To tell you the truth, I thought I was over it. I wanted to be over it. After all that pain, all the powerlessness, not being able to decide about my own life – coming out as a transman was the best thing that happened to me. I was a new person. I was my own man. It meant the world to me.
Then, yesterday, as I was finishing my post about having a dignified life, I realized something. That my body does not feel like my own body. It feels like hatred. I am turning thirty this year and I am ready to start a new beginning. With a new body. A body with scars all over it, but nevertheless a body I can own.
Not owning my body has caused me so much shame in the past. I felt degraded, less than human. I assume that victims of sexual abuse feel something similar. I was, indirectly, told to feel inferior. That´s how abusers thrive – it is their own desperate plea to regain control over themselves. Over their lives.
I guess I have to somehow reclaim my body. I don´t know how. Being in this old body, the one that belongs to the past, makes me relive the humiliation. In a way, transition is my desperate effort to break free. It´s not about trauma making me trans, but about dysphoria allowing me to burn bridges.
Maybe I´m too eager in my hunger to burn all those bridges. Burn them to the ground so that nothing remains. Maybe I need to somehow love my old body before I can transition to a new one. To realize that I am not a reject and not the embodiment of my parents´ inability to care for me.