Neverending Selfie

Before I was so rudely interrupted by a nasty virus as well as the unwelcome Period Beast (see previous post), I was working on this post. This was originally supposed to at least partially be about how I've been feeling better in my body, yet in these past couple weeks, that enormous positivity I had regarding such things has been lost and is just now resurfacing. In fact, I've been struggling with not only dysphoria, but feelings of worthlessness that are in no way tied to my being trans (Because, you know, my life isn't just being trans after all. That just happens to be what I blog about most). Despite all that, I'm going to attempt to pick up where I left off here.

So, as the title implies, selfies. I am just as guilty as anybody of taking selfies. I rarely share them, but I have a ridiculous amount of them stocked up. You wouldn't know this by looking at my social media. Not only do I hate sharing pictures, but after I first came out, I purged my Facebook and Instagram as well. Many times I take these pictures fully intending to share them (to update a profile pic, usually), but inevitably, I hate the picture and either delete it or file it away. I've been doing this for years. I mean, when I say I have them stocked up, I'm not even kidding. As much as I dislike these pictures, you think I wouldn't have held onto them right? Yet, there they are in the cloud, deep in the pictures section in a folder marked "me." Though, I can hardly say any of these pictures truly reflect me.

Every so often I go back and look at these pictures. I'm not sure why. All it does it make me uncomfortable. Before I realized I was trans, I would look at them and not understand this discomfort. Now, I get it's because I'm looking at a person who isn't me. I see this girl that I was trying so hard to be, the ultimate character I ever played. I see the phases in style, especially hair color, as I searched endlessly for the winning combination in outward appearance that would make me feel good about myself. I don't even have to go far. I look back to a year ago, two years ago, and I'm hit with an overwhelming amount of emotion. I can see the sadness in my eyes. I can remember the exact moment taking that picture and how unhappy I was. I can literally place myself back in that slice of time and remember how dissatisfied I would feel looking at those pictures right after taking them - or even while I was taking them for that matter. I felt fake, like I was trying too hard, like that wasn't me.

I look back now with the knowledge I've gained about myself, and it's so weird. I don't recognize that person. It's kind of funny, now that I see a stranger in these photos, for the first time I recognize a beauty I never saw before. Yes I was beautiful, but I never felt that way. And when I notice that beauty, when I find myself seeing it, I also feel a certain sadness. I know there are parts of me that mourn for that girl. At times, I feel downright guilty for wanting to destroy her. Why couldn't I be happy as her? Why couldn't I make it work? I tried so fucking hard to be her, and it took separating myself from that person to finally understand how hard I was trying and how much worse it was making me feel.

So if it hits me so hard, why do I look at these pictures? Before I knew what it was, I did it to try and force myself to see some beauty in me. I would look at them and say, "Sam, you look great. Why can't you be happy in your skin?" Now I look back to remind myself why I can't go back just because transitioning is scary. It's easy for my brain to tell me that this is too much for me, that I'll never get where I want to be, especially when the Period Beast hits. I mean, I was getting much better at not letting it do that, reminding myself to be patient. It's when the bitch that I discussed in my last post gets into my head that I get fucked over. In the past couple weeks, I have felt so hopeless about a lot of things not just transition related, mostly just related to me as a human being. Lets just say no matter what I do, the self hatred goes from a five to a twenty whenever the cycle comes around. Anyway, back to selfies... that was the point of this post, right?

Since I started transitioning, the amount of pictures I take and hold onto has increased. Not that the amount I share has increased by much. Still, it helps to have these pictures on deck. It's true that you don't notice the subtle changes unless you have a side by side comparison to really stare at. So, every week or two, I make myself a side by side and look at it a while to remind myself that progress is happening. It's actually quite helpful. Not that I've felt like sharing it with anyone. The only person who has seen any of these is my sister and I think she's seen one. A month or two ago. I feel awkward sharing pictures of me, especially of my transition. It's not weird to share. You go to Instagram, and there are so many guys sharing their story through pictures. It's inspiring when they do it. Me, I'd rather share a picture of the mountains. But I still take pictures of me for me, that never stops.

I guess you could say one reason I don't share pictures as much is because I'm afraid of being reminded of the slow progress, of people not seeing what I see. I mean, every day I see the person inside a little more and even when I don't see him I *feel* him. That still seems to be just me (and maybe some people close to me). At work, people still see me as this girl. At the store. In passing. I start to wonder if I've really made as much progress as I've thought. I know I have, but it's so hard to see it. It gets me down, I'm not gunna lie. It's easier said than done, but I am working on not letting other people define my happiness. I mean, just because I don't pass doesn't make me any less trans, any less of the guy I know I am. The hardest part is remembering that. And it's the selfies that are integral in being that reminder.

So, even if the pictures aren't exactly what I want to see just yet, the seemingly neverending quest for the selfie that truly reflects Samuel continues. He'll show up eventually. Just gotta be patient, trust the process, and most importantly, keep in mind that it isn't passing that makes me a man.

To truly end this post, I'm going to do something that makes me more than a little uncomfortable. Here come the selfies… Maybe you see what I see, maybe you don't. Want to know what I see? I see fake smiles in the first group, sad memories, discomfort, but ever so slowly, I see a certain happiness begin to grow in the second group. It's that happiness that I've been searching for, and as time goes on, I look forward to watching it grow.

The Beast Came Back

This is extremely personal, but if I don't get it out and explain why I'm so done right now I am going to explode.

After four months of freedom, without any sort of warning, my period came back. Do I know why? No. Is it normal after being on testosterone and it having gone away? Actually, most probably yes according to my google searches. (I called my Dr. and left a message all the same just in case, but I have yet to hear back).

I feel like I'm being such a baby about this. I've gotten through this before. I'm not even bleeding as much as a normal period - which is more of a confirmation to me that this is sort of just a "cleansing out" if you get what I'm saying. The problem is I have all the cramps, all the issues with eating, and all the emotional mindfuck that is normal for the periods I used to get.

The cramps I can deal with, the fact that my stomach instantly dislikes all food and will throw it up at a moments notice - or worse, just have me queasy and gassy for hours on end and I can't throw up - is not something I can handle so well. Mind you, this happens no matter what I eat be it good or bad, too much or very little. It's like my normal stomach problems are amplified by 1000%. There's a reason I started eating vegan and then gluten free, and unfortunately, it had nothing to do with the animals. It was for the health benefits (though I did start learning about the animal side later on and definitely stand for that as well, don't get me wrong. I came for my health and will be staying for the animals and the environment).

But… the emotional side - now that's what really fucks me. I become a person I don't even recognize. I feel bad when I'm around people because I get it, I become irrational and bipolar. I lose all sense. I become so negative. No one wants to be around me less when I'm like this than me. Still, I end up isolating myself and coming to battle with this bitch who's so mean.

I tell you, I try to be positive, but it feels like all happiness is suddenly sucked out of me. I get bursts of it back but there's always a crash that has me crying and upset, full of negative thoughts. It becomes very draining to take reign of this and cast it away. It becomes too easy to get down on my body. My chest begins to hurt as it becomes tender and that makes it harder to ignore. It's not the only body part that does this for that matter, but I don't want to name the other one. My body itself feels swollen. I do best to avoid looking at myself, to push it out of my head.

Still, every little thing sets me off, and I know it's irrational, but I fall into panic anyway. Everything feels wrong and there's a massive frustration that will come over me at times. I'll start shaking and won't be able to stay still. Many times it end in tears which only makes me more upset. Things that shouldn't offend me do. I become ridiculously sensitive. Like I said, I don't like nor recognize this person. But I'm stuck with her all the same. I guess you could say this is one of the biggest aspects of that female side that hits me and takes control of me. It's the hardest to escape because it's an impossible thing to control when it hits.

I know it will be over in a few days, and I've been really trying to console myself by finding distractions. It's in those moments that it hits me with one of those waves, one whopping blow, and I'm brought to my knees with so much emotion I don't know what to do with it that I've been really losing it these last couple days. I feel lonely and angry and my brain tries to project it onto others or little things, but in the end I always realize the thing I'm angry at is me, my body, how wrong it all feels.

I know this is a short post, but I needed to get this out. The act of writing this helped to pull me from one of those dark moments. Off to a land I music I now shall go.

The Weight

I had an actual post I was working on, but I haven't been able to focus. I've been dealing with a lot of chest dysphoria lately, so I decided to write a poem about that instead. Please note that when I say I've written poetry, I'm not following a specific form. I go with the flow of what comes to me. So, here it is.

The Weight

There's a weight upon my chest.
It just began to grow.
It once was flat, but now it's not.
They told me this is how it would go.
I thought that I'd be fine.
It's normal, that's what they said.
Yet there's a nagging anxiety in the back of my head

There's a weight upon my chest.
One side larger than the other.
Only by a smidge, yet I want to cry for mother.
Something isn't right.
Couldn't one just shrink?
I don't care if they're small,
Even not there at all,
Not a single wink.

There's a weight upon my chest.
It only makes me feel fat.
None of my shirts look right.
How can I fix that?
Do I need to diet?
Find a boyfriend who likes my boobs?
I'm feeling very empty.
There must be something I can do.

There's a weight upon my chest.
It's driving me insane.
It's shrunk a lot,
I'm so damn skinny,
Yet I still feel the pain.
It's hard to see an indent.
I still feel fat.
I still feel wrong.
Someone please, help me.
I don't know what's going on.

There's a weight upon my chest.
It's grown back out again.
Every bounce.
Every flounce.
It's all I see when I look down.
This shirt isn't that low cut,
At least that's what I thought.
I wish I had worn a tshirt,
Even if that doesn't fix it all.

There's a weight upon my chest.
I need to crush it down.
I bought myself a binder.
Will this help me now?
There's a new kind of constriction.
It's different to breathe.
But, oh my god, my shirt looks right.
I don't feel fat.
I'm free!

There's a weight upon my chest.
I cannot bind today.
There's phlegm in there.
I need the range,
To cough it all away.
But, now the sadness has returned.
Again, I'm feeling wrong.
I feel so much more aware of this.
After having a solution for so long.

There's a weight upon my chest.
The sickness still remains.
No matter how much I want to
I cannot bind again today.
This is wearing me down.
I'm getting very tired.
There has to be a permanent way
To tell my chest it's fired.

There's a weight upon my chest.
One day I could have it cut away.
But, that's easier said than done.
It's an awfully large bill to pay.
It's not just the cost.
Such procedures are apt to affect one's life.
After all, recovery lasts far beyond the day beneath the knife.

There's a weight upon my chest.
Until it's gone away,
I'll bind when I can.
If I can't, I'll just have to say--
"Don't think about it.
"Don't look down.
"It will all be okay.
"Chest or not, what makes you, you isn't going to change."

It Takes Courage

It's been longer than I intended between posts, but it doesn't matter. Like I said in my first post, there is no set schedule for updating this blog. I do it as I am inspired. Anyway, putting together this post in a coherent way has been tricky.

You see, I came out as transgender at work.

As I have mentioned in my last couple posts, this is something I have desperately been needing to do, but I've been holding back due to my own terror. Figuring out exactly why being authentic is so difficult me is the core of this post. Let's get to it, shall we?

I have lived my entire life afraid of being myself. Between the fear of losing friends, being annoying, or not being accepted by anybody, I have become quite guarded. Sometimes I'll sit down and search my brain, trying to find the sources of why I have such a hard time letting myself be wholly me. I've often been the pushover in groups of people, the quiet one who tags along and goes with what everyone says. I can pull to mind all the criticisms, all the times people that were supposed to be my friends made me feel small. (I'm not saying I was always the perfect friend either. I still regret how I ended certain friendships). I was often told I was being too sensitive, and to this day, it's hard for me to tell if my feelings are justified or if I really am too sensitive (usually I assume it's the latter). I wonder why I let it hurt me so bad. I guess it's because all that "poking fun" just added to the dissatisfaction I already had with myself. I already felt wrong, weird, out of place, even if I didn't have the words to explain it, then people would have to point out my shortcomings. The things I didn't know, how I was too much of a "prude," etc. I've often felt like a weirdo for things that are beyond my control.

I've noticed this complex in my head formed that if someone disagreed with me, I was probably the one who was wrong, and I needed to shut up and be schooled. I've made myself look stupid so many times unintentionally that it just became easier to shut the fuck up. It got to the point where I couldn't even raise my hand in class to answer a question. Group projects were a certain form of hell. When In groups, I often felt I was faking it more than anything. Even now, it takes a lot of warming up for me to talk to people in social situations (and that feeling of faking it still seeps in). Hell, I avoid cast parties or work holiday parties like the plague. The radio station only ever got me to one Christmas dinner (I was eligible to go to 3 or 4), and I often bail out of cast parties for plays I'm in. I get around people and I just freeze up. They try to ask me questions to get me talking and my tongue fails me. I never feel I can say what I mean. I dread even getting my hair cut because I'm expected to carry on a conversation with the person cutting my hair.

The walls I've built around myself are thick. As hard as I've been working to chip away at them these days, progress is slow. Each time I come close to knocking down another side of the wall, truly breaking free, my instinct is still to hesitate. I hate this. Where's my self confidence? I know that I'm not going to be happy until I can be 100% free, so what's the holdup?

The holdup is I have spent so much time systematically squashing myself down that it has become habit to second guess myself. Automatically, I expect that I am not good enough for people. I expect that people won't like me no filters and that the only way to make sure they won't leave me is to not be wholly myself. That is bad. Don't be like Sam in this way.

So imagine all this going down in my head and then add the need to come out, the need to be completely honest about who I am with people - and to enforce it.

Houston, we have a problem.

Coming out to my family last summer then my friends and extended family on Facebook back in October was the first hurdle. It was not easy and it doesn't seem to get any easier each time I have to do it. I'm lucky that everyone I know is accepting and just wants me to be happy. No one has argued with me regarding my gender nor my choice to transition. For that, I will be forever grateful. I wish every trans individual could be so fortunate.

Despite the acceptance, I let coming out at work be something I put off for a good amount of time. I knew it would be painful the more I prolonged the divide between my personal and professional lives - and fucking painful it has been.  With each day it only got worse. It takes a lot of energy to keep up the front of "Samantha," a lot more energy than I realize.

But my mind cries out with my fears:
"What if your bosses are freaked out by this?"
"What if work gets weird?"
"What if somehow you get fired for this?"

Yet as the nightmares got worse, as it got harder to get myself ready for work every day, I knew I was getting closer to the point I wouldn't be able to put it off any longer. It was the week before I came out when I finally had the last straw. I answered the phone with the usual "This is Samantha, how can I help you?" The man on the other end had a need to say that name a lost every other word. "Why hello, Samantha. I was wondering if you could help me, Samantha. Yadda, yadda, yadda, Samantha. Every time he said that name, it felt like he was stabbing me in the gut. By the time he cheerily said goodbye, I felt near tears. I wasn't going to be able to take this anymore. Even if it was just getting people to call me "Sam," I needed some form of relief.  

So despite the fears still chiming through my head, I revisited the coming out letter I actually started a couple months ago. I spent several days on it, had a couple other pairs of eyes look at it, and then came the hard part… deciding when to give it to my bosses. When I first pulled that letter back up and started working on it, I had made a silent promise to myself - I had to give it to them by the end of the week. Naturally, the anxiety got worse as the week progressed. My time of things continuing as they were was coming to an end. That was the scariest thought of all.

I mean, I think part of the reason I was afraid of coming out wasn't really just to do with my bosses, it was the customers. You see, you only have to come out to your boss or your coworkers once but when you work in retail it's different. Each customer that comes in, I have to make the silent decision - do I enforce my pronouns if they get them wrong? Do I try to explan? Essentially, I'm going to have to come out to someone new probably every day, and that's the scariest thing I've ever embarked myself upon. (I'm already failing but hey, cut me some slack, this is week one).

Then came the most important thing I had to tell myself:

"Sam, you have to do this because you can't live like this. Who are you living your life for? If it isn't going to work at MBE then you need to figure out where to go next now. The time to unnecessarily suffer is long past."

Somehow on Friday, March 3, I took the leap and as my vague Facebook post announced that day, I went from complete terror to sweet relief. My bosses were fine. I could tell they were shocked and hadn't  expected such an admission from me. Still, they assured me that the most important thing is that I'm happy. I couldn't have asked for a better response. That moment of acceptance, of knowing that there really is hope, and my life is not going to all crumble apart… that why it's all worth it. All the pain. All the stress. All the fear. It's all okay because one day you wake up and realize that all those negative thoughts, those stupid worries, they're gone.

The best example is March 6, 2017, the first day back to work after talking to my bosses. On that day, for the first time in I don't know how long, I woke up and went to work and I felt NO anxiety. Will it return? Of course, but that doesn't scare me because now I know it's possible for it to go away.

We're in whole new territory now. Whether I choose to enforce pronouns is up to me, but now that I'm out at least I have the right to. Plus, as the hormones continue to do their work, eventually I won't be misgendered anymore. While there will be new challenges and frustrations to deal with now, I'm happy I've moved on to the next step. Honestly, I still can't believe I actually did it.

So to anyone out there who is struggling with coming out, whether you do it tomorrow or wait a long time, I'm proud of you. It takes a lot of courage to be yourself.

Buried Feelings

I've talked a lot about appearance in regards to clues to knowing I'm trans. A lot of that is because the rest comes down to feeling, and it's tricky to describe such things. How can you explain how something feels to someone who may not have ever felt such a way? Usually, I'm close to grasping just how to do that; but as I start to put it to words, it begins to fall apart, my point lost. This post has taken me some time to put together, but I think I've found a way to describe it.

I've always felt a want to impress boys, to show off. Growing up I thought it was because I had crushes, or that I just wanted to prove that I could be as good as the boys. The first one wasn't necessarily true but the second one was closer. I wanted to be accepted by the boys as one of them. I wanted to say, "I like a lot of the things you do. I want to join in with you. Can we be friends?" But I never did. I always had this looming fear that I wouldn't fit in, that they would reject me just on the sole basis that I was a "girl". (I actually wanted to take auto-shop so bad in high school but didn't because of that fear. I was a lonely person constantly afraid of rejection and being more lonely - still am. It's a stupid reason, and I still regret not stepping out of that comfort zone). That doesn't mean I never had guy friends. When I did, I always enjoyed the friendship and time spent. I don't know why some of the friendships never grew stronger. I've identified a want to be one of the guys on many occasions in my life. Being a closeted lesbian I felt it especially (and felt very confused by it too. If I was a lesbian why did I want to be one of the guys?). When around guys, I would want to talk about girls too. I would want to join in in general. Feel accepted.

Alternatively, in a group of girls I have always felt out of place. I noticed it more as I got into high school and beyond. I would be a part of the group, but I would always feel like a bit of an outsider. When working in places that were mostly women, I would have that same feeling and have a hard time joining in conversations. I'd smile and nod, act like I felt like a part of things but an act is all it was. Even where I work now it's the same. It's hard to explain the exact feeling, which is weird because when I feel it, it's so distinct… When I'm with my female coworkers I feel like there's a certain bond between them. It's not like friendship, it's not even that they get along better, it's just that there's something between them that I don't have with them. Does that make sense? I feel like it doesn't make sense but I don't know how to word it so it will. I mean, it's like I feel like I'm not one of them, but I don't have a desire to be one of them either. It's different than when I'm around guys.

At Adventure in Camping, I was surrounded by guys. I never completely felt like one of them, but by the end I felt as close as I could get. It was pretty darn nice. After that, working at Hertz I was surrounded by guys again. You see, the rental desk is located inside a local sports shop called Kittredge. Some people would try and include me but mostly I would observe from my little corner, wishing I was a part of the guys. I was confused, lonely, frustrated. I constantly wished I knew what was wrong with me. I knew I was missing something. This feeling wasn't new.

When I lived with my grandparents and they would take me to events or when they would have friends over, I would always get along with the husbands and the older men better. It wasn't that I couldn't get along with the ladies, but it never happened so naturally. Even between my grandparents, I gravitated towards my grandpa. Over the first year I lived there especially, I spent so much time with him. We went on a lot of lunches out together as he told me his stories. The best would be our "violent movie nights" as we called them. My grandma would be out for the evening which meant we had the house to ourselves. We would order pizza and watch movies that Grandma couldn't stomach (mostly Clint Eastwood movies like Dirty Harry, The Outlaw Jose Wales, etc. We mixed it up with other violent movies too). I know girls can like this stuff too, maybe that's why I never took it as a clue. But the love of those movies isn't really what I'm trying to draw attention to here anyway.  It's the natural draw to my grandpa. I've always felt that around my dad too, my uncles, all my male relatives. I hardly ever saw my mom's dad, my Grandpa Mike, but I even felt it in regards to him as well.

I don't remember a lot of "girl pressure" from these family members so much. By that I mean "you can't do this or that because you're a girl." There is one thing that has killed me over the years though. I'm the eldest and have always been told I can do whatever I put my mind to… but I can't carry on the family name and my brother can. Before I say how this makes me feel I just wanna say that that may not even be true because my family doesn't know my brother's deepest dreams. No one can tell him he has to start a family one day (I've never gotten any indication from him that he wants to). He shouldn't be expected to carry on the family name just because he's a boy as much as a girl shouldn't be expected to drop hers because she's a girl. Anyway, I have always been deeply hurt by this any couldn't explain why. It's not like I plan on having kids anyway. I've thought about maybe adopting one day, but as of right now I have no desire for children. I think its just the fact that I wasn't even considered as an option but my brother automatically was. I would feel the same way every time my parents or my Granny M especially would bring up the importance of him being the "Taylor male" and how great it was that my parents got a boy. I have always tried not to let this get to me but it always has all the same. Honestly, I feel like my brother will always have my dad's attention in ways I'll never be able to get it. I have always felt the need to make my dad notice me. I've always wanted to be just like him only I feel like he's never seen it. I feel like I could be waving my hands in his face screaming, "I want to be like you! Look at what I'm doing!" And he'd only glance and say, "Oh that's nice," then forget about it. I know he doesn't ignore everything I do but it always seems that the things I most want to share with him, he barely notices. Still, I'm always running back to him for advice, or even just to talk. I love him yet he drives me mad. We're so alike in so many ways yet I wonder if he sees it.

We're going to move on now and talk about another layer of this feeling. To be honest this part is making me  emotional, and I'm writing myself into a corner. There's more I want to say but I'm gunna have to say it at a later time. So, onwards…

There's someone else I've  always felt drawn to. Let's talk a little about my obsession with Freddie Mercury. I have been, for the longest time, in love with the band Queen. Their music will gets me to stop and listen every time. Often this includes singing along - even to the guitar solos. I adore every band member,  but none more than Freddie. Freddie drew my attention more than anything from the first moment I heard his voice, and even more so after watching videos of him perform. I eat up information about what he was like offstage. My obsession confused me as much as I fed it. Why was I so into Freddie? I remember a few years back Queen held a contest to start an official cover band that would tour and everything. I filmed so many audition videos but never sent any in. Why would I? None of them were right. It felt good when I was filming, but every time I played back what I had done, I didn't look like I thought I did, I didn't sound like I thought I did. Besides, how would I ever get the part as a girl when so many actual guys with talent were trying out. I had no chance and it broke my heart.

I've been listening to both male and female singers for years. When it comes to singing, I find that it's always been a personal habit of mine to try and mimic the voice I hear. In fact, when I took voice lessons and was asked to sing in my own voice I really struggled. When I mimic the female singers, I've always been proud of myself when I can do it but consciously realized "That's not me, that's me being (insert name here)" and when I tried to sing along with male voices… well singing along was all fine and dandy, but if I tried to sing it by myself it was (still is) the most heartbreaking disappointment. Do I really sound like that? Before I had the word "trans" it was especially heartbreaking, because I didn't understand why I was so upset.

I mean, I finally get an underlying struggle I had while working at the radio station (Oh yeah, I worked for a radio station for a while. Started interning my senior year, worked there a couple years and came back and worked for them part time when I moved back to Mammoth up until October of last year). I would have such an issue with listening back on my recordings. In the beginning, I would play back my voice tracks more but hated listening to myself. I knew I sounded fine, but for some reason I did not like listening to my voice. Once I had been recording enough to feel more comfortable, I stopped listening back as much (it was my trick to being so fast at voice tracking). Every so often I would force myself to listen to a shift of my voice tracks. All I'd have to do is turn on the radio when I knew I'd be "DJ-ing" while I was out and about just to check in with myself and make sure all was ok, but it was very difficult. The worst was doing commercials. At least a little more of my personality would come through when talking about music but recording a commercial would be like slipping right back into that Samantha costume I would for work. My voice would go into advertisement mode and would become the same voice I would use as a reservationist - or any job that required answering phones for that matter. I can remember being back in Adventure in Camping. One of the guys walked in after I had answered the phone with the usual spiel "thank you for calling adventure in Camping this is Samantha, how can I help you?" He did the total, repeat and mock of what I said and it made me feel so terrible. These days when I answer the phone this way for my current job, since I'm aware of the problem, I am also very much aware of the disconnect between myself and this voice. I'll answer the phone and it's like for a moment there's a whole new person there. Who's speaking? It's not me. Where is that voice coming from? Part of the reason I left the radio station back in October is because I knew voice tracks would soon become unbearable.

I mean, I feel great now that I've started hormone replacement therapy. I'm actually 3 months in (which is a huge deal that I'm so excited about). There's a certain calm within myself, a certain comfort within that I can feel that I've never felt before. Each day, it's only getting stronger. Yeah, I still have bad days. Normal stress still gets to me and dysphoria is a constant struggle but deep down inside where the worst of the mania was… it's fucking gone.

I was able to start my transition rather quickly. I am lucky in this and will be forever grateful. I found a therapist that I was even able to Skype with so I didn't have to travel a ridiculous distance (I still have to travel for my endocrinologist, but hey, you win some, you lose some). I didn't have to be seeing her for years, or live as a man for a set amount of time (there are states that make you do this) before I was able to get a referral to begin hormone replacement therapy. Now, just so you know, you don't have to do HRT to be trans. Everyone's trans journey is different. Considering one of my goals was always to kill my period, I knew HRT would be a goal for me.

You have to understand that it's extremely difficult for me to make decisions, especially regarding myself and my happiness. I will obsess for a ridiculous amount of time before I finally make the damn choice and only cause myself more pain by prolonging the wait. This was different. Now, I did have to come to terms with being trans. Like I said, there were years of pushing it away, but when the time came that I finally turned around and applied the word to myself, it felt so right and fit so perfectly...  Even when I was sitting there going,  "No… I have to think about this more… It can't be true…" I knew it was true. I could try and deny it all I wanted, but that wasn't changing anything. I knew I would never stop obsessing about it because it's the ultimate truth and there was no way I could lie to myself about it any more. I struggled with being a lesbian more than this. I mean, fuck, I was aware of that for 3 years but something just felt off about coming out. I didn't plan to deny it if someone asked me out right, but I didn't want to come out publicly (I also realized that was weird). Turns out it was because it wasn't the right label, and I was holding out for myself...

Let me say it again: This has felt so right! I can't tell you the last time I felt this comfortable with myself. Shit, I never felt so happy to be experiencing puberty. Female puberty was a new hell every day. My boobs alone have caused many tears and my period…. Listen, I know no woman is a fan of her period, but it would make me so miserable and feel so far from myself… I hated my period so much that back when I was dangerously skinny, I lost my period and didn't tell anybody. I knew it wasn't healthy and that scared me. Still, I was more afraid of people making me go to the doctor to get it back. Long story short, I did get healthy again and got it back, up until I started taking testosterone that is (thank fucking goodness).

Back to first puberty… I remember I didn't notice when I started growing hair, other people did. I very clearly remember being in middle school, 6th grade. I was jumping on a trampoline with one of my friends and happened to be wearing one of my favorite shirts - just happened to be a tank top. I lifted up my arms and with one cry of "ew" brimming with so much disgust, my friend made it known to me that I had underarm hair and that it was unacceptable. With shame later that day, I asked my mom if she would show me how to shave. The stuff was fast growing, and I would need to shave often. Still, this wasn't the only time my underarm hair would be made fun of. "Maybe you should just go to France, Sam. I hear girls there have a lot of underarm hair. You'd fit right in." Looking back now I realize I was most embarrassed because I *like* being hairy. I have always shaved out of shame. I never wanted to start shaving my legs either. The most freedom I ever felt was last summer when I said "that's it" and gave up on shaving my legs and underarms for good. I am not ashamed to say that I'm one of those transguys who checks for new hairs every day. I'm also happy to report that I have hairy genes, and one of the first changes I started noticing was my increase in hair. (Please I beg of you if you ever notice my stubble or whatever tell me. You will make my fucking week). Let me tell you, I never realized how much I wanted facial hair until I started growing it. I've felt such sadness the times I've had to shave it. (Yes, it's actually growing enough that I've gotten to this point). I let it go until I feel like it's noticeable in the right light. If anyone *has* noticed, they haven't said anything. I think it may have to do with the idea that everyone assumes I'm a girl and if they do notice it, they probably figure a girl doesn't want to hear she has facial hair. Damnit.

I hate it when people assume anything because of how I look. I mean, I wish appearance wasn't so much of the issue, but people really do decide things about you based off how you look. I mean, here's a little one that causes me endless annoyance. I work in a shipping center. People bring in all sorts of packages to go out. Men drop off packages, take one look at me, and go "This is heavy. Do you want me to help you with that?" This package is 40 lbs. I can fucking lift it. I could lift twice as much. I *want* to lift it. I've always loved being considered strong. As long as I can remember, I've taken a sense of pride in being able to lift heavy things. Fuck, I lift weights for fun. Man, woman, I don't care. Let me lift the heavy thing. But, because I'm assumed to be a girl, people let me lift less. I insist I can do it as much as possible, but I swear there are still times I get told no. Every time we get copy paper delivered, my boss, Marcia, goes "No, no, no don't lift that. Let Craig take care of it." Because he's the guy. Let me just excuse myself to go throw a temper tantrum in the corner…

(Some time later)

Lately I've been bouncing between that feeling I mentioned earlier of feeling so good about myself to this extreme frustration that comes from people not seeing me as I see me. As I said in my last post, it's time to come out at the places I'm still closeted. I'm only going to get more upset the longer this all goes on. I mean, I was just talking to my partner about my lack of confidence in myself this morning and I said this, "I think I have so little confidence that I don't want to do enough to help myself." I had to stop and look at that after I sent it because somehow I feel like that's hitting the nail on the head. The lack of confidence feeds the dysphoria just as much as it feeds my fear of coming out.

I want to stress again how much it's not about appearance. It's about feeling comfortable within myself. Unfortunately, it seems I won't be able to completely get there until my appearance can line up. "Passing" is a controversial thing. The idea of that being the goal - as if to say I was never what I claim to be in the first place, that I won't be until I look like a guy - is an insulting thought. But we live in an appearance based society. We have a long way to go before someone looks at you - no matter what gender you look like - and asks your preferred pronouns before addressing you. For the current time - a gradually shortening amount of time, I try to remind myself - I still look too much like a girl for people to assume I'm anything but one. I try not to let it bother me though more often than not I fail.

I can feel my self confidence trying to form deep within myself. Some days I can feel it come forward, have a few hours where it takes control. Holding onto it in the hard moments is the real challenge. In the end though, it's a personal problem. When it gets down to it, I'm the only one who can fix this. It does help to write it out, to get it out of my head.

I hope this post wasn't too long, or too all over the place. I feel like there's so much more I could say, I just don't know how to fit it. This was probably one of the most difficult posts to write thus far.

Hiding In Plain Sight

October 10, 2016:

Morning wraps her cold fingers around me, yanking me free from the tethers of the sea of nightmares. I attempt to shake away the last droplets of discomfort and fear, but they seem to seep into my skin before they can be shed. They find their way into my heart and brain, taking seed.

How to eradicate such unwelcome feelings when they have already rooted themselves?

Sweet music, soft distraction. I send it through the airwaves. Surely, we can reset this morning.

Yet that nagging pain lingers, a shot of negativity remains. Not more than a drop, yet diluted into the bloodstream, it travels far.

Help me.

I wrote that months ago, yet this morning as I wake up, it still rings true. I can wake up with the negativity or it can come crashing through the windshield of my life in the form of a pebble-shaped wrong pronoun at work. I try hard not to let the little things ruin my day, to distract myself and get through it. It's easier said than done.

The longer I'm on hormones, and the more I do to dress and style myself how I feel more comfortable (or at least attempt to), the more the divide within myself grows. The character of "Samantha" that I have spent years on is starting to crumble apart. As I tick away at all the bad habits I built up because I felt I had to be a certain way, I can't help but feel like I'm losing my grip.

Far too much of my life has been forcing myself to be someone I'm not. It got it into my head somewhere along the way that I had to be like the "other girls." I'm not the more common trans story (at least out of what I've found hearing about or reading others' stories). My entire childhood wasn't "I'm a boy. I should be a boy." I know I knew it, and I can remember dreams and thoughts that are proof that I knew it young.  Somewhere along the way (I haven't found that point yet), I realized that because of my outward appearance, I was supposed to make myself be a girl. Because of this, a lot of dysphoria I experienced I classified as not being confident enough. Let me try to explain. It's story time.

April 2013. I was living with my grandparents in La Cañada at the time. My sister came to visit for Easter. As we were getting ready for brunch, I completely lost it. I had this lovely dress and had done my hair all fancy, but it all felt so wrong. I looked at my sister. She wasn't dressed any fancier than me but there was something different. She seemed more comfortable, at ease. If she wasn't confident in how she looked, you couldn't tell. (Actually I've compared myself to my sister a lot through my life and have always come up with these same feelings). I, on the other hand, felt terribly off. I came close to crying. (May have actually cried. I seem to cry at everything). I think I changed my outfit several times before forcing myself back into the original one. I tried to explain to her what was going on. That I didn't know what was happening just that I didn't feel right. She was kind but didn't understand. She just kept telling me I looked great and didn't need to worry. This same thing had been happening to me for years, even on the smaller scale of getting dressed every morning, only I didn't know how to explain it. I thought I was being ridiculous.

It wasn't long after that instance in April that I got into fitness and eating healthy. It was true that I was out of shape and eating a lot of shit. I had just started dating this girl I was really into and I wanted to look good for both her and myself. The mental shit regarding my body only got worse in the next coming months.

Living with my grandparents (and working for my grandma), I felt a constant unspoken pressure to look nice. My grandma is an interior designer. You can't work for an interior designer in Pasadena and get away with wearing jeans and t-shirts, especially when you get to go on adventures with that designer to her clients' houses or to her vendors. Add the fact that I was dating a girl more on the butch side so my brain said, "Well you already dress more feminine, so keep going." Not that I hadn't forced this shit onto myself before. I can remember being back in high school and specifically asking my little sister not to let me out of the house if I hadn't tried to do something more with my outfit than a t-shirt and jeans (in case you were wondering, this didn't work). I thought I wanted to have this hippie, goddess style. I admired it so much. (Yeah, because that was what I was attracted to, I just didn't realize that part). I thought my discomfort in those outfits was just because I felt self conscious dressing more loud than my usual style. I ignored the fact that I was far more comfortable in my normal style. But it wasn't just comfort, that's what I didn't get. I felt right. I felt more like Sam when I dressed that way. Even if it was "frumpy" for a girl. (Note: I realize girls can dress any way they want to. This stereotypical "girls gotta dress this way" shit is not the only reason I have come to knowing I'm trans. It's just what's been on my mind and what I've gotta vent about right now).

Fast forward to October 2013 when the relationship fell apart. This is where I lost it. My grandparents never liked the girl, so it wasn't like I had anyone to talk to about it. (I'm terrible at making friends and in the 2 years I lived with my grandparents I had an impossible time meeting people my age). I had taken my diet to good points by this time, but with the breakup I moved into unhealthy territory. By February 2014, I was down to 107lbs, still losing weight, and still incredibly dissatisfied with myself. It didn't matter how good I looked. I still wasn't happy. I decided to do something different with my hair. I thought about cutting it off, was too scared, and went with dying it auburn (which would eventually become bright red). I was deep in a land of self deception. I was constantly telling myself that I had to keep dressing nice, had to keep working on my style until I could feel comfortable in it (while I continued to ignore how I was comfortable). Everyone would always compliment me. I would put on a smile, but why did it feel so fake? Why didn't I like the compliments? Didn't I want them? That's why I dressed that way, right? That's why I dyed my hair that way… right?

By April 2014, I was moving back to Mammoth. That didn't mean my pain was going to get any better. In fact, for a couple more years, it was only going to get worse.

Each time I start a new job, I hit myself harder with the appearance shit. I don't know what I'm expected to dress like, so I default to the way I learned to dress working for my grandma. My first job back in Mammoth was answering the phones for Adventure in Camping, and that default only lasted for a day. I was around a whole bunch of guys and there were no expectations to dress extra nice. I ignored makeup, and wore lots of jeans, t-shirts, and flannel. I was in bliss in that aspect, but it was only a summer job. Hertz was kind in the fact that I had a uniform so I didn't have to obsess over that. The only thing I did was start to wear makeup again. I was around people in general more. I got one glimpse of how tired I looked without makeup on one day and thought, "Oh no. Now I have to go back to that makeup shit." I never had to. It was a lie. Just another one to pile on top of the ever-growing jenga pile of lies that has been my life.

I could handle the abuse at Hertz for just shy of a year before I switched again, this time to where I'm at now. Of course the fresh start meant I slipped right back into those nice but not satisfying style choices. I was so uncomfortable. Sometimes I would try to wear a low cut shirt (I had a couple) that wasn't even that low cut, but I would feel like my boobs were just hanging out. Skinny jeans would feel tight and make me feel exposed. Everything had to look right. Everything had to look nice. I still felt wrong.

I slowly started changing back to my comfortable style, especially when I had been working at MBE long enough to know it was ok to be more casual. By the end of the nightmare that was Merchant of Venice, I was done with that girly style for good. After I had realized how much pain that play was causing, I swore to myself that it would literally be Samantha's last hurrah, that she would live one last time for the play then the character could just die. No more forcing myself to wear makeup. No more bras. No more low cut shirts. No more long, red hair. No more skirts. I started feeling better right away.

Before I go on, I want to say that I hate that this sounds like it's all about appearance. It's not. This is deeper than than. Fuck, this morning I had a hard time feeling right in my clothes and I'm wearing jeans, a pullover, and I even have my binder on so my chest looks practically nonexistent. Also, my hair is finally super short. You'd think this would stop that awful feeling. I always hope it will. Alas, dysphoria is fickle and plays by its own rules. I can dress how I feel comfortable and still struggle. Its slowly getting better, but now I'm starting to backslide on my own progress. You see, part of the problem is, even if I can start on a good note and get to work feeling pretty good in my own skin, other people don't see what I see in myself, what I feel. They still see me as this other person that I'm trying to get rid of, and it's my fault this problem even exists. I feel like all that people see is this character I've created, and I'm not saying people never have seen my personality but what they've seen is an extremely guarded and carefully filtered version of myself, tailored to whoever I happen to be around.

It's frustrating and maddening. How could I have worked against myself so long? How can I continue to work against myself? Each time I answer the phone as "Samantha," each time I smile and nod at being referred to as a girl, each day I don't just open up about myself and explain my need to correct these things, I'm making life harder on myself. I mean, just yesterday I answered the phone at work and the guy on the other end goes, "I work with a Samantha, except she goes by Sam." Yeah I prefer Sam too, Dude. I just suck at saying what I prefer. I think they even asked me when I first started working here but after my last job where I had no choice, I guess I was too used to it? (Even though I hated it…?) Don't ask me where this crazy logic comes from.

I can't live in fear anymore. This great divide between the person I really am and the person I've made people to think I am is only going to grow wider. I'm only hurting myself more each new time I try to slip into Samantha's skin. I'm done with this. Part of writing this blog is to give me courage, courage to be completely myself. No filters. Raw Sam. So many decisions I have made in my life have been in fear - fear of what others will think primarily. I'm constantly upset with myself over this. Would I have figured this about myself sooner had I not been such a prisoner to fear?

Ever since I admitted to myself I'm trans, I've been constantly analyzing myself, trying to figure out how I could have missed it. I never missed it. I was hiding it from myself. (It's right fucking there in the notes for one of my later books in the series I'm working on. This isn't the only writing I've found clues in either). How screwed is that? I knew something was wrong, at one point I even knew exactly what it was, and I kept it from myself. I'm telling you, I have early memories of being maybe one or two and knowing I was a boy, then they stop. I remember thinking back on those memories like, "That must have been a dream. How could I have been a boy?" I literally convinced myself they were dreams and pushed them away.

It seems I was as good at hiding the truth from myself as I now seem to be at hiding it from others. I don't know why I'm such a glutton for torture. I'm the only one stopping me from moving forward. So this is me putting it out to the Universe, asking for whoever is reading this to help keep me accountable. I made the first big step back in October to come out in my personal life. It's been long enough. I have to come out at the place I spend most of my life. I need to talk to my bosses.

It's time to put an end to this hiding in plain sight, once and for all.

More Than A Pound Of Flesh

Theatre has been my go-to self therapy for years. What it took me until 2016 to realize was that maybe it's less therapy and more of a flat out escape.

My first experience of wanting to be in a real production was 6th grade. Fresh off the introvert train of home schooling I saw those audition flyers for Robin Hood, felt an immense pull… and chickened out. Fast forward a year later. I saw that the Drama club would be doing the Princess Bride. I had just seen the movie for the first time that past summer. It was like fate. I couldn't refuse. (Warning: If you are not familiar with the Princess Bride the next few sentences will not make sense. Also, I feel very sorry for you and would highly suggest watching it at your earliest convenience). I was never a fan of Princess Buttercup and thus had no plans of auditioning for her part. Instead, I tried for the Spaniard. I did not get it but instead was cast as Vizzini  (aka the guy who says "inconceivable" a billion times) and the Clergyman (the guy who is supposed to marry Buttercup and Humperdink). To this day those are some of my favorite parts I've ever played. From that play, I was hooked. There was a certain exhilaration in being able to abandon myself completely and put on another person's skin for a while. I was told where to stand, how to sound, what to say. I didn't realize how badly I needed that in my life until I did it.

Theatre was the only way I was able to get through school. It wasn't that I had bad grades (I was labelled as one of the "smart ones" and was always expected to be a genius) only that I felt so out of place I couldn't stand it. I figured that was normal for a teenager and just pushed through it, but that didn't make it hurt less. When I did have friends I felt like an outsider in my own group. I had a hard time being social outside of school. I felt like I floated between groups and to this day I'm surprised when people remember me because I always felt like a ghost. I guess I have theatre to thank for being noticed. It made me feel like I belonged to something, to a group, even if it was only for the duration of the play.

I played a variety of parts throughout my Middle and High school careers. When it comes down to it, I've realized that the parts I enjoyed the most were the guy parts or the parts that were completely over the top. In 11th grade I got the lead role of Oliver Twist in the musical Oliver (I had actually tried out for the Artful Dodger, but I find it interesting to mention that this is another play where I avoided the female lead). When we advertised in the paper, we used a photo of me as Oliver being threatened by the main villain. The director told me of an instance where he had been talking to people in the community about it and they had said, "Oh, the boy you have playing Oliver is perfect!" He corrected them and informed me later, just to let me know how convincing I looked (17 year old "girl" playing 13 year old boy… Yeah it was nice to get the confirmation). What I didn't understand at the time was why I was so pleased to hear that from him. I would retell the story with pride but in the back of my mind I would go, "Why does this make me so happy?" It would take me a while yet to figure out the answer to that question.

Fast forward to 2014. The last play I was in was the 2011 Murder Mystery. As I watched the Shakespeare in the Woods production of Two Gentlemen of Verona, I could feel the pull again. I wouldn't be able to make it happen until the following fall when I would join the cast for the 2015 Murder Mystery. And thus would begin the questioning, "Why doesn't this make me happy anymore?" (To be fair, that questioning started when I first was trying to get into local theatre outside of high school, but I took an acting break. I guess that means the questioning began again).

Before I go on, I will explain what this Murder Mystery is. Each year, the theatre company in Mammoth that I often find myself associated with, Sierra Classic Theatre, holds a fundraiser dinner. While people eat, they enjoy a show that has been written by locals. Always a spoof. Always full of small town inside jokes. For the 2015 Murder Mystery is was a jab at the "Real Housewives." Think of the housewives, how they dress. Let that sink in.

My character was fun. She was a crazy hippie who had some ridiculous lines. I was excited to play her. I was not in any way shape or form excited to wear her costume. The point of the Murder Mystery is to be over the top. The housewives are over the top. I had to be an over the top sexy housewife in heels. (I had really hoped the hippie thing would save me from heels and an updo. It didn't). I know I looked fabulous. Everyone wouldn't stop telling me. I kept telling people how sexy I felt, but that was a lie. I didn't feel sexy. I felt as far from sexy as you could get. Nothing gave me more pleasure at the end of performance nights than to rush home as fast as possible and rip off those clothes, dismantle the tower of hair, and scrub off the layers of makeup. I've always been uncomfortable dressed like that. It wasn't the first time (in a murder mystery no less) that I had been expected to wear something like that and the act only became more uncomfortable each time I did it. Still, I was grasping for that solace I had found in my early years of theatre. The hunt to find it again would go on. 

There was a brief tease in the Spring of 2016 where for a week of my life I was immersed in a play called Rapture, Blister, Burn. It was a staged reading so lines didn't have to be memorized. There would be only one performance. I was playing a college student so my tshirt and jeans were accepted as a costume. I was in bliss and it was stolen far too soon. You have to understand that it was the hole left from that play that had me willing to do anything for a full production.

Then came the 2016 Shakespeare in the Woods.

We're gunna do a little time warp here and jump forward…

It's dress rehearsal, and it's the first time I've fully put on my costume.

All I felt like was boobs and hair.

I wanted to die.

Everyone I walked past had to say some version of "Sam you look amazing!" Did the guys ever notice that they literally stopped and stared at me long enough for me to notice before they said anything?

I wanted to die.

Just an hour earlier I was home at my house. My bosses had been gracious enough to let me leave early. I was going to need every extra second for the mane…

Long locks - how long since I had last cut them? They had never been shorter than my shoulders due to the fearful nagging voice of my father always chirping in to my thoughts, "Not don't cut your hair! It's so pretty. I love girls with long hair." I have always wanted to do what makes my dad happy, makes him proud, makes him notice me. For him - far more than myself, I realize - I held onto the security blanket that was my hair. So my hair was down to the middle of my back, and oh, also dyed a bright, bloody red (I was under the constant assumption that the more intense I got with my fashion choices, the more I would feel "confident" in my body. I was only ever doing more damage, it turns out). Since we were doing a western theme - cmon, just imagine the fashion those girls wore - I was to combine my costume with curled locks. I knew it might take a while. Long hair, combined with emotional pain regarding making myself more feminine… I was going to need time to take breaks… and let's be honest, I needed some weed too. Only after I was high was I going to be able to look at myself in the mirror for the next 45 minutes to an hour.

There were tears, of course there were tears. I tried to console myself, "In Shakespeare's time, women weren't allowed to act. Men played all the female roles." It was a nice try, but somehow it didn't ease the pain.

"If you're still single by the end of this show, you were looking the wrong way." Why did that one coming at me sting so badly? It was meant well, but all it did was call to attention how beautiful I looked in my female attire. It only reminded me how attractive I can be...as a woman. I know I looked fabulous, but I felt like a poodle.

It was hard to play the role through practices but somehow it never prepared me for this particular feeling of hopelessness. I wished I could go back to the high school years, the years I could play a guy. At least for one brief moment in this play I got to cross dress. I would shed that horrible red outfit in one quick change, throwing it to the ground with gusto as I pulled on trousers, buttoned away my chest beneath a more neutral top, and tucked my hair away… It would only last for one scene, but oh man, did it feel good. I could feel the difference in my confidence after I would burst from the dressing room and take my place offstage, waiting to go on.

But then I would go back to being a woman, complete with being groped.

Have I mentioned yet that I wanted to die?

Let's go back now, back to April 2016 when auditions were announced. To tell the truth, I had no love for any of the female characters. Merchant of Venice has never been a big favorite for me. The first time I read it in high school I hated every character but Shylock. I would have loved to play Shylock (but it wasn't meant to be, cause the guy who played him in our production nailed it and I wouldn't have wanted anyone else in the part). I even contemplated asking if I could try out for a guy part, most likely the clown, but couldn't work up the guts. So I was Nerissa, right hand gal to the lead, Portia.

I tried to convince myself that I would enjoy the part the more we practiced, but as the summer went on, I found myself sinking only deeper into depression. The thought of going to play practice brought me no joy, in fact, thinking it about it only made me tired. By the time I realized that it was doing more harm than good and that I should have dropped out, it was far too late to do so.

The first time I tried on my costume was maybe a month before the performance. (This timeline could be wrong. That feels so soon but the practice process was only a couple months. We started practice in June and performed the end of August). It wasn't fully together yet, but even then, I knew I was in for trouble. (At that point, I was still toying with the idea of dropping out. The first sight of this costume just about made me do it). My director wanted me to try it on to make sure we were on the right track for fit. It fit great, yet the sight of my director's face lighting up when she saw how good it looked was no cause for comfort. My heart sank with each assuring word of how excited she was about this costume. I wished I could have been as excited as she was, but really, it was the Murder Mystery from the previous fall all over again. Why do people want to put me in these super feminine costumes? Why?

"Because they look good on you."

No. They look good on Samantha, someone who isn't even real. Sam loathes these things. Every time Sam has ever tried to get dressed for an event that requires a dress there's frustration, tears, no confidence. A breakdown is almost inevitable. These things are not for Sam. I can't bear to look at myself this way. It's not like this just started happening. This has been going on at least since puberty only I didn't know just what it was. Usually I called it "insecurity," a "lack of confidence" and assured myself that if I forced myself to dress these ways and sucked it up eventually I would like it. So deluded. But, when you grow up not knowing a lot about anything LGBTQ, it's hard to know if you are or not. Plus, when you have strange feelings that no one else seems to have, it becomes easier to pretend the weird feelings don't exist and bottle them inside. Anthying is better than sharing them and risking embarrassment. (Right?) It doesnt feel good to say, "Do you know how this feels?" and to have that person respond, "Uhhhh…no," and then look at me like I'm some complete weirdo.

Even now that I'm aware that the exact problem wasn't that there's anything wrong with me, it's only that I'm transgender, it's hard for me to share those feelings. I'm not the kind of person where it's that easy to talk about personal things. I have a hard time telling people it's my birthday, so "coming out" is a pretty big deal… which meant my loneliness and sorrow, being bottled so deep, was only made worse throughout the summer. I wasn't ready to share the deepest secret about myself.

It was bittersweet when we finally came to the end. I was excited to leave Nerissa behind, but I hated that I would lose the fellowship of people. More than anything, I hated that I was so happy that it was all over. That isn't why I do plays. That isn't why I invest so much time and energy…

One of the main conflicts that happens in Merchant of Venice is that Antonio agrees to pay Shylock a pound of his own flesh if he can't repay him for a loan. This summer, it felt like I gave up a hell of a lot more than a pound of flesh. It killed me, and I've needed more than anything to talk about it. Lately, everyone asks me what my next production is, but where do I go from here? I tell everyone I'm taking a break because it takes so much time and energy. Truth? I'm taking a break until I can pass well enough to try out for the parts I really want. What I don't know is when that will be. I hope it's soon. Escape or therapy, it doesn't matter. I need the theatre. I need the people. I need the break from reality. There's something about a production that I can't explain. This amazing feeling... even through all the shit that I hated during Merchant of Venice, I still tasted that feeling. It's in the people, the fellowship of working together to make this beautiful piece of art happen. I guess it was for that feeling that just this last time, I found it worth it to lose myself even more. In fact, I needed to go through the pain to drive it home to myself why it's so important that I stop playing Samantha.