A couple of days ago, for the first time, a heavy wave of dysphoria washed over me because of my lack of a womb—yet another item to add to my long running binary trans woman check list. Dysphoria is so weird, and sometimes disconnected from seemingly rational functions of the brain, just bombarding you when you least expect it until it retracts far enough back enough into the shadows that you can feel okay.
I decided at the beginning of my transition that I had no interest in preserving anything for the potentiality of having kids, and there’s still nothing I regret about exorcising the demon called testosterone posthaste once it dawned on me that it was the only way I could be happy. Plus, after teaching classrooms full of tiny drunk humans for over two years, I have serious reservations about the idea of ever wanting kids in any proximity, but especially no time soon.
And yet—there was a small conversation about changing bodies and the intensity of pregnancy, and that familiar feeling that rests somewhere between disgust and loss bubbled up and then expanded. All the things I’d never be able to do or feel—just another way that my body is not as it should be. That even if I someday wanted to, I’d never be able to be a mom.
Of course, all of that is nonsense. There are women of all kinds who can’t get pregnant, and people who aren’t women that do. There are as many ways to be a family as there are families. As hard as dysphoria sometimes is, trying to separate all the parts of me—my identity, my hormones, my body, the society I live in—can be even harder. Why we feel how we feel.
Maybe because those lines are all imagined and arbitrary. And, finally, all of those things match up in a way that actually fits. That’s more than enough for me. (pictured: me on the stone slab where lion Jesus was killed, or where Snow White’s comatose body was kept—for extra melodrama)
#dysphoria #trans #chosenfamily #girlswholikegirls #snowwhite #lionjesus