Originally posted by Maria Catt at The Tusk
I wanted out of my skin and my life.
But now I knew fantasies are their own thing altogether. They have barely a tangential relationship to potential futures. It’s important not to get confused about this.
I knew what would happen if I threw myself in the Bay was that I’d start screaming from the cold, someone would fish me out, they’d take me to a hospital, keep me for being suicidal, call my parents, who were 2,000 miles away, and I’d pay hospital bills ’til I was in my forties.
Or worse, I’d drown. There were people, I could list the names, that would say, “Ooofff, saw that one coming.” Other people, lots of them, who never knew me, would think, “Yep, trans people kill themselves,” and they’d cite statistics in my obituary and I would still just be a billboard, emblazoned and tagged, even deader than I felt looking out at the Bay.
Being a woman had felt like I was trapped behind a symbol, hollering from behind the billboard for people to interact with me as I really was, a person with ego, desires, the ability to observe, the ability to describe; a fully fleshed out character. But then that’s also what being a trans guy felt like: still only a symbol for people to react to, and their reactions had everything to do with my appearance and very little to do with who I was. All I could learn through our interactions was the imagined story they were living out– women proving their desirability, men proving their mastery of games of dominance, saviors proving their tolerance for poor, weird me.