Now

This essay is dedicated to Tyr. You're long since off the internet, at least publicly, but thank you for your work. This is inspired by your essay of the same name.

"Hello all,
This essay is in parts, because I'm in parts, now.
Because I was in pieces then." ( Now by Tyr )

This essay is not in chronological order, because I am not in order. My thoughts, feelings and experiences, the things that compose me, don't come to me in order. They come to me as they do. They will come to you as they do.

I am 25. I lay awake staring up at my ceiling, trying to remember what my childhood was like. Trying to remember what it felt like. Trying to remember names or faces.

It is 20:15 December 10th 2018. I'm in my first year of college, and a friend comes out to me over discord. Icy winter winds buffet my corner dorm room as I get his messages. Hes gay, he says, and wants to date me, despite me living states away for most of the year. I respond, that I too am gay, but for women. They don't know it yet, but they are too.

I'm 16, and the girl I'm dating has me bound in a women's public bathroom. I sit on the dirty tiled floor as she's getting hot and heavy, undressing us. I like the ropes digging into my skin, I love her standing over me, stripping us, but as she moves to take off my underwear I stop her. I get her off with my free hand, and go home to cry. I don't know why I'm crying. It was my first time, and it was with someone I loved. Why was I crying. I will never let a partner see me fully naked.

I'm 15, and a friend asks me out. I don't understand the appeal of relationships, but I know I'm supposed to want one, so I say yes. She is cute, and kind, and within 2 weeks I'm crushing on her. I don't know it yet, maybe she doesn't, but shes bi, and she will save me.

It's June 6th, 2015. The last school day of the year. A girl from one of my classes asks me for my number. We spend every moment texting that summer. It feels nice to talk with someone, to get out of my head. She flirts with me daily, and I reciprocate, despite feeling nothing. It feels nice to be wanted, and I crave that. She will never ask for a relationship, and by the start of the next school year we drift apart.

It's 2 a.m. April 15th, 2017. I've been texting a friend past suicidal thoughts. There's a pounding at the door that wakes up my parents. Cops come in and tell them I'm contemplating suicide, that they have the text logs to prove it. When I challenge them on this they threaten to call an ambulance to take me to the hospital instead of my parents. To separate me from them and make them pay a hefty bill for my defiance. After my parents talk them down, they say when we get there we have to get the hospital to contact them, or else they'd be liable for child endangerment. When we get there and the hospital calls, the person on the police's end has no idea what we're talking about.

It's September 2017. The girl I've been dating for 2 years, wants to break up, but is giving me one last shot after I plead. I go to a mutual friend to try to work through my feelings and figure out what I can do better. I find out a few weeks later after my shot is spent that they are dating. Have been since before we broke up. I don't blame either of them for this, then or now.

I'm 9. Helping work on my brother's house, in his small kitchen with my mother. She talks to me about how one day I'll be married, just like my brothers. How I'll meet a cute girl and have a handsom wedding. I explain that I don't get that. I don't see girls as cute. I don't want a wedding. She insists I will.

It's December 18th, 2014. I come out to my mother as asexual. I have papers printed out explaining everything that I've hidden away in a book in my shelf I pull out to show her. Without saying anything, or looking over them, she asks if I'm done so we can go back to decorating the house for Christmas. I lay in bed and cry after she leaves. I'm yelled at for not helping. I don't make the mistake of being vulnerable with her again.

Its September 2021. I'm moving back in with my roommate for my 3rd year in a row with him. He knew I was trans, but now I was out. He’s on his phone with his friend, explaining who I was. I can hear the friend ask "So you're into futa then?" I don't laugh. They do. My roommate sees me staring at him, and repeats the "joke." I still don't laugh. I don't talk with him again once I leave college. He tries contacting me about a year out over discord, but misspells my name. My discord name is my name. I don't respond.

I'm 18. I'm home from college, and out on a walk to fight my depression, listening to some podcast or audiobook, when they mention the murder of a young trans girl in my state, by two men who slept with her, who found out later she was trans, and murdered her to prove they 'weren't gay.' The source used 'he' for the victim. I stop going on walks because every time I get to that intersection I think of her and want to cry. I stay inside and feel nothing instead.

I’m 19. I came out to some friends, and one invites me over to try on her prom dress. I accept, and do so, with her also doing my makeup. I love the way I look. I hate the way I look. I don't look like a woman. I look like a man in a dress. Why do I not want to take it off then?

I’m 16. I’m at the mall with my family and stare down a three story drop. I’ve always been scared of heights, but I stand there transfixed. Screams of children and the clamour of people jostling by me doesn’t stop me of thinking of throwing myself from the ledge. They end up pulling me away, thinking I was zoned out. I avoid heights entirely for years. When asked, I lie and say my fear just got worse.

I'm 18. In my very first college class. We’re doing ice breakers, introducing ourselves. I prep myself with basic surface level answers to all the questions. As we go around the room, the cool girl in all black speaks up. She explains that she’s trans and has been out for a few years now. I feel emboldened, when it comes to me I say that I’m ace. The professor responds, saying that his daughter is demi. I feel safe.

I’m 22. I’m graduating from college under my new name. I haven’t spoken with that professor since my first semester, but he's one of the ones reading names to be called up to get your diploma. He calls my name, sees my face, and a glint of recognition and a smile crosses his face. We talk after the ceremony. He never even comments on my transness, just addresses me by my new name and asks me about my future. Before I depart, we hug.

Its April 2011. I hear a news story about how 2 guys had a child. I eventually learn that one of the guys used to be a girl, and that's how they could have a kid. I will think on this and wish that I could be a girl, like how that guy changed. Stories like this will live in my head for years. I will not tell anyone about this.

Its thanksgiving 2016. I ordered fem clothing using a friends amazon account, his address, and birthday money. He walks over with them in a garbage bag and I have to intercept and hide them so my family doesn't know. I spend every night I can laying in bed wearing some part of these clothes, soaking in the feeling, before forcing myself awake so I can strip back down and hide them before anyone else wakes up.

I'm 16. Sitting in the hallway after school, my arm around my girlfriend. A pack of 14 year olds come over and surround us. They keep asking us questions like if we were dating. If I was her boyfriend. If we had kissed, etc. She answered all of their questions, and after they left, she went to talk to me before realizing I was having a panic attack.

It’s January 2016. I’m having my first kiss. Shes clearly into it, while I just kind of sit there. I try to copy what shes doing, and she seems to like it, but I feel nothing besides the grossness of it. I try to focus on her soft lips and ignore everything else. I like her. I love her. People in love kiss. I will never tell her that kissing makes me uncomfortable. I will simply suggest she chokes me every other time, and she obliges.

It's June 2016. I tell my girlfriend I want to be a girl. She holds me close and offers to bring in her makeup the next day, and she would do it for me. I cry in her arms. The next day she does, and while I don't love the way I look, I also don't hate it. The pictures she took that day are the oldest pictures of myself I still have.

It's December 2021. A new expansion dropped for Final Fantasy 14, and two of my high school friends are my only friends that play it. I haven't come out to them directly, despite being public. It goes without comment until we're in the first trial of the expansion, when one of them chastises the other "Didn't you hear what {new name} said! She told you the safe spot." I had to mute to cry.

I'm 21. I'm sitting in the waiting room of the building I went to for dental as a child, that miraculously has trans healthcare experts as well. I get led in and explain to the doctor that I'm trans. After a cursory survey she agrees, and I'm able to start hormones.

I'm 22. I've been underdosing myself with estrogen. I like my boobs the size they are, and I know that if I up the dosage they'll grow more. I go in for my labs, and they see that my estrogen levels are low. My dose is increased further. I stay silent not knowing how to explain my actions. I continue to underdose and just spike my levels before each lab for years going forward.

I'm 24. I go into the doctor to discuss depression. After another cursory survey, and explaining I had been hospitalized and it never went on my medical record, I was given a prescription for lexipro. I take it and end up nauseous to the point that I lay in bed for days and fall out of my routines. I'm unable to repick up the routine, and end up having stopped taking all of my meds for a year. I don't go to follow ups out of shame.

It's a warm afternoon in March 2022. I'm sitting in my college's library, in a side meeting room by myself, dressed up the best I can, even if that means masc presenting. I log into a zoom call with a judge. I'm waiting to hear my name change case heard, and I need one to two character witnesses. I asked most of my family, knowing it was scheduled during work hours so most would be busy. Everyone I asked ended up joining, even though some of them were mid work.

I'm 18. I met a girl from Canada online, and after she flirted with me for a week, she asks me out. I consent, and thus we are dating. She is beautiful, insatiable and distant. I come out to her soon after, and I luck out again, she is bi. I fall for her, wanting desperately to make her happy. We end up having phone sex regularly. I always pretend to get off, because I know she wants me to. We don't last 2 months, because she wants something physical. We never speak again after the break up, despite liking each other.

Its February 2017. I cover my body in insults for me and my partner. It makes us happy as I get her off. When I get home my father sees part of it under my shirt, and checks me. He repeatedly asks who is bullying me, and when I simply keep saying no one is I can tell he doesn't believe me. I don't do it again. Sex becomes more of a gross chore again.

It is July 2012. I discover porn for the first time. I am entranced. I stare at the woman, confused as to why I wanted to be her. I end up covering the part of the screen with the man. I am disgusted by him. I come back every day. I soon discover lesbians and don't have to hide part of my screen anymore. I watch them, wishing an impossible wish to be one of them. To experience the joy they have. Even still. I don't like seeing them naked. Then I discover BDSM. Seeing a woman tied up and hit, used, by her female partner. I crave to be her. I close the tab whenever they start having sex. I somehow convince myself this is all straight boy behavior.

I'm 17. I go to the doctor, and my parents tell my her that I admitted to a suicide attempt, while I sit silently. My incident isn't put on my record, as "things like that can haunt you." The doctor suggests therapy, and they had a therapist there, right now, with an opening. Minutes later, I'm in a brightly lit office, sitting on an uncomfortable couch. I'm flanked by my parents in this therapist's office. Despite his attempts to get them to leave, they stay. I stay silent. My mother yells at me to talk to the man so I can get better. I stay silent. Was I supposed to tell this stranger, in front of my parents what I barely had brought myself to tell my best friend and a partner? Worse, if he could help, I'd be further from my goal of succeeding the next time. We stay there like that for an hour, our time up. I did not say a single thing since leaving the house, and won't until I return to school tomorrow. I am screamed at the whole way home. I don't see a therapist again.

It's 11:30pm July 10th 2018. I've just got my drivers license and just dropped a friend off at their house post hangout. I head down a steep and twisty road near his house. I have the impulse to drive off the cliff in front of me. I resist it. I don't drive again for years.

Im 18. I order restraints and more fem clothing off amazon, and ship it to my dorm. I end up wearing tights under my jeans most days to class. It brings me a surprising level of calm, tamping down some of my general anxiety. That inspires me to start wearing a harness under my jeans too. I am the calmest I have ever been in class. I just make sure not to bump into anyone.

I’m 21. I order a collar after getting past my own hang-ups about needing to get it from a partner. I wear it every waking moment save class and sleep. It stabilizes me. I stress way less, and am able to form routines. I will wear it for eight plus hours a day through til graduation. I stop wearing it when I move back in with my family, but I will stare at it longingly regularly.

Its 2:30am April 13th, 2017. Laying in bed teetering on the edge of another suicide attempt. My first one without a partner to lean on. I move to prep for it, but as I’m getting out the rope, a voice in my head yells at me. “Bad girl. Your body isn’t yours, its your Master’s.” It is what stops my attempt. From now on, when I have the wherewithal to end an attempt, I lean on kink. It works every time, even if I feel cripplingly lonely afterwards.

I’m 16. I grow out my hair, I wear it in a rat tail at home, but move it up into a ponytail at school. When I forget to move it back down, I’m yelled at that it makes me look like a girl. I can’t tell them thats the point. I can’t admit to myself thats the point.

It's a morning the month of September 2014. I catch myself in the bathroom mirror. I see myself, first signs of facial hair. I hate it. I will not look in mirrors willingly for another 8 years. I will shave by feel, and deal with what cuts happen.

I’m 21, lying awake at night. I’m studying how to look fem again. I try to find someone who looks like me to base it off of. That is before I realize I don’t know what I look like. I don’t learn.

I’m 10. Sitting on the family computer, browsing youtube, I find a video called “How to look like a girl” of a young masc person doing make-up. I will add this video to my ‘Watch Later’ and never have the courage to watch it, or remove it from there. By the time I come out it has been deleted.

Its September 2007. I’m in a store that is too large. Too far from home. We’re shopping for clothes, first my mother and then me. When it becomes my turn we walk the linoleum path towards the kids section, the tiles separating the girls and boys. She asks what I want, what I like. I shrug and stay silent. When shes not looking I’m staring out across the gap between, staring at dresses and cute tops, wishing I could go over there instead, but I know if I ask she wouldn’t like it. I’m not supposed to want that stuff. I’m silent until we leave, stealing glances whenever I can.

I'm 17. I've learned that the best way to drown out the thoughts in my head is to simply talk to people. I'm safe while I'm in a call, or in person, but when I'm alone, I'm vulnerable to my own thoughts. I dread each night and ping-pong between friends who are available to chat as long as I can. I wish I could sleep when they do. Instead I have insomnia.

It is ████ ██, ████, my partner calls me a good girl. It hits me like a truck. I'm so happy, desperate to earn another. I beg her to do that more. She does. She teases me with it when we're alone. It makes me feel things like how I imagine she feels things. I become desperate, needing her, craving her touch. I touch her how she likes, and she hurts me and teases me. It is the only fun I've had during sex. I still won't let her see me naked.

I'm ██. I'm laying next to my partner. I recently told her about my struggles with depression. She rolls atop me and pins me. She places her hand on my neck, and I prepare to be choked, but she just leaves it there. "Why do you want me to choke you so much? Is it because its fun for you or because you think you deserve to be hurt?" I look away. I can't tell her the answer is both, but I think she assumes my silence means the later. She rolls off of me. She doesn't dom me again. She doesn't want to be an instrument of my self-harm. Sex becomes something I try to avoid again. We break up soon after.

I'm 18. Most of my friends are going to prom. I don't have a partner and I don't try to look for one. How could I find someone that likes the me of now, and the me I dream of. I don't go. I can't stand the thought of being called handsome again. I can't bear the thought of getting another suit. I want to go and wear a dress, and be on the arm of some cute girl. I can't tell anyone this, even myself. Instead I chalk it up to prom being a dumb waste of money and time. I spend prom night curled in bed, unable to cry. I want to die.

I'm 15. Every character I make in a game is a woman, even my very first WoW character when I was 5. I start playing some Korean MMO with some friends. We all play as impossibly attractive women. They spend a while ogling our avatars. I feel gross when they talk about mine. I lie to myself and say that I choose to be a woman for the same reasons they do.

I'm 15. I sleep for 10 hours or more straight whenever I can sleep. I don't remember any of my dreams. It feels as if I close my eyes and awake the next instant. I yearn for rest for my mind, but am granted no reprieve.

I’m 16. 17. 18. I keep up my grades to keep the illusion that I am happy. I spend my nights falling into pits of depression. I research the most successful suicide rates. Its via gun. I’m too much of a coward to though, so I plan for rope. I spend days looking for somewhere secluded enough to not get stopped and that can hold my weight. I don’t succeed. My attempts will be without the assistance of gravity. I will be able to back out of them by myself. I do, several times. Stopped most often by the feral desire to live. The eyes lighting and taking control away from my darkest moments, before dropping me back with it right after. I grow to hate this part of myself. Stopping me at the precipice but not granting me freedom. I won’t even do what I know would work. I’d studied safe autoerotic asphyxiation, but if I do something unsafe that looked like that I worry I’d be remembered as a victim of that, and not suicide. I hate the idea of being thought of dying for my dick.

It’s 13:45 November 2025. I learn one of my highschool classmates commited suicide. We were in the same friend group. The last time we spoke she told me to kill myself, because I was abusive to my ex. She wasn’t wrong. I never held a grudge against her for that. She was queer too. Last I knew a lesbian. I don’t know what to feel. I feel nothing.

I’m 13. Sitting in the middle school changing rooms. On gym days I wear shorts under my pants to avoid having to strip. I sit on the bench, finished early. I look up how to get estrogen. I find pages that claim that diet can increase estrogen levels. I will keep that tab open on my ipod until it is destroyed.

It's 3rd period, on a cold winter day, 2014. I’m in health class. Today’s lesson is on ‘male anatomy.’ I’m instantly lightheaded and in a few minutes, nauseaus. I step out of the room. I go to the nurses office just to avoid class. The nausea does not let up. I do not want to be touch, talked to, interacted with. I get sent home for the only time in my academic career.

It’s the morning of █████ ██, ████. I am sitting in my history class when I get the news. My one of my ████ ████ teachers committed murder suicide with his husband. He was the first gay man I knew. He was also apparently a pedophile. He had sexually assaulted a number of my classmates. I knew when heard the news who the victims were, though they weren't disclosed. Most moved schools without explanation. Several attempted suicide. My school offers counseling to all his former students. I say I wasn’t a victim; I don’t need help. Which was half true. I wasn’t a victim, but I was racked by survivor’s guilt. It should have been me. My life was forfeit. It will take me months to forgive myself.

I'm 19. I play an RPG with my friends multiple days a week, and every time we play I make the same woman with the same name. When they refer to me in character I am happy. When I picture myself, I see her. Red hair, blindfold, undying devotion to her friends. My dreams. I carry the name and design on to other games I play. I don't know it now, but that name will be the one I take when I transition. My friends are used to calling me it, I'm used to responding to it, and simply: I like it.

It’s December 2024. I hang out with a ton of friends on Final Fantasy 14 doing a Christmas event. Most have never heard my dead name. All refer to me by she, and know only my avatar as a representation of me. It is nice.

I'm 21. I'm starting HRT. A few months later I'm having my name changed legally. I stop hating my reflection. I pick up routines that I've never been able to hold before. Soon I'm graduating, under my new name. It all goes by so fast, but each step feels like tearing through a new layer. Difficult. Rewarding. Each step revealing another to strike through next.