One thing that differentiates me from other transgender individuals in my position is perhaps the sheer level of self doubt I allow myself to indulge in.
I have from the very beginning doubted how I feel; explored every motive, analysed every moment of potentially historical significance. I have clung desperately to the few words of advice that have given what I am doing meaning and purpose—that maybe something better could become of it all, one day in the future.
Sometimes this is comforting. Sometimes it is not.
For the uninitiated, I am not a strongly emotional person. I’m not feeling great, I’m feeling “okay.” I don’t find things exciting or thrilling or astounding, I just think they’re “alright.” I generally exercise several magnitudes more restraint than the average person in all manner of emotional behaviours; an attribute I’ve typically associated with my only fleeting bouts of tear-inducing dysphoria. But now these play against me.
I have already doubted myself before even coming out. Now, weeks later, doubt still lingers. My life being male wasn’t bad, per se, it was pleasantly tolerable at the very least. I sometimes felt bad, I often felt wrong, but only until recently did I try and change any of that. Which just begs the question: Why am I trying? It may not be perfect, but it’s tolerable, and it may be a poor excuse, but I feel like I’m devaluing the whole sincerity of the concept just with my presence. Like I’m just a big, fat joke.
I don’t really know where I’m goung with this, but that’s just the problem. I don’t know. I just don’t know.
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