As soon as you undergo training to become a poll worker, you are told that you should not wear any objects, clothing or symbols that could suggest a political affiliation while on duty on election day. As I don’t own a Circle-A or a hammer and sickle and was able to leave my numerous rainbows at home, the issue was quickly resolved. Or so I thought, because suddenly I was confronted with the question: What makes a political symbol a political symbol, and to what extent was the stereotype of a queer guy with piercings, alternative clothing and dyed hair already an indication that you most likely wouldn’t vote for a conservative party? How did a guy with baby beard shadow, who was clearly having a voice change, had too expressive gestures for the stereotypical cis guy and whose binder passed as a crop top because it was simply too hot for more clothes? What were binders anyway? Medical gear or a matter of self-expression? When did self-expression and personal style become political? I didn’t know, but apparently my grey trousers, black t-shirt, colourful bandana, lots of jewellery and face fuzz weren’t political enough to be sent home. Gender Fuckery was tolerated as a poll worker.

»Horniest« – Grant

Last time I wrote briefly about the problem of how difficult it is to find the right penis for you. If your own isn’t enough – the clitoris also grows on testosterone, and sometimes not even a little. However, this also means that you suddenly have growing pains in places that I, at least, didn’t realise were even possible. But growth isn’t the only thing that hurts there, it’s also the days when your libido shoots through the roof so much that it hurts between your legs, and it hurts hard (pun intended). There have also been days when I couldn’t sit up straight, and there were days when masturbating didn’t really solve the problem. Now I can at least understand a little bit why male teenagers want to shag everything that’s not up to scratch. Perhaps young people should be encouraged at their confirmation or consecration not to use the money to buy expensive clothes or a computer for gaming, but to invest in good and, above all, quiet sex toys.

My libido wasn’t the only thing that went through the roof. My kink did too. Whereas I used to be quite picky about my kinks, I now have days when I could easily tie an orange hanky to my trousers and scream it out to the world: I am ready for anything at any time! Don’t be shy, be nasty!

The bigger picture:

To this day, I’ve hardly told anyone from my home town that I’ve started taking testosterone. The last time I visited them, it was still up in the air whether my wish would really come true and since then we’ve hardly had any contact with each other. Very few of them are active on social media and writing to each of them individually seemed far too strange. I don’t have to explain anything to them, I don’t owe them anything and I’m also of the opinion that testosterone only changes me in the sense that I’m finally a much happier person who likes his body and has left the depressed teenager behind. I don’t think I need to come out for that.

The few people who know that I am now on testosterone are happy for me and otherwise nothing has changed between us. Only one friend was very confused at the beginning because he found me extremely attractive and through a chain of unexpected circumstances, one day he asked me if I would marry him and I said yes because I would marry all my best friends as opposed to my sexual partners. That really threw me for a loop, he didn’t understand my understanding of marriage, nor had he ever identified as bisexual. At the same time, it also made him feel guilty, because for both of us, his behaviour implied: In what way was I man enough for him? Obviously not enough, because to this day he still describes himself as heterosexual.

I couldn’t care less about the sexuality of this friend, but one thing does annoy me: that my gender identity is still dependent on how much I conform to the conventional image of a cis man. I’m not (yet) a fan of genderfuckery in the sense that I would walk around in a dress, but I still refuse to wear the black, white, grey and beige colour palette of the men’s department in department stores. Instead, I’m currently making myself comfortable in a bright and colourful alternative style of dress and hope that this already confuses people enough to cause social irritation.

I wish I was liberated enough to be above my own (non-)passing, but unfortunately my euphoria about being read as male is too great for me to trade it for deconstructing gender norms. Which leads me to the next question.

The „feminist“ conundrum

How can trans men be feminist without being reduced to being trans? A trans woman said in my indirect presence: ‘I’m glad I took the step. Testosterone is a real poison.’

Neither my brain nor I could necessarily agree with the statement, even though we both knew that testosterone had probably had more advantages than disadvantages for her. Furthermore, I knew that I would probably never be able to make such statements as ‘oestrogen is a real poison’ in future as a male-read person (I wasn’t planning to anyway). Why? Imagine a cis man making that statement, something like that would scream misogyny, wouldn’t it?

Apart from that, I can report for myself that after coming out to myself as a trans man, slogans such as ‘For the critical examination of masculinities from (pro) feminist perspectives’ have a different effect. As a woman, I was given all kinds of offers to strengthen my self-esteem and self-confidence, to demand my right to opportunities, resources, participation and self-determination, but as a (trans) man, all of these offers suddenly fell away. As a trans man, I avoidably move from the group that is affected by sexism to the group that is socially privileged, at least when it comes to wages, social recognition, leniency for my own misbehaviour, tax law, medical care, everyday self-realisation. Yes, I could go on with the list and yes, I am aware that intersectionality plays an important role in the points mentioned above.

Before I write an eternally long and nuanced argument about what and how anti-transmasculinity manifests itself in society, I would like to take this opportunity to point out three essays by the blogger S. L. Void. The first essay deals with how the identities of trans men and trans women are often played off against each other, the second essay deals with how trans men are socially and politically invisible and the third essay deals with the fact that not all trans men have always been men from birth, but that ‘being trans’ or rather ‘becoming trans’ can be a process.

In the end, what matters to me is that I personally am a fan of having something like a backbone, and my backbone means that I don’t behave like an arsehole. Above all, this means that I hold values such as: A person’s dignity is inviolable, integrity and morality.

At the same time, I also know that most of my character traits (enthusiastic, solitary, sprinkles of being self-righteous, easily bored, weird bursts of courage, perfectionist tendencies, sometimes cynical, fashionably angry, doesn’t buy bullshit, CHAOTIC, loyal towards friends) are only charming as long as I’m read as female. Because in the end, women who display a certain cheeky impertinence continue to be less ‘threatening’ than men. Does the idea of one day becoming one of those toxic old white men scare me: yes. Is the answer ‘then just don’t become one’ helpful? No, because the fear remains that I could fall into these traps of ‘toxic behaviour’ without realising it. At the same time, purely cis male-dominated spaces such as football stadiums, barber shops, pubs or stag parties seem like predator cages to me. As soon as you show vulnerability or weakness, you’re finished…

What remains

Despite all the thoughts and doubts, I wouldn’t change anything. I know you should never say never, but at that moment, no one could convince me to just stop taking testosterone. I stopped surviving and finally started living and thriving. I look at myself and think I’m sexy. I run around grinning so much that people think I’m crazy. If I could, I would continue to skip through the streets singing and dancing like in one of Disnes‘ older live-action films. I think these are all things that continue to show me that I was right in my decision to transition.

I sweat, therefore I am

Maybe it’s all the food, maybe it’s the accelerated metabolism, maybe it’s a mixture of both or something else entirely… Since the temperatures have been above 8°C, I’ve been walking around in shorts. The last time I actively froze was just before Christmas last year and that was still pre-transition. Sometimes I wish I could wrap myself in a silver-coloured rescue blanket. However, these thin sheets are neither particularly resilient nor stylish. Instead of waiting for my dream role as a tin man, I gave my flat a new flair consisting of rescue blankets.

They have the advantage of being much cheaper than the special window films that offer sun or UV protection and even let light through. I don’t sit in the dark during the day, but in a golden yellow glow. If you want it to be darker or are often away from home, I recommend shielding blankets for the car windscreen. Both in combination with a fan in constant use make the flat bearable at 30°C outside.

When it comes to clothing, I take the less is more approach, which is probably only half right and not necessarily the healthiest option. Sun cream or not, a full-body condom made of light cotton clothing would probably be more appropriate, but I sweat so much that even the most loose-fitting clothes would turn into a sticky mass within minutes and if there’s one thing I hate more than the feeling of my skin burning away, it’s clothes that stick to me. Bandanas, shorts, tie tops and sandals are my faithful everyday companions.

A similar rule applies to my bags: as little contact surface on the skin as possible. Strap rucksacks or messenger bags therefore have to wait for winter in the wardrobe, but the alternatives are: trolley, wheeled suitcase, bike bags, shoulder bag, briefcase, canvas bag, or fannypack or the good old trouser pockets.

What I advise everyone to do is to switch from a deodorant to an antiperspirant. I can hardly imagine that I prefer both without an artificial odour, my own is enough for me, although it has only increased slightly and I used to have none or very little.

The bathroom „panic“

There are countless trans memes that deal with life with binders, packers or the infamous toilet issue. Many of them come very close to reality. Because when it comes to public toilets, I also ask myself which one I should use, or rather which one is safer for me. There is less chance of problems at university than in a small shopping centre in a small town in eastern Germany. It’s similar with changing rooms, although I’m certain that I won’t set foot in a cis men’s sports changing room until I’ve had a top surgery.

Even university is not an inclusive paradise. Yes, there are gender-neutral toilets, which are also the disabled toilets. There’s nothing wrong with that to begin with, because to be honest, the disabled toilets are the only toilets here where you have a decent amount of space to coordinate yourself and your rucksack, including your winter jacket. The real problem is the door mechanism. As the toilet is designed for people in wheelchairs, the door opens with the help of a switch. So far so good, but unfortunately this automatic door makes an incredible amount of noise and it opens completely every time. If someone wants to use the disabled toilet, firstly the whole building notices and secondly the door also blocks part of the corridor to the lockers, which is heavily frequented.

Call me paranoid, but since the disabled toilet is the only unisex toilet, using it as a person who is not disabled is tantamount to coming out, because why should people who are not in wheelchairs make such an effort to go to the loo? Right, they have to rely on this toilet for a different reason… How could the problem have been solved instead without remodelling the toilets in the university? Right, just remove the gender signs and replace them with ‘sitting loo’ and standing loos, or put a short description of the toilet facilities outside on the door. Both are much more precise anyway.

Otter vs. Twink?

Not only peeing is political, but also body hair. Everyone has it, and no matter which sociological category of analysis you apply to it, it makes sense. In society at large, there is still a perception that ‘real’ men are hairy and ‘real’ women shave. Consequently, athletes in (Olympic) disciplines such as swimming, wrestling, gymnastics, high diving and water polo are not ‘real’ men, because the highest of hairy feelings there is armpit hair. While I can still explain the lack of hair in water sports by the reduction in water resistance, I suspect discriminatory beauty ideals in all other sports. At the same time, I am in favour of more otters and bears deserving to take part in competitive water sports (the vanilla ones for once).

For me, the only question that remains is how much otter or twink vibe do I want to allow myself? Sure, body hair can be sexy, but testosterone doesn’t just give you hair on your lower legs, forearms or a happy trail; testosterone gives you body hair everywhere, even in places where I wouldn’t have expected it. My interim solution consists of ‘partial shaving’. The beard fuzz doesn’t look good (yet) anyway, and since I wear shorts but no hot pants, most people can’t see that I’ve shaved my thighs but not my lower legs. So I still have a feeling of smooth skin, which I like, but also a slightly more ‘masculine texture’ due to long and coarser lower leg hair. Even when people notice that I have quite a quirky shaving pattern, no one has commented on it.

About the binders you won’t find in office shelves

The trans state of one’s own consciousness is known to play its own game. But above all, this also means that you become aware of yourself, and unfortunately not in a positive sense. Realising that you are trans is one thing; accepting the resulting consequences and actions is quite another. As socialisation and societal ideals would have it, trans people are not immune to emulating beauty ideals or gender stereotypes – (un)consciously or as a survival strategy. The high-femme trans woman, the very masculine trans man and the androgynous non-binary person – but an ideal is an ideal, and often one’s own body or the lack of clothes, hairdressers and make-up puts a spanner in the works.

Because, as we all know, women can’t be tall and have a deep voice, and men are neither short nor do they have breasts. Even I am not immune to having a wide selection of binders in my home. Not only because you sweat in them and you can wash them straight away after putting them on once, but also so that I feel my identity is taken seriously and so that other cis people take my gender identity seriously. Because at the end of the day, I know that I am male or that I have my own interpretation of masculinity, and nobody can talk me out of that. I’ve had enough therapy to tolerate my breasts. They’re just there, they don’t get any more attention from me. What helps is that they are very small and have shrunk even more due to the testosterone. If I already had the feeling before that they were just sitting on my body and not part of it, the effect was intensified by the testosterone.

The phenomenon is called ‘phantom flat chest’. In this sense, I feel best when I’m not wearing a sports bra or a binder, but either walking around topless or just wearing a T-shirt. Believe me, just feeling fabric and not some weird polyester-cotton blend is great. Except it doesn’t help you fool people into thinking you’re a 16-year-old cis boy and not a mid-twenties lesbian tomboy. Which is why I know the days when I have to actively plan my binder usage, or turn around again in the hallway because I realise a t-shirt doesn’t fit enough, or that my passing is more important to me than ‘fighting’ active gender norms.

The (missing) visit of Aunt Irma/ shark week/ THE time of the month or Bloody Mary

I was one of those who were freed from the cycle in the meantime. My periods stopped immediately, which surprised even my gynaecologist. For me, this meant less suffering in everyday life, but disadvantages when inserting the hormone coil. Just because menstruation stops, it doesn’t mean that trans men can’t still get pregnant. Surprisingly, my eggs are still working hard according to the ultrasound and don’t even think about stopping. It came as it had to, after eight months I did get a (small) part of my periods back and I really didn’t miss them. I was prepared for this eventuality in terms of product technology, but not for the emotional or psychological strain, not to mention the pain.

There is a claim that men are less sensitive to pain than women, but I think that’s a lie. Not only because cis women regularly survive their periods and give birth less regularly, but also because even with two painkillers I was still lying on my bed in the foetal position and thought someone was ripping out my intestines. So much for ‘strong men’. I wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone. I don’t know what will happen next, as no one can say whether my period will stay away forever or whether it will come back from time to time.

„Dick I choose you!“

‘What’s in your pants?’ is one of those famous corrected questions on dating platforms that many trans people don’t want to hear. ‘What’s in your pants?’ is often followed by a statement along the lines of ’You Gender is what’s in your pants.’ Which is bullshit, because none of the trans men I’ve met in my life are socks… nor are the two cis genders of our planet called ‘penis’ and ‘vagina’. It’s especially funny when you realise that there are now packers who don’t imitate human penises. Accordingly, the default gender would be: werewolf, alien or centaur.

So far I’ve only had to have one such conversation, but having something other than a sock or nothing at all in my trousers would definitely improve my everyday life. Unfortunately, this is a long-term project, because packers are not only incredibly expensive, but also so ‘numerous’ that you are spoilt for choice.

Realistic penises, different skin tones, various materials, different widths, lengths and shapes. It’s not uncommon to have up to five different penises in your wardrobe, depending on their use: Sex, work, sport, etc. The same question applies to all of them: How do I find THE right one? And above all, what is the right size? The answer to both questions is: fuck around and try out, which will take (a lot) of money because there is no size chart for packers like there is in many online clothing shops.

The remix consisting of muscle growth and lost hips

Technically, I knew that the testosterone would change my body’s fat distribution. But I had no idea of the practical effects until I stood in front of the mirror one day and realised that all my trousers were baggy. The little bit of hip, I had, had disappeared. Belts only help a little with trousers that fit differently and as I don’t have the money for a tailor, I bought a multipack of boxers and currently wear all my summer shorts baggy.

The Good, the Bad, and the Weird

The Good  

In addition to introspection, there is also interaction with the outside world and that can sometimes be quite exciting with mediocre passing. So I thought I’d share some situations I’ve experienced over the last eight months. I was standing at the counter of my GP waiting for the receptionist to give me my fourth annual referral to my endocrinologist. While waiting, the following dialogue unfolded:

You: ‘Tell me, Mr. X… that was a cardiologist, wasn’t it?
Me: No, an endocrinologist.
You: Oh yes, right, I can never remember these specialists….
Me: Never mind, it’s more of a niche problem.
You: You’re funny, you know… There are so many people who have thyroid problems. They just don’t talk about it…’
It took me a moment to realise that firstly, she was serious and secondly, that I didn’t understand at all that I didn’t need thyroid tablets, but testosterone. So much for the niche problem…

Another time, I was sitting on a bench outside the same GP waiting to be called in. Two ladies were sitting in front of me, another one had just joined them. The new one wanted to know who exactly would be in front of her, the lady in front of me just pointed at me and replied, ‘Him’, then she looked at me repeatedly and said, ‘Or her… Excuse me, what are your pronouns? I’m not sure right now and these days you sometimes have to ask.’

I replied and my pronouns were accepted without question. No funny looks, no questions, nothing. If this elderly lady has grandchildren, you’ve done a great job, if not kudos to her.

The Bad

Sexual harassment in the form of stupid chat-up lines or groping is unfortunately still the order of the day for many women today. In 2023, there were 12,186 reported cases of ‘rape, sexual assault and sexual assault in particularly serious cases, including with fatal consequences’ in Germany, 10,160 of which were solved. I feel that every sexual harassment is one too many, but I hope that the number of unreported cases in this area will shrink in the future.

Although society, the media and institutions are increasingly having to deal with the issue, the perpetrators are also becoming more creative and younger. I was taking an unsuspecting walk in our park one sunny afternoon when I heard teenagers on an e-scooter approaching me from behind. Nothing unusual so far, until I heard a loud ‘SMACK’, my bum burned and then the e-scooter with two young boys whizzed past me. The driver of the two turned his head back towards me and gave me a big grin before they turned a corner and disappeared.

That’s when it dawned on me that the arsehole had knocked me on my arse at full speed. Still too stunned by what had happened, I just looked after him, perplexed by his audacity and insolence. Especially as the two of them were barely older than 14. Unfortunately, I missed the opportunity to give him the middle finger.

I know that he doesn’t know how gay this sexual harassment has actually made him, but that doesn’t change the fact that he was displaying shitty behaviour. The fact that his mate held him tightly from behind during the ride so that he wouldn’t fall off the speeding e-scooter didn’t make me feel any better afterwards.

The weird

The last situation happened one afternoon a few days after a local election. The electoral office rang me and asked if I would be willing to take on the role of secretary rather than deputy secretary at the next election in a few days‘ time. The election office wanted to fill the position of deputy secretary with a woman, so I had to give way. On the one hand I was happy about the promotion, on the other hand I wondered why I should be the secretary and not the (new) woman.

I knew that I was listed as ‘Mr’ in the register of election workers, but at the same time I knew that my passing was almost non-existent and that it was only thanks to my election supervisor that everyone, without exception, had gendered me correctly on election day. So maybe it was this ‘male privilege’? Simply being promoted even though you hadn’t done anything except your job? And the women or the woman went away empty-handed? To this day, I don’t know why things went the way they did… and I am still ambivalent about this event…

As you can see, there are a lot of changes and I’m far from finished. But as a larger interim conclusion, I can say that transitioning is not a sprint, but rather a marathon in every respect.

His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy
There’s vomit on his sweater already, mom’s spaghetti
He’s nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready
To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgettin‘ […]

Great, was there a way to win his expert opinion for hormone replacement therapy through a one-sided rap battle? I couldn’t think of any precedent. The psychologist started with the same questions as in the first meeting: family relationships, friendships, studies and part-time jobs dragged out the time. My brain was now much more interested in the wall of shelves with thousands and thousands of books than in the person I was forced to be in… „Last time you told me that you were 99.9% sure. Does that mean you have still 0.1% of doubt? I was about to interrupt him, but he ended his part of the speech with „Or has something changed?“
This question brought me back to reality within seconds. I was supposed to explain myself again, my feelings, my thoughts, me being trans and something about that was suddenly fundamentally bothering me. Maybe it was the fact that I had been trying to get to the neighbouring town for several hours, maybe it was the discussions with the taxi drivers about whether they would take a five-minute journey or whether I could pay by debit card, maybe it was the three nervous breakdowns I had since leaving my flat, but something inside me refused to answer this question in a friendly way.

The guiding principle that my mum had tried to instil in me to always smile and be charming had disappeared. He wanted to know if I had doubts?! Did he really want to know?! He really dared to ask me again?! Well, if that was the case, I decided, to not just tell him about my doubts, but what I thought about the whole questioning process. Simply because I wanted him to know how it made me feel… suddenly I stopped worrying about possible causalities or consequences:

„You know?”, I started slowly, „this is getting very philosophical, but when can we be sure that we really know something? Besides, you know what annoys me? As a trans person, you can’t have any doubts, you always lose. Either you cater to the media cliché of an eternally suffering trans person who hates their own body and is just waiting for treatment or you stand by your complicated perception of your reality with all the happy and all the unhappy moments in your life, about your trans being and run the risk of not getting an expert opinion because a psychologist thinks this person suffers too little, so they can’t be trans. There are certainly trans people who suffer incredibly, but I know just as many trans people who live quite happy lives, but just prefer their appearance to match their inner life. And no, of course, they have to pretend for years, especially in front of various medical staff, because happy trans people can’t exist.“
I took a deep breath, I saw him start to speak and interrupted him again, I didn’t care what he had to say, it was my turn now, he had asked for it, so now he had to listen to everything that I wanted to say.
„If I realise in a few years or decades that perhaps it wasn’t the right decision, then at least I know that I tried. At least I was allowed to choose how I want to spend my life. Until now, I never had a choice, I was simply born in a body that was given a label based on external characteristics that only I have ever questioned. The only thing I want and feel I am entitled to is autonomy over my own body and what I want to do with it regardless of the opinions of unknown third parties. You know what: I know that they are now deciding not to give me an expert opinion. Maybe you already have, simply because something about me doesn’t suit you. Because yes, my next year will depend on your decision, but then perhaps you should also know that even if you have already decided not to issue me with an expert opinion, I will continue my search. I’ve already been turned down once and I’ve been down for that very reason and I’ve got back up and I’m not going to stop looking for a way to get this hormone replacement therapy.“

I stopped; I had run out of arguments. Although there was no spaghetti in my stomach at that moment, the muesli from breakfast was there. Angry and confused that I had gone through with my little speech, I stared at him impassively. No reaction from him, absolutely nothing, not even a twitch of the corner of his mouth. Instead, he looked at me calmly over the rim of his glasses. Then he looked at his clipboard and then back at me, far too relaxed as he replied: „In the end, it really is your decision, I can’t take that away from you. I’ll issue you with the referral and let the endocrinologist decide what to do with you.

After a moment of silence, he took my still slightly constipated me back to the most desolate corridor of all corridors, nodded briefly to me and closed his office door behind him. I made my way home. I wasn’t sure whether I felt incredibly empty or whether I just felt everything at the same time and therefore couldn’t grasp anything concrete. Somewhere in the back of my head, that nasty little voice came back with: „So, now you’ve got the report, but was the drama in there really necessary? It’s not as if you’ve started a revolution…“

It was true, I hadn’t, and I was sure that my pseudo-rap solo wouldn’t change anything about his occupation, but it had been a desperate attempt to retain some dignity. Human dignity is sacrosanct and retaining dignity in a trial that categorized you as a victim of a medical condition was incredibly difficult. Luckily the healthy part of my brain hummed back to the nasty voice: I shot the sheriff, but I didn’t shoot no deputy…

The sun came out from behind the clouds, and I thought so that’s what it meant to be structurally discriminated against. It wasn’t always swearing words, misgendering, deadnaming or insults because I no longer fitted into the feminine or masculine boxes at first glance. No, it was so much more subtle.
It was the fact that strategic obstacles were placed in the way of strategic paperwork that built on each other. If you missed a deadline and an important document was missing, you had to interrupt the administrative process chain and start again from the reset point.
The circumstances were that there were only a few practices nationwide that specialised in trans people and that not only the waiting times were incredibly long, but also the distances. The longer the journey, the more likely it was that something would get in the way, especially if Deutsche Bahn (our national railway company, it is most often as bad as people say) was involved. But above all, the reason was that you had to justify yourself to everyone and everything, first to yourself and then to others for the rest of your life.

It felt like a never-ending war… although it wasn’t. It was simply going to a psychologist. Moreover, most people in the world aren’t waking up with the thought: Today I want to specifically harm trans people. Instead, the structure of harm is called a systemic issue, but even today as I write these lines, I still feel like I could never let my guard down. I felt forced to be sceptic of strangers and I didn’t like this feeling.

Funnily enough, I have never felt so stigmatized in my life before. Not when I had to rely on technology to read long texts for university due to my reading and spelling difficulties, nor when I had to sit next to my friends and watch them finish their meals due to my inability to eat with them because I am a celiac or not when I had to stay at home because my parents couldn’t afford to my for my school trip. Those were all issues, with which I found a coping mechanism. Transphobia was something else, it felt different, maybe because it was new…? But what if I was just really a confused girl who lived in a deep hole of internalized misogyny? But calling myself a confused girl although I wasn’t… wasn’t that misogynist itself?

Suddenly I felt incredibly exhausted, in the end, it seemed, that trans people were trapped between the fronts and they were prone to lose.

As I walked away from the practice, the word echoed in my head over and over again: F64.0 Transsexualism. Resistance stirred within me. A small but nasty voice whispered: Look at you, well how does it feel to be pathologized… again? Do you feel worthy now of getting treated? I sighed and pushed the negative thoughts aside. Sure, psychology is a great science and therapy a very useful innovation but sometimes diagnoses just make one’s reality seem very strange. Before I was able to fall into a rabbit hole of bad thought another part of me turned my inner subwoofer and with a surprising accuracy I hummed, „But by night I‘m one hell of a lover. I‘m just a sweet transvestite from Transexual, Transylvania.“

Fortunately, there was still a part of my brain that happily resisted anything that didn’t feel good. The moment of anger was gone, instead, a big grin spread across my face. My brain commented on this with a “Dammit, Janet”; because I knew I would have an earworm for the rest of the day.

At the same time, I jumped onto the next train of thoughts and started to wonder.

There are a lot of queer people that condemn the Rocky Horror Picture Show or Tim Curry for transgender representation. Neither is the actor trans nor is Franken Further a person with high morals. Everyone and everything screams that I shouldn’t like the musical or the movie, but I still do… and that is mostly due to the aesthetics and its themes.

I was sure that there was such a thing as a queer aesthetic, but how universalistic was it? Where did it begin and where did it end? Did it have an end or was it as infinite as the universe? How did queer aesthetics relate to other aesthetics? I was tempted to borrow the next best book from the university library to answer these questions in a professional, philosophically sound manner, but my thoughts decided to take a different path. My solution was called: Alfred H. Barr.

Alfred H. Barr was an American art historian in the early 20th century. He designed a very cool bookcase for an exhibition in 1936. It shows a relatively simple flow chart of different art movements and how they relate to each other. The whole thing is also temporarily organised by two timelines. The most important point is that most of the Western art genres ended with the suffix “-ism”: Synthetism, Neo-Impressionism, Futurism, Purism, and Surrealism.

Since the exhibition catalogue was printed, this diagram has been adapted, satirised or updated by several artists.

Somehow I felt that if there was ever going to be another adaptation, transsexualism should appear in it. If trans people were going to be pathologised, they at least deserved a place in the art history canon.

But what did the suffix -ism mean, and if trans people were fighting for a place in art history, should this suffix also be used for them? Fortunately, Wikipedia knew more than I did, and the German-language entry in particular was much more informative than the English one, so excuse me for running with the German version.

„The suffix -ism [or in German -ismus] is a means of word formation through derivation. The resulting word usually denotes an abstraction, often a system of thought and belief, such as a doctrine, an ideology or world view or a religion, but also a social condition or an artistic genre.“

So, I wasn’t entirely wrong when my brain linked my diagnosis with different art movements. What struck me was the following part „often a system of thought and belief, such as a doctrine, an ideology or world view or a religion, but also a social condition.”

Certainly for all trans-exclusionary radical feminists „transgenderism“ posed an absolute threat to humanity. But what did it look like from the perspective of trans people? How did being trans as a worldview?  Being the diplomat between cis women and cis men? Trans-scending one’s work ethic? Transing one’s daily routine? Well, taking hormones and starting to relate to society at large differently certainly changed the daily routine. At the latest when the first physical changes became noticeable and demanded attention. This may also have changed the work ethic.

All of them seemed very plausible but still didn’t quite explain why every second book had the word “queering” in its title: Queering the museum, queering the map or queering the Anthropocene. Sure, “queer” was a very practical umbrella term, but still trans-ing Philosophy seemed also like an appropriate title. However, the result would be the same, both queer people and trans people changed or permanently refused the typical pigeonholes of cis man-penis, cis woman-vulva or heterosexuality. Instead, there was more room for fluidity, ambivalence and uncertainty. There was less being right or wrong and more of the just „being“. But back to the flexible Suffix of the „ism“:

„The two endings -ism, which come from the Greek, mean something like ‚to act in a certain way, to proceed.'“

Well, that made a lot of sense. If you wanted to pass as a trans person, you had to behave a certain way. That explained how the word Transsexualism could be projected onto reality, but still didn’t address the question of how or what the cornerstones of a trans people art genre would look like. Would it be the piercings, the coloured and self-cut hair, the Victorian clothes, the skirts or cardigans? But what about leather jackets, studs, hats, straight-cut jeans or emo crop tops?

In the end, I realised that aesthetics was much more than just „clothes“. So what about themes? Ideas, points of conflict or problems that stayed with you throughout your life? I thought back to the Rocky Horror Picture Show and, despite vehement criticism, found myself in this film. As a kinkster cannibalism war the most romantic thing I could think of and in many cases, trans people continued to be led to believe that their desire to transition was a product of crude ethical principles. The consequences were a lack of understanding from family or supposed friends. What remained in the end was a life between worlds, the feeling of never fully fitting in like an alien and the lingering hope of finding a home at some point after all.

I wasn’t entirely satisfied with my mental conclusion, but I realised how the adrenaline was wearing off and a yawning tiredness was spreading. Further thoughts would have to wait for another time.

I’m sure Shakespeare didn’t intend this dialogue to represent the experience of trans people, but art is meant to be interpreted, so what. In the end, Juliet says nothing other than that she loves Romeo and no one else. She adores him even though he is a Montague, whereas she loves neither the name Montague nor the family itself. Ergo, Juliet wishes names had no meaning, but they do, especially in a society that loves to charge things with MEANING.

Ironically, „What’s in a name?“ is nevertheless often used as an article title these days when it comes to the legal name change of trans people. Why ironic? Because names are defacto very easily interchangeable, at least if they are not documented. But once they are written down and confirmed with an official stamp, they are meant to last forever. Which is a nice thought, but difficult to put into practice.

Even if there were no trans people in this world (would be a shame really) people get married, divorced, remarried. There are name changes due to bullying or people give themselves a stage name. Apart from that, names are often changed involuntarily. Immigrant women are particularly affected by this, as soon as the alphabet of their language is no longer compatible with the Latin alphabet, a consonant is quickly dropped or the names change fundamentally.

Why it is a problem when trans people change their names in the course of their lives is fortunately beyond the grasp of more and more people. Actors change their identities all the time, they even get paid for it.

Back to the topic: What’s in a name? Because what is for me in a name… or how do I choose a name?

My obsession with names and their meanings has existed since… always. I was born into a family that celebrates „Nomen est Omen“, so names are a serious thing with us. Two or three names are not uncommon in our house. As a small child, I used to leaf through the family encyclopaedia of names and marvel at the alphabetically sorted possibilities. Naughty me, that I only ever admired the boys‘ names.

Until I actively searched for another name. After hundreds of name entries on and offline, I wrote a memo to myself. Names associated with masculinity often have heroic, martial, diplomatic meanings. Sometimes they are merely a variance of the vocabulary of wealth, strength, victory in that language. The opposite is true for names associated with cis women. Through a variety of cultures, meanings such as peace, wisdom, light, advice, flower, calm, and stability are the standard. I suspect the patriarchy behind this…. and yet I wonder why? Names were needed even in ancient times and especially as a monarch, I would think carefully about what I would name my potential heirs to the throne. I would not want to let someone whose real name is „War“ or „Victorious“ rule a country, war is the last thing I would want for my subjects. But maybe that is just me…

But in all honesty, finding a real name is hard. Suddenly you have all these possibilities, and it is quite overwhelming especially if the name that was given to you by your parents is actually great, it just doesn’t quite fit anymore. Sometimes it feels even sad… On those days I feel a lot of my gender, but absolutely no identity behind it. I still feel and embrace my personality, same goes for my body, just the “label” is missing. I just feel elusive, like a thick purple fog that lost its magic. Feeling like not having an actual name, is indeed a really weird experience and I don’t mean the good kind of weird.

So is there a way out? I guess, not really despite that I will have to paddle further through the water and the fog or continue walking along the yellow brick road until I found the fitting name(s). Until then, I would like to share with you some advice that a very good friend of mine gave me when I was whining to him (again) about how difficult it was to find a suitable name. It goes like this: Names are like tattoos, they just need to feel right

• Depending on your research question everything can be a source.
• Historical science has too few sources for the time before the printing press than for the time after.

I still tried everything: audio, film, print, three-dimensional objects, and written accounts. Hopefully, I decided to use diaries, since I vaguely remembered that they were rarely used as sources. I didn’t get far because I quickly discovered that there weren’t many diaries from the time. Neither in archives nor in known databases… which seemed weird to me. I could not for the life of me imagine that people had suddenly stopped writing about the (inner) world, and so I began a completely different kind of research…

Pointlessly gendered

Thinking back, I remembered one of my old professors telling me that, „writing diaries was considered one of the social assignments of men. Women were supposed to write letters to friends and family, telling them their feelings and thoughts.“ Until today I never doubted her observations, first because I still lack the knowledge and second I figured that her observations were right. Even taking into account the selection bias (which sources were considered „valuable“ enough to be archived, translated, edited and published), I could well imagine that sexism led people to believe that men, with their „rational“ way of thinking, were better suited to describe the daily events that happened in their country.

Now the question arose, when did this change? Has it really changed? Or was my memory for marketing and framing just playing tricks on me? After some more research all I can say, it is complicated.

First of all, there is a difference between „keeping a journal“ and „keeping a diary“. Journals and journaling are supposedly the new „writing your best friend a letter“ to tell her all about your feelings. It is much more often associated with „introspection“ and reflecting on yourself through the written word. With diaries, the focus is actually on daily events.

Of course, overlap can be possible, but that still didn’t explain the variation in my circle of friends. It may only be anecdotal evidence, but I only know one cis man who keeps a diary and actually records more or less daily events in it. In contrast, I know many more cis women who have or had diaries and use them for introspection. None of them knew the term „journal“ and when told them that there is apparently a difference they were surprised.

Two spontaneous reasons come to mind:

1. the language barrier, in German the word „journal“ is more likely to be associated with a television format that reports on daily events
2. socialization, intersectional feminism and gender discourse or not, in many parts of the population cis girls are still raised to take care of a family later. They tend to learn to feel emotions and to take social relations into account when searching for a solution for a problem.

What surprised me, on the other hand, was that the minimalism trend has ensured that diaries no longer have the typical teenage diary look from 90s sitcoms. Unfortunately, that’s only true as long as you search for „diaries“ and not „diaries kids.“ It’s almost funny that the typical blue and pink division still prevails here and every time I think „Aren’t their kids whose favorite color is purple, green or orange?!“

Funnily enough, both „journal“ and „journal for kids“ give completely different search results than „diary“ and „diary for kids“. While the adult section is full of templates for CBT (cognitive behavioural therapy) in PDF format, the „journal for kids“ section is full of „Self-empowering for Girls“… yes you read right, there is no empowering for boys. I had to specifically search for „self-empowering journals for boys“ to get at least one book that supposedly had the agenda of teaching boys „kindness, confidence, gratitude, breathing and living in the present“ sounds great. every kid should learn such things… if you gender it that why the fuck are people demeaning boys and men that they unlearn their toxicity when girls get the official empowering books and boys just one? If you don’t get them the opportunity and they won’t learn. which brings me to the next point… when I searched for “diary kid” I came across:

„The Diary of a wimpy kid“ and my first thought was like, right Greg. I read that in high school at least one boy wrote a diary  (still not a journal but better than nothing) and then I remembered the premise, why he didn’t just write but draw comics. And I think at least the framing didn’t age well. the synopsis goes like that

First of all, let me get something straight: This is a JOURNAL, not a diary. I know what it says on the cover, but when Mom went out to buy this thing, I SPECIFICALLY told her to get one that didn’t say ‘diary’ on it. Great. All I need is for some jerk to catch me carrying this book around and get the wrong idea. The other thing I want to clear up right away is that this was MOM’s idea, not mine. But if she thinks I’m going to write down my ‘feelings’ in here or whatever, she’s crazy. So just don’t expect me to be all ‘Dear Diary’ this and ‘Dear Diary’ that.

I think everything about the synopsis is wrong? Gregory thinks that diaries are for girls. so he isn’t aware of the fact that diaries were once actually for men. Instead, he refers to a journal, which is actually the framing of a book, in which you are processing your feelings. it gets even worse when you are reading the German translation because instead for journal they are using the word memoir which is something incredibly different from the word “journal”.

Either way, I don’t care what it is called as long as children get the chance to learn to get confidence, communication, consent, and no matter what that is okay to love skirts, dressed, jeans, boots, noise cancelling headphones or ladybugs. that they can dance ballet or do fighting sports. Because that’s the way to go…

But despite the pointless gendering… what about me?

Like Greg, I never considered myself a diary person, but still got one from whom? I don’t anymore. It was probably one of those distant-relative gifts. People who felt obligated to send you something for your birthday, but didn’t feel obligated enough to ask the child what they really wanted.

Not like Greg I started my diary career with “Dear Diary”, which felt weird immediately. Apparently, I was one of those kids that thought, that it was perfectly normal to speak and treat their plushies like they were living beings, but found it absolutely indisputable to address a book with “Dear Diary”. I remember that I stopped right afterwards… a year later I found it again and started glueing tickets, stickers, dried leaves, or postcards into the book with phrases like „Today we went to the puppet theatre. It was great!“ or „M. gave me a gift today at school. It sparkles!!!”

Little by little I had a respectable collection and today I know what kept me (not) busy as an 8–9-year-old.

Funnily enough, until today I always thought that my diary era was over. Far from it, it only began there. Less than a year later, my parents were ordered to keep a food diary for me for medical reasons. Ten years later, I was allowed to do it again for myself. In between, the (night)-dream diary alternated with the gratitude diary.

According to parenting guides, it was supposed to help if the child wrote down his fears and worries in a notebook before going to bed… it rarely helped and I lost far too many nights to brooding. Nevertheless, everyone was amazed when one day I sat in front of my first therapist and was given the task of writing three positive things in a book every day. The weather didn’t count, nor did taking the same things as the day before.

Today, I’m wobbling between a sunny disposition and an emotional black hole. The orbit is stabilized by sport, which I now record in a sports diary, simply because I’m curious whether I’m really improving or whether it just seems that way to me.

This is also not my first blog, but my second. I wrote the first one in my best (post)-puberty years and yes it still exists out there and no really nobody wants to read it. Guess, I am a diary and a journal person and then also with a certain public share… which brings me to my next train of thought.

Time changes, and so does media

What was still verbal chatter in the Middle Ages, women increasingly wrote letters to each other, men had their diaries and as long as no one stole the book or the mail, there was at least a chance of privacy. Later came the radio and even later the television. People (and their thoughts) suddenly got a much wider reach, which still has advantages and disadvantages today. (Private) radio and television shows proliferated and with the invention of the internet, global communication increased considerably. Social media, in particular, topped it all off, because suddenly people were no longer even dependent on a broadcasting station, but could film their cat sleeping in their living room.

Which is why I think I got an answer to my initial question…. The youth of today no longer need a diary, they have the internet. You don’t just write to yourself; you tell hundreds if not thousands of people your feelings or your experiences of the day. Sometimes they even film themselves brushing their teeth… can that be sold as an experimental short film? Maybe, depends on the cut, the motion design and the soundtrack? At least most of the algorithms aren’t gendered… and well,  that was a lot of thoughts about something that I would have never thought of thinking about.

On 20 April, I waved into the laptop one last time, smiled, clicked a red button and flipped the lid shut. I had moved and after two years my second therapy was over. The third, if you count the unreliable acute help from all social services during the Corona lockdown. I was allowed to learn a lot: self-efficacy, feeling feelings, saying no, radical acceptance, empathy and facing one’s fears. All in all, many positive consequences for my everyday life and yet I had mixed feelings. There was one thing I had not been granted: the letter of I had not been granted one thing: the „letter of indication“ that trans people in Germany need if they want to start hormone therapy with an endocrinologist.

I wish I could say I was expecting it, but unfortunately, I have to report the opposite. At the beginning, my therapist had said something different to me she had given the impression that it was „no problem at all“. In January, she even proudly told me that she had signed up for a training course that dealt specifically with the topic of trans people. In retrospect, this did me a little good; I hope my successors will have better luck with her.

Another reason why the rejection hit me harder than I thought was that the need for a letter of indication had been the reason why I wanted to start another therapy in the first place. Did I make that clear during our initial interview? Yes, I think I did. After two years on the waiting list and three weeks after the Bundestag’s first rejection of the Self-Determination Act, I sat across from her, and the following exchange of words ensued:

„I don’t really see a point in living. I don’t feel welcome, and I don’t feel I belong here.“

I could tell from her reaction that she had expected a lot, but not this. She just asked back, „Why?“

„Well, the government makes it pretty clear…“

To explain, it was one of the highlights of my „radical phase“ that had been going on for years: radical mood swings, radical self-hatred, radical world views the whole nine yards. At that time, only awkward minutes of silence followed until she finally replied, „I think we can do something against that.“

Today I know psychotherapy achieves many things, just not necessarily what I wanted at the time. I didn’t kill myself even though I felt like that after she told me that she was unsure about if I was trans and that it would be in her favour if I would see an actual specialist for that topic. The irony was that I could have even done that if she had told me earlier. Of course, I had put myself on several waiting lists, one of which belonged to our city’s psycho-specialist practice for trans people. It was exactly there that I had cancelled an initial interview a few days before this „relevance“, because I was sure I would get the letter. I had also been on the waiting list for two years…

After six weeks of depression, acute frustration, sadness and anger followed. The follow-up conversation with her did not bring any clarity, but rather the opposite. She explained her point of view to me again, I explained mine to her, and apart from recurring frustration, nothing happened. I moved, called other practices and had to wait and hope again. Someone smart once said that „hope and hope“ were so incredibly passive and that „having confidence or being confident“ was somehow the more active attitude. This is probably true on the whole, as long as there is some form of self-efficacy. Meanwhile, I’m not so sure to what extent trans people in Germany have the possibility of legal self-efficacy. Friends, clothes, names, appearance, education – all that is possible, but when it comes to the important things that also have „far-reaching“ consequences, the state and society go on strike.

The current state of affairs is that I can understand her reasoning somewhere. Self-perception and external perception are two completely different things. I didn’t do her (and more importantly myself) the favour of sneaking into the surgery every week suffering, just to tell her how much I was suffering from my current pre-transitional state. Because most often I didn’t, which was due to my very supportive environment: liberal university, great friends and parents who had stopped questioning their child, even if they didn’t understand me from top to bottom. All I could say to my therapist was „I’m not sure what or who I am, but a cis woman isn’t it. I never was and I’m 100% sure of that.“ Apparently, that wasn’t enough for her… which is a little scary and tiring. I don’t want to suffer like Jesus Christ on the cross every day, martyred by some socio-political norms that were actually invented by Victorian, white, cis men.

Sure hormones are an intrusion on the body…. just like breast augmentation, hip surgery, ear piercing, or tonsillectomy. Some sports affect the physique so much that you see/feel the consequences even though you haven’t played the sport for years. More so hormones are not a magic bullet, you don’t wake up the next day in the shape of a bug in your desired body and be „done“. Nowadays young women are prescribed birth control pills (nothing but hormones!) at the age of 16 simply because they have acne.

Maybe I should have shown her my trans CV that I had to write for another therapist. Maybe I should have told her that I felt sick afterwards and couldn’t do anything else for three hours. On the one hand, I was emotionally devastated and on the other hand, I couldn’t imagine how I would go on living my life if it turned out that I wasn’t trans after all. Not in the sense that my purpose in life would be lost, but rather in the sense that it would be an absolute horror for me to have to live the rest of my life (and be perceived) as a cis woman.

I wish I hadn’t been quite so confident and hadn’t cancelled the appointment with the specialist practice. I also wish I had started doing things for myself and for my transition earlier, but three things I have learned: Realizing that you are trans is one thing, accepting that you are trans is another, and doing things about is a whole other sphere, even for me who grew up in a very liberal household with liberal parents who have their own interesting gender dynamics and lots of queer family friends.

On some days there is nothing worse to know that I can dress as manly as I want, having the shortest hair and as soon as I don’t bind or start to talk, I will be addressed as a girl. This would be great if I was a butch lesbian or a tomboy, but unfortunately, I am just a trans man that tries to pass and tries not to feel like three racoons in a trench coat.

So, I guess my conclusion for today is that I thank all the people who do not question my identity and accept me as I am. It should be a basic value of humanity, but apparently, it still isn’t sometimes.

Maybe it was July, when I traded my decades-long asexuality for a demisexuality and discovered my libido. Or maybe it was the day all my friends partied at the CSD and I sat at home because I didn’t feel I had any business being there. Even if someone had managed to dispel my Impostor-Syndrome, the last thing I would have needed was overtly confident queers. That day, when I asked myself „Why?“ an inner voice replied: You don’t even look like yourself… how can you be confident? This sentence hit home and I thought: Fuck.

You should know the following: My dysphoria expresses itself mainly on the social level… and even here it was never the distinctive feeling of „something is wrong“, it is often more a static background noise without origin. It’s not even particularly strong. People misgender me every day and the only internal reaction I get is a quiet sigh or an annoyed eye roll. It’s not the end of the world, it’s just exhausting to be constantly reminded that my own gender doesn’t really interact with the outside world’s perception of me.  

To the extent that I ever (did) experience physical dysphoria, it mainly focused on my voice, my hips and my breasts. While I have always found my voice too high, my hips are too wide, my back too small and my breasts… they are just there. I don’t hate them like I did in my teens, but I don’t celebrate them either. All in all, I would describe them as impractical. They hurt, they are a pain in the ass during sports and they prevent me from getting a super cool tattoo on my chest. 

Now, suddenly, the physical desire to transition has never been greater. Feelings about transitioning, its outcomes and my actual goals continue to be all over the place. Breasts? Still no thank you, but as soon as I started actively dealing with the „where, how, what, when?“ of the mastectomy I start to panic. Suddenly it feels like the dysphoria was never there and my body feels like a woman’s, except I still fantasise about not having breasts. 

Although strap-on sex deserves its own post, I can only reveal this much… Having an artificial penis that you can put on and take off and even change makes me much less of a problem psychologically. At least in relation to the topic of gender, in relation to the topic of power it looks quite different, but as I said another post. 

What now? The binder I bought helps minimally. In tighter shirt my chest is flatter, if not completely flat and the sight is still more overwhelming than euphoric at the moment. Which is most likely because I’m constantly second-guessing myself. Does it look good? Does it really look better? Are you sure about that? Maybe it’s all in your head. Maybe it’s not dyphoria, maybe it’s something else that’s wrong with your head. Wouldn’t be the first time… 

Nonetheless, what I once considered an idea in a distant future has now become a desire that I would love to solve with a snap of my fingers. Snap and I have my desired body, even if only for a day, to try out. 

My early years in particular were characterised by eye-rolling. In retrospect, this period was when the Pride-wave was just rearing its head over Germany, but had not yet been broken to redeem the cityscape from its intrinsic black, white and grey. There weren’t many sources, but at least there were a few, and in them I keep running into the same phrase that still makes me roll my eyes as much today as it did then and ask „Well, when did you notice?“. It is the sentence, „I was always like this, I just didn’t have the words to describe it“.

Of course, the sentence is not really the problem, nor are the people who feel very addressed by this sentence… My problem is mainly that, firstly, it doesn’t really apply to me and, secondly, it ascribes to me complete responsibility over my own thoughts and actions. A kind, sympathetic, helping hand that knows the magic direction for you, that suddenly makes everything better as soon as I take it? Big no-go, instead never-ending doubts… doubts of doing the wrong thing.

As soon as one part of my brain thinks „Hey, I am trans“ the other part thinks „How can you be so sure? Maybe „being trans“ is just a pretend explanation that in retrospect explains all your childhood idiosyncrasies… but isn’t really the answer to your idiosyncrasies. To interpret things retrospectively along a „theory“ offers too many possibilities for an undifferentiated analysis. Maybe my liberal upbringing is responsible for me identifying more with more masculine roles? Maybe it’s my twelve years of martial arts? Childhood traumas? Internalised misogyny? Fear of growing up?

It’s true, when one of my lecturers actually managed to address me consistently without a salutation for a semester, I felt much more comfortable, but it didn’t change the fact that I wanted to look more masculine. Furthermore, I can say, yes I like biscuits in the shape of dinos, I have a soft spot for stickers, glow lights and washable tattoos, but does that automatically mean a refusal to grow up? If being an adult means that I have to give up things I enjoy just to be considered „mature“, then I would definitely refuse.

The longer I think about it, I notice how I keep coming back to one point: subjectivity. Or also, if you’ve met one trans person, you’ve met exactly one trans person, not all of them.

„I was always like this, I just didn’t have the words to describe it“, provides no basis for objective parameters. Yes, medicine has created objective factors and now finds that many of them were and continue to be redundant. So maybe objectivity is exactly what trans people (actually no: people) need. It doesn’t make it any easier, either in terms of one’s desires in the present or in terms of one’s future.

Did I suffer as a teenager? Yes, and quite a lot. Did it have something to do with my gender? No, it had more to do with a lack of belonging to a group and physical discomfort. Breasts too big and hips too wide, but I was far from the only one. Penis envy? No, and there was no other form of envy towards boys, precisely because they were boys. But I was still unhappy, mainly because I wanted to be me and something wasn’t right. Nevertheless, I never questioned my gender on my own, it had to be verbally beaten into my head with a sledgehammer before I decided to do so.

That is another point that bothers me, I am afraid of losing time and at the same time I have the feeling that I have made the wrong decision. But what is right or wrong? Is it right to decide not to transition in the hope that I will get used to my own discomfort over the course of my life and be able to dismiss it with a „other women don’t relate to their bodies either“? Or „other women don’t relate to their social roles or gender either“? Do I want to accept that I could spend my entire life feeling that something is missing… Or is it right to decide to transition because I’ve been thinking about almost nothing else for two years anyway and it’s working like a meat grinder inside me… At least I would then know where I stand and have tried it out.

Looks like I’ve answered a question for myself.