I say

I don’t like to talk about it, because I’m sure it all sounds quite dramatic

But

There is no way to overstate the emotional agony

 

As I analyze my failure to find balance, I see that

I am sustained by accomplishment, by the experience of doing

And

I cannot relate to this experience of being

Me, this body

​

When I want to die

I throw myself into busyness, doing, task

Nothing can help in these moments

The pain is impossible, inescapable, unfair, cruel

Threatening to make my life meaningless

 

I am invested in my responsibilities

The only way to live available to me

And

While I’m not really living

While I’m just killing time

At least I have my talents, intellect and ambition

This is dysphoria