I Don’t Understand Dysphoria: A Transman’s Perspective

The term dysphoria is not one I understand well from a visceral standpoint. I’ve had to look the word up several times. It’s strange, a word that supposedly encapsulates so much of what my experience as a trans person is yet, what the hell does it mean.

Lesbian was a word I understood well. It made practical sense. Women who are attracted and loved other women. Simple enough. In the 1990’s it meant so much more.

Gender and sexuality were indistinguishable. Lesbian allowed me to occupy men’s spaces. Reserved men’s spaces women were denied access to on the grounds of in ability. This category allowed gender to be porous. I could move through spaces both male and female without being suspect to a significant segment of the conservative communities I existed within.

It could be hard to tell what crime you were persecuted for; what unspoken, impossibly imbedded immutable laws of man and men you transgressed. Was it the gay or the manly? Ultimately, it just didn’t matter. Denied health insurance, housing and employment or simply subjected to the the invisible undertow only the groups of “others” see and feel.

I’ve left my social media profiles with old pictures of myself. I haven’t scrubbed my history to reflect my present. I haven’t had time. Fighting, filing, form submission, phone calls, fees, legal proceedings and every manner of bureaucratic barrier has forced me to repeat, replicate, pay and press on to change my legal name and gender in all the untold dozens and dozens of places I’m allegedly me.

The term dead name makes complete sense to me. It is dead. It feels like a betrayal to hear it uttered at me. It will never again be about me, only at me, like a weapon wielded to bluntly blow me back into line. It’s a contract I never signed yet is legally binding in ways I can sparsely grasp. Customarily, name and gender are just truths so ubiquitous they don’t even require acceptance. They just… are.

The nearest thing to tidy, textbook dysphoria I feel is looking at pictures of myself in makeup, lip gloss, feminine dress attire. It feels like this shameful lie I told about myself. I felt so uncomfortable wearing those things. Yet I was applauded, encouraged, complimented and flattered. Effusive praise in public spaces from people who did not like me. I found it disquieting. A conspiracy or shame. I distrust compliments, even now.

I can’t find any meaning in the life I was assigned. I move forward, toward things that bring me comfort. Make me comfortable. Reconcile the image I hold of myself in my own mind.

I’m forever skirting the edge. I “pass” as my gender. I’m not questioned in public spaces about whether I belong. There is a dreaded sense of being “found out” and harmed in public-private spaces like bathrooms. I can’t bring myself to even look at those old images, let alone decide their fate. Moving forward is the only option. Yet, I know my friends and acquaintances on social media comb through those old images. I’m not sure, nor do I care what their thoughts are. It’s vaguely occurred to me but I simply keep my social media friend circle smaller and my settings private.

I didn’t “transition.” How could you transition to what you’ve always been. These words are so often shorthand for the creation, comfort and understanding of the sometimes well meaning outsider. Alignment is more accurate. Now, the image you see of me and the image I see of me are aligned or at least close enough to not cause me to lose my way, drifting.