The secret diary of my gender identity: by a non-binary, masc. lesbian

I’m loosely aware I’m a girl but can’t tangibly get hold of that because it doesn’t really fit

BY FAY BARRETT

He-Man (4-years-old):

He-man raises his sword, all rippling muscles and 80s hair, bellowing “By the power of Greyskull, I have the power!”

Only it’s not He-man, it’s me giving it large in our living room. When I grow up, I want to be He-man. Or Superman. Essentially, anything with ‘man‘ in the title.

I’m loosely aware I’m a girl but can’t tangibly get hold of that because it doesn’t seem to fit. Girls play with Cindy dolls. I only do that when my He-man action figure rescues her from Skeletor.

I’m more like a boy. Yes, we’re physically different, but I’ve had a look between my legs, and think there’s a willy coming.

I’m filled with hope and a prickling of doubt when I ask, “Mummy, when will I be a boy?”

She stiffens. I smell the fear. “Darling, you’re a girl. You’ll never be a boy. It’s not possible.”

There’s a dimming of the light. 

My world flips.

“It’s not possible.”

Robin Hood (7-years-old):

My face tickles while Mum applies the make-up that later becomes a cherry cola smudge across my chin. It’s my birthday and I’m having a Robin Hood party. He’s my hero now and I’ve spent the last few years role-playing him with my grandparents. Grandma doubles as the Sherriff of Nottingham and Maid Marion, which is a weird casting combo but we were short on actors.

I’m dressed in Sherwood Forest green, and Mum’s making me into the man of my dreams. She’s painted on exactly the kind of moustache/beard combo I asked for: rakish, like Errol Flynn’s.

When she’s done, I stare at my reflection: the dashing hero, the handsome Prince: me. An outer reflection of how I feel inside.

I smile.

Maybe it is possible, even if it’s painted on.

A tween between (13):

I’m confused. About who I am, who I’ve been, and who I’m meant to be.

Something’s “not right”. I don’t “fit”. I’m neither one thing nor another, I’m a “between person”. All I know is I’m “me” and “me” is somehow different.

People ask Mum if “the boy thing” has hit, insinuating there’ll be this hormonal kick and I’ll lose my shit over anything male. I LOVE Take That but, when I listen to them on my Sony Walkman, I imagine I’m in the band, not screaming at them.

I have crushes, but don’t realise that’s what they are because they’re on girls and that’s not allowed.  Instead, I imagine I’m a boy and dream about taking Vicky to see Forrest Gump.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to do the forbidden thing: change sex. Reinvent myself as a boy and start again. Maybe then I could take a girl to a movie? Only, I push it down because these are dangerous thoughts and flying to the moon would be easier.

Kate Winslet (17):

I don’t look in mirrors, I avoid windows, I can’t walk past the mirrored pillars in the shopping mall. I’ve been bullied mercilessly for the last five years, and it’s left me in a state of abject self-loathing. I want to break myself down and start again. I’m in the grips of a depressive, dysmorphia I almost lose myself too.

I desperately want to be an actress, that’s my dream of dreams. But actresses are stunningly beautiful, and I feel anything but. So, I make myself up, feminising to the max, looking to my Kate Winslet posters for inspiration. I’m the only 17-year-old girl I know with a picture of Kate in her bra next to their bed. I tell myself it’s because I want to be her, not be with her. That the reason I see Titanic 7 times is because of Leo, not because I’m in love with her.

But in my secret moments I slick my hair, slip on the Romeo and Juliet soundtrack, and pretend to be him, all chiselled abs and androgynous cheekbones, slinking around my bedroom with a hairbrush shoved in my waist band like a gun.

Girlfriend/boyfriend (26):

 “Some swore he was a maid in man’s attire,

For in his looks were all that men desire,”

I’m in a play. It’s an all-female production of Christopher Marlowe’s erotic love poem, Hero And Leander. Tellingly, I’ve been cast as the androgynous, Romeo-esq Leander, and that line is about me. My character, it’s about my character…

It feels like destiny gifted me this role. I spend my days exploring banished parts of myself, masc-ing up and pretending to make love to a woman. On stage, I have my first kiss with a girl. It sets me beautifully on fire. I fall in love with my (straight) leading lady. At night I return to my sweet boyfriend of five years, agonisingly confused. By day I play the boyfriend, by night the girlfriend. Only one fits. But the stage is the only place I’m free.

Leading Lady (29):

I’ve gone full femme and I’m fucking gorgeous! My androgyny has been replaced by perfectly styled hair and Top Shop mini dresses. I look, like I’ve stepped out of Cosmo. I’m on the cusp of becoming a leading actress and this is how I need to look. I love the attention, it’s an intoxicating antidote to the dysmorphia I’ve struggled with for years. But, when I go on dates with guys, part of me knows this is a painted performance I’ve constructed. It’s like I’m watching myself move, flirt, laugh in a way I’ve observed in others. By making myself what men want, I’m a watered-down version of myself. It’s the best damn acting of my life.  I’ll act this part for five more years.

Non-binary (36):

“Do you think you might be non-binary?” my lovely first girlfriend asks, when gender dysphoria rears its head again. I don’t know. I’ve never heard those words, don’t know what they mean. The subsequent google ‘deep-dive’ blows my world open. Learning there’s a name for the feelings I’d struggled with, that other people feel them too, that it is a thing, is everything. I cry for the child I was, growing up believing they were wrong. Now I have a word that explains me: non-binary.

Although, I can’t shake the feeling this isn’t the full story. There’s still a seductive pull towards the masculine. The current is so strong, I don’t think I can swim against it. It’s so obvious my girlfriend says she’ll 100% support me if I want to transition. I feel unbelievably seen and loved. But the levels of fear and danger that bubble around that word ‘transition’ are too much. I don’t think the people I hold close will cope with it. So, I push myself down again, comforted in part by the new word I’ve discovered that, at least in part, means me.

Me (42):

Hey, how you doing? This is me talking now. The non-binary, masc. lesbian. I’m the adult the little kid, with the painted-on beard, was meant to be. They got lost along the way, but I found them in the end. I’m the (almost) fully formed version of that secret voice that whispered in the dark. I’m me.  

Gender is a journey and I’m still on it. I haven’t fully arrived at my destination, but I’m more at peace with myself than ever. I’m still finding my way with the language that’s evolving around gender. Discovering the term ‘trans-masc.’ was another ‘world blown open’ moment.

Trans masc. speaks to the core of me more than non-binary does. I didn’t know it was possible to be trans without transitioning, didn’t think that was a term I was allowed to claim.

But I guess the social transitioning through hair, clothing, pronouns etc I’ve done over the last 2.5 years says otherwise. As does the way my mind floats towards top surgery on a daily basis. But for now, I’m getting comfortable with who I am. I’m learning to own the body I have, to love it when I’m standing bare chested, in boxers, in front of a mirror. I’m seeing my breasts as pecs, loving them again, and realising that just because I have an AFAB (Assigned Female AT Birth) physique, that’s not the full story of who I am.

When I was 4, I wanted to be anything with ‘man’ in the title. I still want that. But I’m starting to see that maybe that’s who I’ve been all along. That the person I know I am inside, isn’t dictated by other people’s perceptions of me, regardless of whether I change my outside or not.