TW: Discussions of gender dysphoria
In year nine I wrote and performed a poem called ‘I Have Big Tits’. People laughed and I was ecstatic - I wonder now if anything outside of the comedy was understood by the audience. The premise was a person, myself, making known the general complaints that one with big tits has - back problems and the catching of crumbs in cleavage - which I then pivoted to a discussion about gender. I did not know how much queer theory would be trampled on by my explaining it in rhyme.
At the time I hadn’t realised that, due to unrecognised gender dysphoria, I had been dissociating since I was eleven or twelve years old, and would continue to do so actively past my twentieth birthday (me today hi there). I thought, simply, that I was built differently. Self-consciousness and embarrassment were things I did not have long-lasting relationships with. Any party I went to was subject to outfit choices by my mum and sister; they thought I looked good and that was all I needed to not think about my body. Among momentary relapses in becoming aware of my skin, I was content observing my body like a mannequin in a shop window. I thought, simply, that I was built differently.
I figured out I was transmasculine at fifteen years old. I put this information in a labelled drawer, so people knew to call me by a different name, and moved on (or so I thought). I yearned to be seen for who I was while simultaneously begging everyone to ignore this gargantuan difference. I watched all my favourite cisgendered, white, male gay TV characters come out to their fictional friends and family - who dutifully applauded - and I wondered what the big deal about ‘coming out’ was. Now, five years later, I get it. At fifteen years old, the only information I had was that the labels made sense to me and that they were statistically in the minority from everyone else: I couldn’t do an informative Facebook/Instagram post, or have a heartfelt conversation with each of my loved ones because I didn’t know any more than the labels. I didn’t have the time or the emotional maturity to know, but I did fundamentally ‘know’. I knew, simply, that I was built differently.
Coming out has always been such a chore, but denying my presence as a glittered unicorn surrounded by other odd shapes helps no one. I am still no expert, and queer people are (obviously) not a monolith, but a pandemic has traumatised everyone and mental health is still on the backburner of healthcare funding, so what do I implore you, reader, to do? Come out to yourself, every day. Whether or not you think yourself queer, consider your gender identity, your gender expression, your romantic and sexual preferences within and outside of gender - come out to yourself.
What does this have to do with body image? Not much, granted. But come out to yourself as often as you want, and you’ll see, simply, that you too are built differently. What a fine piece of architecture you are.
---- Leo Stickley, Guest Blogger
