Diary of a Teenage Enby

It was puberty that did it.

Don't get me wrong, there had been stupid comments and snide remarks before that.

"That toy's not for you."

"You can't play with us."

"You're pretty strong... for a girl."

But, most of the time, at that age, I didn't have to think too much about gender. I wore what I wanted, with thin scraggly hair and without a care in the world for how I looked. I was often mistaken for a boy and didn't mind at all. In fact, I kind of liked it.

But it had to come to an end eventually. And that end was puberty.

The growth spurt hit, and my body changed into a shape I didn't recognise or want. Suddenly there were all these expectations for how I should look, what I should wear, and how I should behave.

I wish I could say that I stuck to my guns — that I kept being me with no apologies. But teenagers are cruel, and school is hard. So I learnt to play the part I'd been cast in. Someone who wasn't me. But at least she was happy — or good at pretending to be.

And that's how I got here. Unable to look at my reflection without my stomach tying itself in knots. Flinching internally every time I hear my name — hear myself spoken about. Trying not to blame the people who so clearly don't know me when I haven't even given them a chance to.

And instead of doing anything about it, I spend my time sitting under a tree at the bottom of the garden, scribbling all my secrets away in this journal rather than saying them out loud, too scared that my true existence will misqueme the world somehow.

I learnt that word in English today. Misqueme. Apparently, it comes from an old English root cweme, meaning agreeable or acceptable. I know that I should strive for the best. To be proud. To be happy. To be loved. But most days, I'd settle for acceptable, to be honest. Agreeable would be a bonus.

And the first person who needs to accept me, is me.

So that's why I'm determined that today is going to be different. I might still be sitting with my back pressed against the bark of the old apple tree in our garden, scribbling away. I might not say any of it out loud yet. It might only be a small step but soon, I hope to be able to accept my reflection a little more, because today, I'm ordering a binder.

I'm sure I'll tell you all about how it goes. After all, who else would I tell?

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It arrived today, waiting on the porch when I got home from school. I grabbed it and hurried up to my room before I tore open the package.

Wriggling into it wasn't exactly dignified, and the fabric was stiff against my ribs. Constricting. But when I put my shirt on over the top and smoothed it down... It was the most comfortable I could remember being in years.

I couldn't stop smiling at myself in the mirror, joy bubbling up inside me until it boiled over into a fit of giggles.

It might not have been perfect, but it was more than just acceptable.

And it gave me the confidence to do what I needed to do.

Feeling its grip around my chest, as if embracing me in a tight hug, the stiff fabric was like armour for my heart as I marched down the stairs and into the lounge — to where my parents were.

And I told them. Not all of it. Not all the half-thought thoughts and questions and worries and secrets. But I told them enough. Told them about the lie of who I'd been pretending to be. Told them the name I'd picked out years ago in my head. Told them my pronouns. Told them who I really was underneath it all.

I'm fairly certain they didn't understand, not fully. But their smiles shone brightly through the tears. And I'm sure mine did too.

I know that the world isn't perfect. That they won't be perfect. That it will take time. But today I took the first step on a journey that I've been waiting my whole life to make, and of that, I am proud.

WC: 727

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