She.
Her.
Daughter.
Sister.
Girlfriend.
What is it about these terms that chill my blood, tense my knees? After all, I've lived with them for years. Little toddler me knew no hatred towards whoever called me a pretty little princess and dressed me up in baby blue Alice in Wonderland costumes.
The dresses my father put me in for church services only made me mad because they meant I couldn't be as physically unbound as I preferred. Lace skirts and summer days meant being told by Sunday School teachers not to climb trees and do cartwheels, or else I might reveal too much of my skinny pale legs, God forbid.
Child me never denied the label reading "Girls 8 & Under Freestyle Relay" printed on the back of second-place swim ribbons. The only characteristic of my swimsuit that bothered me was the confusing racerback nylon getting tangled in my backpack. I certainly wasn't pissed off by the fact that it concealed my chest, flat as it was at the time.
My mother taking me to the store to buy A-cup bras when I was ten merely confused me. Why was it so mandatory that I further define my chest, which was already abnormally large for the age I was? And learning how to use menstrual products at the same time couldn't have been more of a curse. As a swimmer, I had no choice but to teach myself how tampons worked. Being too uncomfortable to ask my mother or sister about it, I spent more time than necessary figuring out the mechanics of the object.
When all of these things began bothering me for a different reasons, I actually don't recall. I believe I was taught by the Internet how there were more options. There was a different way to feel about my body, my gender, my attraction to other humans.
Once I realized that my mild confusion was manageable and not unheard of, it set off something in my head that I couldn't shake.
Those labels of femininity could never satisfy me anymore. Instead, they angered me, drove a heavy hatred towards myself and everyone who suggested that I fit this perfect pretty mold.
Hell becomes a new reality when I think about the fact that there is no genetically natural body that fits the way I see myself. There's no way that I can lose the breasts or grow a dick at will, or have everything at once or have nothing. Whatever created the human race didn't include a customizable option and everyday I curse the universe for that.
Absolutely nothing about it is admirable or beautiful. Feeling as though you don't fit your reflection is an unnatural hell. Wanting to rip off parts of your body is nothing short of tormenting. And then there's the actions of other people, people assuming nouns and pronouns as if there were no other option. The twitching of skin on my neck as I try not to correct people without warning, when they'd surely be shocked by what I'd tell them.
I despise the frustration I feel when others use incorrect terms, when I've never told them otherwise. It's not their fault that I never corrected them. Fear binds me into a hole of denial, in which I'm pelted with words that chew away at my skin.
But I can correct people. I can. And I will. When I speak of myself, my mind corrects my words. I try my best to mentally replace the terms;
Replace she with they.
Her with them.
Daughter with child.
Sister with sibling.
Girlfriend with partner.
I say fuck it to everything that straps me into this mold of choosing one or the other. Male or female doesn't define me. I'm writing this as a way of affirming to myself that there is no way to describe my gender. I'm trans, I fall under the non-binary umbrella, but other than that, no fucking idea. And in full honesty, I'm okay with that, because it gives me further reason to not have to explain myself to anyone.
