I don’t feel much like a woman. Never have. Being a woman always seemed like some sort of production. Like playing a role in a play. Striving to match in every possible way this all-consuming ideal of the modern, attractive woman. No time to think. No time to enjoy anything else. Just focus on your appearance and social roles.
Ye olde Stepmother thought I was a lesbian because I didn’t seem drawn to makeup, dresses, styling my hair. Given the fact I had no attraction to women, I think she is simply so ignorant that any woman that deviates from her norm is automatically homosexual. A product of her times. And an absolute c*nt.
For a while I thought I might be trans. I remember feeling thrilled looking at before-T and after-T photos, about how amazing these gents looked. T is truly astonishing at masculinizing faces and bodies. I thought to myself: I’m already so beefy and butchy looking, transitioning would be natural. I don’t have any comfort with female social roles. But men’s? Hell yes.
Then I encountered gender critical feminism. I’m not a TERF. But I am a fan of the notion that you can be a masculine woman or a feminine man and not need to change your body. Some need to change their bodies to live, and I understand that. But for me, now I think of gender not as some oppressive cage, but as a toy in my hands.
I now know I’m non-binary. An enby. Someone who lives in between, who can be one or the other or both at any given moment. I don’t have to pretend to be excited at a dress. I can wear tunics with leggings (as close to dresses as I’m comfortable) or a flowy Indian skirt occasionally, when I feel like it, for no reason other than I want to. Or I can wear jeans and a t-shirt. And a flannel shirt. I flipping love flannel shirts.
But it’ll take time to work that confidence. Even now, I hide my lack of interest in feminine things. I wear a wig to work to hide my short pixie cut. I appear to have shoulder length nicely styled hair from 9-5 every work day. Now that I’ve hit my five year work anniversary, maybe I’ll consider going without it.
The world feels like it’s opened up again. I have a label that finally fits.
But am I still a legbeard? Ohhh yeah.