Twenty five years ago I tried to kill myself. This is by way of an explanation.Read more
Day 28 of 30 Days of Poetry
Splintered shards sit.
You see only my ghost,
Afterimage of when I was whole
While my pieces fall silently.
My hands cradle my head,
Keep the lees of my consciousness
From spilling beyond resurrection.
You see only my painted mask,
This skin that is not my own,
This skin I can never cut deep enough
To release the demons inside.
Day 26 of 30 Days of Poetry
Why do I go back
Where I'm not wanted?
Why do I speak up
When my words are wrong?
I'm not like you
I'm a weirdo
I'm a freak
I'm a misfit
I deserve this
I'm sorry for existing
I'm sorry I'm not dead
I'm sorry the pills didn't work
Or the knife
I'm sorry I was scared
I'm sorry I couldn't jump
I'm sorry you have to see me
I'm sorry (please stop)
I'm sorry I hurt
I'm sorry I can't stop crying
I'm sorry for apologising
I'm sorry I disturbed your nice life
I'll be gone soon
I'll go quietly
You won't even know
I was here
As a child I used to imagine having a mental breakdown, a bout of insanity as an escape from what on the outside might have seemed a wonderful upbringing but which wordlessly forced me into a shape designed by others. But my mind remained stubbornly rational.Read more
Even with all the magical technology we take for granted, there is one thing that our ancestors lived with and knew well that we are much less familiar with today: death. Read more
When I first came out as trans there were a lot of things I had to think about. Getting used to my changed name, referring to myself as the correct gender, preparing myself for prejudice and abuse from any person I encountered in case they were hostile. On thing I didn’t think about: using the bathroom.
Because who thinks about that, right? You need to pee, you go. Simple. It should be. But there are always those few people who feel a need to stick their noses in to something that is none of their business.
Of course, they are always at pains to point out that it’s not them that has a problem with me using the bathroom for my own gender. Oh no, they are worried that some imaginary other people might take issue with it.
And then there are the real far-out weirdos. Now, I don’t know what they get up to in public bathrooms, and for the sake of my peace of mind I’d rather not find out. But regular people like you and me only go to the bathroom for a couple of things. To use the loo or just to freshen up.
Anyhow, these strange people like to fantasise about male rapists entering women’s bathrooms and attacking women. And children! Yes, it’s not common but it has happened. And they seem to think that the chances of this occurring are affected by allowing trans women to use a gender-appropriate bathroom.
Yes, you read that right. They think that allowing all women to use women’s bathrooms makes men more likely to commit attacks in those bathrooms. Now I don’t know what fucking planet they’re from but here on Earth that doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.
What does make sense is that these people are transphobic, bigoted assholes, but afraid of the backlash if they come out and say so directly they hide behind a fiction of protecting women (and children) from an imaginary threat.
If they really cared about children they would care that trans children commit or attempt suicide at alarming rates largely because of discrimination and lack of acceptance by people like these assholes.
If they really cared about women they would care that trans women face disgusting levels of discrimination, harassment, assault and murder because of a lack of acceptance by people like these assholes.
They don’t care. It’s just an excuse so they can behave like assholes to trans people. Particularly trans children and women: they don’t seem to realise non binary folks or trans men even exist.
So if you care at all about people getting treated fairly and with respect, rather than being discriminated against through prejudice, be open about accepting and supporting trans people. And, for fuck’s sake, just let us go piss in peace.
I’m not a man but I am well-placed to write about toxic masculinity.
I know what it feels like to be surrounded by people expecting you to live up to their expectations of what a man ought to be. To be repeatedly shamed, teased, or bullied for allowing the mask to slip, revealing the person behind the act.
Forty-odd years ago in a hospital in Manchester I was born. I’m guessing some doctor took one look and decided I was male: that’s what went on my birth certificate. I’m still living with the consequences of their decision.
I might have been given the label but that’s all. It didn’t mean anything to a baby–why would it? But it influenced the way everybody around me interacted with me. How they spoke to me, how they dressed me, what toys they gave me, what future they imagined for me.
I wasn’t given a choice, not even made aware that alternatives existed. So as I grew older and became more self-aware I felt more and more that there was a gap between what was expected of me and how I felt inside.
I’m autistic: there are certain behaviors like hand flapping and toe walking that are natural expressions for me. An autistic body language. I was teased and bullied for them in school and worked hard to suppress them.
But not all the behaviors I had to suppress were related to autism. Others–mannerisms, speech patterns, responses–were shamed as being “girly” or “sissy”. I had to learn the rules to be seen as acceptably male, to conform.
That’s the essence of toxic masculinity: conform or be punished. You will be bullied. You will be abused. Until you fit in. Or you die.
You see, it doesn’t take long before you feel you’re being watched every minute of every day. You watch yourself, alert to every slip. The pressure to conform instills a deep and abiding fear and anxiety.
Living with that day in, day out wears you down. You learn to hate yourself, hate the fact that you must conceal your desires and feelings, that you must hide yourself. You go through every minute of every hour pulling levers behind the curtain of this fake persona to keep yourself from harm.
You become depressed. You wonder why you make the effort when you will never be free. You might self harm just to feel something real, to do something to reach down through all the layers of deadening armor between you and the world.
It’s easy to feel suicidal. It’s understandable. It takes away the crushing pressure of the trap you are caught in. I tried to kill myself a couple of times. It wasn’t like TV and the movies try to show it. There was no note, no plea to the world for understanding. Just utter, wordless despair on a lonely, dark night with a handful of pills and a load of alcohol.
Most of the people who made me feel this way had no malicious intent at all. They just projected their expectations onto me, expectations of masculinity. I’m not male, but even if I were I would have been subjected to the same pressure to conform.
That’s why it’s toxic: it poisons you, poisons your mind with its relentless drip, drip, drip. “Man up!” “Grow a pair!” “Sissy!” “You’ve got no balls!” “You talk like a girl!” “Poof!”
There is no single, right way to be male (or female). There is not a single characteristic that all people of a particular gender share except one: their own identity. Expecting people to conform to your idea of their gender is immoral, coercing them by shaming or violence is abuse.
Trying to prevent people from expressing who they are, even unconsciously by perpetuating gender stereotypes, harms them. It really is a matter of life and death. I’ve lived it, I nearly died. I know.