Same but Different

Snip, snip, snip, I hear the scissors as I watch strands of hair slowly falling to the floor. It feels so good, knowing it's going to be gone. It doesn't matter what it looks like, as long as it's finally cut off. While sitting here, Joan's inexperienced, but gentle hands guiding the scissors, I lean back and remember.

Remember the first time I told someone: ,,I'm a boy." It was in kindergarten, me and my friends playing mothers and fathers, and me really wanting to be the dad.

Then, the first time the dysphoria got so strong it was unbearable. In first grade, tears streaming down my face, trying to chop of my hair with play scissors and going so far the teacher had to force them out of my hands.

The second time, 3rd grade, mom making me wear a dress for picture day. Crying until they had to call my father to take me home, there, tearing of the gown, putting on the biggest shirt I could find and climbing into the bed to hide under the covers.

The countless times in the shower, squeezing my eyes shut, like a little kid, thinking, if you can't see it, it isn't there.

The next memory, gym class, always wearing my gym clothes to school so I wouldn't have to change there. The other boys laughing at this „freak girl", the actual girls whispering behind my back. Kissing my boyfriend in 8th grade.

At home, breaking down, the kitchen knife slicing my skin. Later, putting on a bandaid, promising myself I'd never, NEVER, be going this far again.

Thinking I wasn't gay, I shouldn't be kissing boys. Telling my mom I wanted short hair. Dad screaming that would make me look too masculine. Thinking that was exactly what I wanted.

Being called a girl, she, her, herself. No!

Googling, and finding there was a word for this. A word for me. And other people. Talking, seeking help, meeting my first transgender friend.

Learning to cope. She. Secretly buying a binder. Her. Taking it to school and secretly putting it on there. Girl. Wearing hats to cover my long hair. Female. Not enough. Nothing being enough. Feminine. Finally moving out.

Joan calling me „he" for the first time. The euphoria. Working up courage.

All the advice on the web, you don't have to come out. Thinking about it really not being a choice. Having to do more. Having to tell my parents. Hearing the shock in their voices on the phone, my dad saying: „Daughter, think about this...".

The storm in my head, drowning out the words. Realizing they wouldn't be accepting. Leaving. Running. Running. Further and further away. Leaving behind everything. The ringing of my phone. Stopping, panting, in the middle of a forrest. Not looking. Not wanting to see who it was. Not wanting to talk. Laying down and sleeping. Sleeping. A shadow over me. The sun down, late afternoon.

Joan, standing over me, looking... worried. About me. Holding up her phone, two colored dots flashing next to each other. GPS tracker. We had done that after I had first moved here, about a year ago, when I was 18 and worried about getting lost drunk and ending up in some strangers house.

Back to the forrest. Following Joan back home, locking myself in my room for hours. Coming back out, telling her to finally do it. To get rid of my long hair, after keeping it so long because of them. Mom and dad.

Her hand shaking as she fastened her grip around the scissors. And now, strand after strand of hair coming off, finally.

Boy. He, him, himself. Only a few more cuts. The lines of a song keeps playing in my head: „They say don't dare, don't you even go there, cutting off your long hair, you do as your told." And yet, here I am, the first step in the right direction at last. Before you can find the way you need to know in which direction you want to go. I know that, now.

Authors Note: I have not experienced this myself, so I apologize for any false info, if I said something wrong please tell me in a comment, I'll definitely correct it. Thanks :)