A Letter to Myself

Dear Me,

In the middle of fourth grade you wrote a letter to your eighth grade self. I- being in eighth grade now- am returning the favor.

Remember you ended the letter saying what you wanted to be when you grew up? You had just watched season 13 of Drag Race with mum, and one of the contestants was the first transgender man to be on the show. The feelings you had regarding Gottmik were confusing, I know, but you managed to comprehend enough of your brain to tell me that’s who you wanted to be. I can say for certain you do not want to be a drag queen, but the trans part? Well.

When you were five years old you watched Glee, which featured the first gay kiss you had seen. You couldn’t sleep that night and, in a strange moment of psychic ability, screamed for your mum that you wanted to be a boy. You were right. Surprise!

The summer right after third grade you shaved your head. Remember how you felt looking in the mirror for the first time after that? That feeling is called gender euphoria. You may not believe what I'm saying now- you love the color pink and dresses and kawaii and girliness and blah blah blah (not to say any of this is wrong)- but soon you’ll realize who you truly are. What will follow is three painstaking years of dysphoria, mental illness, trauma, betrayal, and pain. Eventually, though, your parents will accept you. The world won’t ever fully understand people like us. Trump will be president yet again, transphobic doctors will refuse to treat us, we’ll face obstacles our entire life. There's many things you'll have to experience. You don’t know it yet, but here’s what it’s like to be trans, just to prepare you:

On bad days, you wake up and hate everything. I mean everything. You have the urge to peel off your skin just to escape the overwhelming feeling of being trapped under flesh that doesn’t belong to you. You’ll shower with the lights off, and when you look down you’ll feel sick to your stomach. The mirror will send shocks of electric pain through your body. You'll barely eat, and if you do it'll be without any joy. Your binder won’t be tight enough, your hips won’t be flat enough, your sweater won’t be baggy enough, your voice won’t be deep enough. You’ll walk down the street in the most manly way possible and still think you’re moving like a girl. You’ll fluff and style your hair as many times as you can but it’ll never satisfy you. You'll think everyone is constantly staring at you. You’ll read the news and start crying at how much everyone hates trans people. You'll go to bed and get a maximum of three hours sleep filled with nightmares.

But other days are okay. Tolerable. Sometimes even amazing. You'll wake up, jump out of bed, open the curtains, pet the cats. You'll sing in the shower, experiment with what fun outfit you want to wear, listen to a podcast as you eat your favorite cereal and take your meds. When you look in the mirror, you'll grin at how perfect your hair looks, the flatness of your chest, the gravelly tone of your voice. You'll smile at everyone who looks your way as you go to grab a coffee, perhaps toying a bit with Pokémon Go as you travel. You'll cheerily greet the cashier and tip extra, then sip your drink as you work for a few hours on your latest art project. You'll take a break to have a nice bath or watch something funny, then do homework followed by some creative writing time. You'll make yourself a healthy lunch and read while you eat, lighting a candle and sipping tea for extra enjoyment. You'll work and chill in increments for the rest of the lovely day before relaxing in front of the television with takeout and ice cream. You'll go to bed listening to calming Zelda music, snuggling a stuffed animal and sleeping soundly.

It's these days that keep us going. Your artistic talent will improve every day. Soon you'll be doing requests for friends and teachers paid for with candy, and eventually your English teacher at your new school who runs the creative magazine published once a year will commission a series of drawings that you'll work on through the entire school year. When you finish each piece, you'll be rewarded with such pride it'll shock you. You'll make aspirations about all the good that you can do with this gift. You'll start dreaming of college, hoping to get into Goldsmiths University of London, fantasize about your career in the future, the things you'll do and experience. You'll be a theatre kid, too, by the way- how could you not, what with your dad- happily auditioning for small parts in school plays and working behind the scenes on stage crew. You won't pursue it, God no, but it's a fun, close, and safe community. You'll find people that love you for who you are, not who they want you to be. And one day, we'll get surgery and hormones, but we're content for now.

It's okay to be content, to enjoy the little things in life. The perfectly cold days, cold enough to sharpen your lungs but warm enough to require nothing thicker than a hoodie. A warm, steaming mug of something sweet. A finished painting and the satisfying smell of fixative you sprayed onto it. A sleepy cat purring next to you. Chocolate, YouTube, and a hot water bottle while you're on your period. Heart-to-hearts with your parents. Candles that smell like Hannukah. Being wrapped tightly in a blanket. Sharing a bagel with your grandmother, Mimi. Playing your favorite video game. Ranting about the best books you've ever read.

It won't always be bad. One day it'll be good. One day you'll be me, and you'll be happy. One day you'll be a boy.