Detransition Info

Transcript:

“I never knew a woman like you could exist, so how could I even dream of you before I knew you?”

My wonderful girlfriend wrote this to me in her most recent love letter. She was writing about the concept of a “dream woman”, and how she wasn’t sure what hers would look like or be like until she met me. But, I can’t stop thinking about it, because this one little phrase captures something big about the butch lesbian experience, something I’ve had a hard time putting words to. It also captures realizations I’ve gone through after detransitioning.

It’s almost a “ring of keys” kind of thought. But I love how it highlights the relationship between knowing and dreaming. What you’re aware of influences what you can dream about, what you can aspire to. What you know informs the possibilities of who you can be and love at your core.

Back a few years ago, when my crisis was was coming to a head and I decided to detransition, I felt lost. I craved an “undo” button that didn’t exist. All I knew was where I’d already been, only there was no going back. I couldn’t envision what my future might look like, especially with how far I’d gone in transitioning. I couldn’t imagine that I’d ever “live as a woman” again; I felt “too far gone”. It didn’t seem like the concept of “womanhood” could encircle me as I was. When was the last time I saw a woman that looked like me? Oh yeah, never – that was the original goal, after all.

In that moment, when I didn’t know what to do, I went with my gut: the very first thing I did was make a beeline straight to YouTube. Probably sounds a little strange, but looking back, it makes sense to me. I was searching for possibilities, for people, for stories. I wanted direct evidence that someone like me can exist, because I felt very unreal.

I looked up ‘detransition’, and there they were. Not many at the time, but enough. There were people with deepened voices, facial hair, mastectomies, bodies and histories like mine, unmistakable. And yet, they called themselves women, some even called themselves lesbians.

I watched and listened, and it didn’t matter what they were talking about; I didn’t even agree with everything they said. What mattered was that they existed. They were real. Some of these women passed as male, but didn’t seem pressed to change themselves any further or in any way, and still emphatically called themselves women. It was mind blowing to me, and comforting. Knowing that I wouldn’t be the first or only one like this was a relief. It gave me courage, made me feel a little less crazy. It felt like I could move forward knowing that I’m not utterly alone in this experience.

And later on, I actually met these women, and others like them. Women with different ideas and opinions, not all of whom agreed with one another, or used the same words, or understood themselves in the same way. Regardless of differences, they had experiences in common with each other, and with me.

Each strange woman I’ve met has broadened the possibilities of what a woman can be, and what kind of woman I can be. Spending time with other uncommon women has fundamentally changed me at my core. There is something they gifted me that I don’t have words for. Something that came from seeing, hearing, and sharing space. Knowing by witnessing.

My beard carries memories of the bearded women I’ve met and loved; when I look in the mirror, I see part of them in me. My head is bald because I met other women who were bald first, and through them got the courage to take the plunge and buzz it all off and never look back. My voice is stronger from singing with others who embraced their changed voices. I don’t have the shame and embarrassment about my voice that I did before.

Every single part of my body carries the memories of other women like me. Detransitioned women, butch dykes young and old, friends, lovers… My opinion of myself and what I can be has fundamentally changed because of the possibilities I’ve seen in other women.

Link to the tweet

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I often think about that idea from A Passion for Friends, that the Self is the original friend. It has a different feeling to it now since I have had this experience of catching an accidental glimpse of myself in a mirror, not recognizing myself at first, and having my gut reaction be something like “Who’s that friend?” and then realizing–yes, a friend. Myself. My body.

When I interact in the patriarchal world, I don’t like the way others interact with me–but am aware that the problem is not located in me. If someone acts disgusting about my breasts, I am angry and disgusted with that person; I do not ascribe my sense of disgust to my own body. I don’t understand myself as “parts” so there’s no longer the ability to scapegoat any “part” of me.

I am a weird, whole, complex being, a landscape, a creature–not a cafeteria selection of parts which are disposable or can be improved upon.

The ways I change now come from within and come from a desire to be satisfied. One thing I am includes muscles that want to do what they are capable of doing, so I move in ways that please me and I change, grow stronger. It is pleasing and satisfying to move, to exert, to feel that good kind of tired and sore. I don’t see this as a self-improvement project, but a way to feed myself. Growth and experience are satisfying. It’s not about a body project, imposing a particular shape or ideal. It’s about having what I need.

There is nothing about my embodiment that can be “improved” upon, certainly not through any traumatic medical intervention, but not even through some imposed aesthetic ideal or idea of what I “should” do or be like.