Sometimes our understanding of ourselves comes at a great price. Sometimes we lose and sometimes we hurt. And sometimes wounds we didn’t even know we had reopen. A wound of mine recently reopened and it changed my understanding of myself on a fundamental level.

As a child I was treated in a way by peers and caregivers that left me feeling insecure about myself as a feminine person. I have never thought of myself as masculine but because of circumstances beyond my control, I was often mocked as a child and told I wasn’t a girl. I was forced to have a short hair cut because my caregivers didn’t want to teach me how to care for long hair. This was the 80’s and the kids in my elementary school teased me, calling me a boy and “Mr. Wilson” because my last name is Wilson and Mr. Wilson was a character from Dennis the Menace. My parents called my sister and I “tomboys” and despite wishing I could wear dresses like the other girls, I was not allowed. I remember when I had to go to a dinner in the fifth grade and I got to wear a dress. It was the most beautiful I had ever felt.

I thought the teasing would stop once I went to junior high but the same group of girls who’d harassed me in elementary school had lockers next to mine. They loudly made jokes at my expense while I pulled books from my locker. I started carrying all of my books in my backpack so I wouldn’t have to go back there.

At other times in my life I was told by male friends that they didn’t see me as a girl. I was just one of the guys to them. “You’re not a girl,” stung so much even when said to me by someone I really kind of hated. I didn’t want to be one of the guys.

On top of all of this my mother spent a lot of time telling me I was fat, not pretty if I didn’t wear makeup, and would never attract a man.

I remember being around 11 years old and thinking to myself that I should just kill myself when I turn 40 since I was clearly so undesirable physically and I wrongly assumed I would start getting wrinkles at 40.

I’m 44, by the way.

This insecurity about my physical form has informed too too too much of my life. And no matter how hard I try to shake it, it remains. I have no idea what it feels like to be a trans individual but I can honestly say I know the pain of being misgendered.

When I am truly honest with myself, I will say I think of myself as a beautiful woman. But something inside grips me like a spaghetti sauce stain on a country crock tub and tells me that no matter how I see myself, no one else sees me as a woman, let alone beautiful. And without being aware of it, I’ve become more and more sensitive to the perceived treatment of my gender.

This schlock, unfortunately, was buried deep in the bricked up wall of my heart, rotting and putrefying, like Fortunato looking for some grappa. I didn’t know why some interactions with people left me reeling from pain so intense I could feel my pulse in my neck. I just knew I was hurting. Deeply, deeply hurting. And I wanted it to stop. I needed reassurance, validation. I needed to know that I was seen as a woman, maybe even a mildly pretty woman. I needed to know I wasn’t any different from any other woman.

But I didn’t know this was what I was looking for. I was just hurt and jealous and angry and sad and confused.

Why don’t they treat me like a woman? Why am I different? Is it my hair? My features? My weight? Is it my mannerisms, my voice, my diction? What in the actual fuck was it? I didn’t know. I just knew I felt different and I hated it. And I hated the crippling pain and depression I went through over this.

All this recently came to light for me when I experienced something so painful it knocked a huge fucking hole in that brick wall in my heart and exposed the corpse of the little girl shanked by mean girls with side pony tails. And, of course, as I processed all of it, I thought to myself, “Holy fucking shit?!? That’s why I overreact and act like an overly sensitive psycho bitch? Fucking hell.” It feels like I’ve unlocked the secrets of the universe somehow.

Now that I’m aware of this I have to accept a few things.

One: This isn’t going away anytime soon.

Just because I see the problem doesn't mean I know how to fix it. Healing is not instantaneous or linear. This will be a process. In fact, even as I write this, the pain of it courses through me like electricity causing my breath to catch in my chest. Nevertheless, I stride on.

Two: I have acted like a crazy fucking bitch sometimes because of this.

The crazy in me has been very strong at times and I have to own it. Looking back over my life and how I let this ruin me is beyond painful. It's straight up embarrassing. But I can't change the past. I can only strive to do better from the moment I hit publish on this post forward. Always forward, never back.

Three: Actions have consequences.

I have to own that my actions have led to hurting people that I love. I have to own that my actions have pushed people away. I have to own that those relationships may never be repaired. Actions have consequences and I need to accept mine.

Four: I am a beautiful woman.

I see myself as a woman. And sometimes even a beautiful woman. I see myself as feminine. So that is who and what I am. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. It doesn’t matter how anyone else behaves towards me. I am a woman and what I think is all that matters in this equation. 

Five: The only one I need to convince is myself.

I can’t make anyone see me as a woman or force them to treat me in ways that validate my gender to me. If someone sees me as a dude, nothing I can do will change that. And I need to stop trying. Yes, it will still hurt but, in time, if I continue to work on myself and accept that the only validation I need comes from within, then eventually it won't hurt quite so much.

Once that red sauce stain infuses itself into the elemental makeup of the country crock tub it is there forever, my darlings. And this tub is stained, let me tell you. But even stained tubs continue to do their job. I may be stained. And there may be no way to ever fully heal from this ish. But I’m still out here holding my metaphorical spaghetti. And even though I have damaged relationships along the way to get to this revelation, I am here now. I can start to heal and change.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have the corpse of a little girl to give a proper burial.

Be safe out in this terrible world, bambinos.