“You’re a tomboy. You’re not like other girls. Don’t worry. It’s just a phase.”
That’s what they told me. Each time I confided that something felt off. I liked the glitter and the skirts and the pink dresses I could wear. I loved parading in my mother’s heels and going to the nail salon. I loved being pretty and feminine. There was just something wrong with the term. With my identity. Being a girl didn’t feel correct.
I wasn’t like other girls.
I banned any sense of femininity I could exhibit. Any hint that I could be pretty. Nothing that I saw from peers was allowed. I was told I wasn’t like other girls, and that’s why I felt that way. I listened. I wasn’t like other girls, but I was still a girl. A tomboy. Shorts and graphic t-shirts from the boys’ section at Kohl’s became my main attire. I wanted to look like a boy. I spread my legs far apart, hung out with boys, and scoffed at anything I considered a girl thing.
Yet my body was always drawn to the sparkly clothing in sections I avoided. I played with dolls when no one was looking. I obsessed over dress up games and quizzes made for preteen girls.
It was a battle in my mind. When I wore the oversized shirts and basketball shorts, people would confuse me for my male classmates, and it felt right. Not perfect, but it still felt better than what they’d call me if I wore anything else. I changed what people addressed me around this time. Instead of my nickname, people could only call me by my full name. It didn’t help, but I realized I could play with my title. I didn’t have to be Maddie, or my full birth-name for that matter. I could change that.
I wasn’t like other girls.
Development in my teen years was odd. I didn’t like my chest. I prayed to god that I’d never develop breasts, and the next day, they began to grow. I felt uncomfortable and abnormal having them. Like something I did put a curse on me to grow these. I hated them so much.
When I got my first period, I screamed. I thought I was dying. I knew it would happen to girls, but I wasn’t like other girls. This wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I cried and took shower after shower, hoping this would end. I spent so long pushing away things that were deemed girly, and this still happened. I remember telling my therapist that it felt wrong. It felt so wrong to get periods and have breasts, and I wanted it to stop.
“You’re a tomboy. You’re not like other girls. It’s a phase. It’ll pass.”
I forgot what nail polish smelled like. I couldn’t walk in heels when I used to be able to run in them. I thought I’d be happier being more masculine, but I missed it so much. I bargained with myself. Maybe if something extraordinary happened, I’d allow myself to wear a skirt. Nothing extraordinary enough ever happened. I always told myself it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t like other girls, so nothing could ever be enough.
My full name changed to my first initial. I was M. I joked that I changed my name every five years, and at the time it was true. M was neutral enough where no one would question me. Some people thought it was Em, as in short for Emily. It bothered me. Not that I was an initial, or that I could be confused as an Emily, but that I was still a daughter. I was still a granddaughter. I still had to be in the girl categories during sex education and gym class. I was still a girl even if my name wasn’t feminine.
I wasn’t like other girls.
I don’t think other girls struggle to look at themselves naked because they have breasts where there shouldn’t be any. I don’t think they feel as much dread and self-hatred as I did when they get their periods. I don’t think they experience gender dysphoria.
I used to think it was body insecurity. A lot of people, regardless of gender, have that. I used to stand in front of a mirror naked and tell myself I looked beautiful. I looked handsome. I looked sexy. After a while, I believed it. I did look good. I loved my stomach and thighs and arms. I loved the muscles that developed faster than the fat would dissipate. I loved me.
I hated my breasts.
I’d cross my arms over them. I’d push them towards my chest with my hands, flattening them as much as they could. I would wear two sports bras just to get them to flatten because god hated me, and I was given triple Ds.
I hated my uterus.
Everyone hates their periods, but I felt something different. The cramps were unbearable, yes, but the depression spells dysphoria gave me were worse. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. I’d sit in the shower for hours, praying for it to stop. It was wrong. I wasn’t supposed to be able to carry. I wasn’t supposed to bleed like this.
I wasn’t like other girls.
I remember when I found out why. Deep down, I always knew, but it still was a surprise.
My friend Alex spelled it out for me. I told him I couldn’t write stories anymore because all of my main characters were women, and I hated writing as if I was a woman; why did I have to write pretending to be like other girls?
I could tell what he was going to say the minute I finished talking. I didn’t want to know because I spent years being told I was wrong–being told I was just different and unique. I was scared. Scared of not being unique. Scared of having to come out to different people. Scared of telling my boyfriend at the time, my family, and my friends.
I was so scared, but I was ready. After a whole life of feeling broken, I was ready to find a solution. I didn’t care if I’d lose friends over this. I didn’t care if my boyfriend would break up with me. I didn’t care if I was putting a target on my back for not being cisgender. I needed to know who I was.
Alex told me that he wasn’t using she and her pronouns for me anymore. He told me we’d work with they and them. If I wanted, he and him could be tested as well.
I wasn’t like other girls.
It was mind boggling. Suddenly I was allowed to wear heels and skirts and dresses and anything I wanted. I could paint my nails and put on lipstick. It felt right. It felt natural again. I felt human again.
I wore a binder. After a while, I got on a birth control that doubled as a period blocker. Recently, I had a bilateral mastectomy. I could be feminine again. If you ask people now, they’ll tell you I wear skirts and keep my hair long. Lip gloss and nail polish are important parts of my aesthetic. I own my feminine nature. Shunning it did nothing but hurt me all of these years, and by now I know that labels and presentations can be separated. Experimentation was my friend, and I could find myself as I tried different combinations and styles.
After all these years of confusion and hatred, the phrasing of what was considered to be a phase changed to fit me permanently.
I wasn’t not like other girls.
I wasn’t a girl.
