Only a bathroom mat, left wet by
the showers earlier that morning,
softened the barrier between the
cement tile and me.
Light poured
in through the window directly
onto me, and I willed it to move
away as the day went on.
Shame and Sickness
By William McDermet
Ipswich High School // Grade 12
At the end of the eighth grade, my friend had not talked to her boyfriend in several days. I decided to approach the situation with humor, telling her that he was probably just having his period.
“I am having my period,” she said. “I feel like puking. Trust me; you don’t want to be a girl.”
Of course she was in my circle of friends and knew all about my transgenderism. She supported my desire to be female, just like all the other girls I associated with at school. But I encountered this problem with them when nature did its thing every month. They suddenly changed their minds about me; how could I want to be a girl? Why would I want to go through what they had to? They told me to appreciate being male. They said these things to me with self-righteous voices, as though they were superior to me. I took their word for it. I was ashamed of what I wanted; I hated myself for what I yearned for, yet I harbored a jealousy of them I couldn’t erase.
On a Monday morning in February, I awoke to the nagging sound of my alarm clock. My body took over the functions of my morning regiment. In an attempt to ignore my morning woes, I didn’t think about the empty feeling in my stomach as I forced water into it. I felt like this in the morning, and it always went away by the time I headed off for school. When all my family members had finished their routines and were ready to go, my father asked if I felt well. The terrible feeling had not left me, so I decided to stay home.
I sat down in front of the toilet and braced myself for the ordeal ahead of me. We have a small bathroom, maybe six by five feet. The salmon-orange walls and the cabinet mirror covering one wall made the room feel sterile, like a hospital with no visitors. That whole day I lay on the cold gray floor. Only a bathroom mat, left wet by the showers earlier that morning, softened the barrier between the cement tile and me. Light poured in through the window directly onto me, and I willed it to move away as the day went on. My eyes filled with the horror of a migraine, brightness stabbing into my retinas. Things didn’t change throughout the seven hours I spent puking.
I tried to lose perception of my surroundings. Suddenly the voices of my friends began racing through my head. Girls go through this all the time, don’t you know that? And you want to be one of them? How can you deserve something you’re not willing to suffer for? I’d come close, as close as I could to what my friends go through on a regular basis, and I couldn’t handle it. Several times throughout this ordeal I was willing to do anything to make the pain stop. I felt sad. I felt ashamed. Most of all, I felt weak. And so I lay there on the floor, kicking myself and mulling over the thought that I deserved the male body I was stuck with. I had failed to withstand the pain of womanhood and did not deserve the pleasures I wanted from it; that, I think, hurt more than anything else.
The rule of thumb for any sickness is to wait twenty-four hours before returning to school, so I spent the next day online playing Call of Duty with other sickly and truant boys my age. I didn’t dare look at the skirts and dresses in my closet. I didn’t daydream about the husband I’d wanted for so long. I did not think about how beautiful my wedding dress was going to be. I didn’t imagine holding my newborn child for the first time. I did not deserve those prizes, which I’d comforted myself with for so long.
The possibility of spending my life celibate, without romantic relationships, hung over me for a long time. I had ideas of what I’d do if I couldn’t transition to womanhood. I could enlist in the marines, spend my life there, and if I got killed in some cesspool in Afghanistan, I wouldn’t have to deal with all of this. I developed a habit of thinking suicidal thoughts whenever my uncertain future came to mind. I never thought up anything very macabre, just a nice clean self-mutilation. I didn’t think of it as dying; it was more like an employer handing me my resume as he shows me to the door, telling me he’s so sorry it didn’t work out.
The most worrisome part was that the desire to end my own life didn’t even scare me. In fact, it felt pretty good. All my life I’ve felt like I have no control. I have been imprisoned in a body I hate and fear, in a gender role I’m uncomfortable with. I can never bear children and have missed eighteen years of girlhood. Suicide wouldn’t let me live my life, but it would let me be in control of my own existence. I wouldn’t be uncomfortable or distressed about my future, and I wouldn’t be puking into any toilet bowls.
Things are a lot better now. In April, two months after my debilitating illness, I began talking to my gender specialist Diane. Talking to her and with the help of anti-depressants, my suicidal ideation is almost completely gone. I see her once a week, and even went to her office once cross-dressed. I’d like to go to the mall as a girl some time soon. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to start passing full-time as a female until after I graduate.
By the end of the month, however, I will have accrued enough talk time with Diane for her to write me a recommendation to start hormone therapy. I look forward to developing as much as I can as a woman and to finding a boyfriend. Hopefully one day, with any luck, I will be able to proceed with gender reassignment surgery. I’ve also started going to the NAGLY, a Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender support group in Salem. I love being surrounded by others like me, and I often forget I’m surrounded by homosexuals and transsexuals; it’s almost as though we’re just like everyone else.