Like Eowyn: #FaithFeminisms

[TW: self-harm discussed.] 

They asked me to write down when I’m happiest. 

Asked that I be honest, real. 

I kind of think they’re not ready, unprepared, mush less wanting my brand of honesty. Exclude the factor that I speak abrasively and rub raw wounds more raw, I have stuff I would say no one particularly cares to hear. People want honesty as long as it isn’t shocking or disgusting to them. And my truth isn’t either but been told that it’s false and therefore ugly. Some bullshit about truth being beautiful and beauty being truthful. 

So, you want me to speak of my happiest, most at peace moments. You want me to speak of the times I feel most safe and home, then let me tell you how I feel most beautiful. Some people have vivid imaginations and I have an ability to visualize and that is where I go to feel beautiful and happy. So, here it goes. 

Don’t be afraid, darling, because this is the only shit I know about myself to be true.

Time I feel most safe and beautiful I see a woman, short blonde hair, wearing a black and white dress with tights and gladiator-esque shoes. I’m not sure if she’s got long blonde hair or a pixie cut. I see a woman with nice curves, slim but not skinny, and has a personality full of beauty. 

Not catching on yet? 

Let me make this simple as all get out: I would prefer. No, not strong enough. I wish to fucking God that I were a woman. I have no clue why that is but it is. I am what I am for no reason and without any seeming causation. Any chance of being male or identifying as such seems inane and false and dumb and terrifying and demanding— 

(I know I could die for identifying as a woman)—

(I’m aware of the attempted suicide stats because I am one)—

(And I know of the high murder rate)—

But—

But I can’t live a lie. 

I spent too many damn years cutting my own body and declaring a fucked up freedom to keep lying to myself. So, if that’s what makes me happy why can’t I be that? I’m scared of every single ideal or thing that tells me that I am not manly enough or that I was born a swear-to-God-on-high man. So, instead, I said I was gay. 

This was close to the truth. 

But I had more awareness of my unhinged womanhood before my bullshit gayness. Eventually I realized the simplest truth of my mortality. That, if I could die for transitioning, and I’ll probably not make it to thirty if I don’t transition in any way, where am I to go? What am I to do? 

I think I’m gonna be a statistic. I’m not sure thirty is likely. Especially when getting to thirty is my only life goal. But if I can’t be the woman I want to be will it even be worth it? Goddamn it. 

I quit.

I have no life goals. I was asked tonight what my goals are and I said, fully honest, I had none. Then I rephrased and said, To make it to thirty. Everyone thought it was funny and I laughed to hide the truth, the not so beautiful truth. But I have no goals, and that’s okay. I fight on. I live on. I continue to exist. I speak my truth because to be a woman in a man's world means shouting till lungs bleed to be heard. I will shout my story and my sisters stories, cisgender or transgender. I will shout of injustice and I will raise a fist and fight back because without fighting I will be silenced and if I am silenced all women will be silenced. 

Stand. Speak. Feminism, Jesus, God, whatever, gave these abilities to you. 

This is my anthem:

I refuse to cut my body anymore, until I need to again. Till I need to cope and function—

I refuse to succumb to bullshit in my own mind— 

I refuse your truth and your ideas and your bible’s—

I write into my soul: woman—

I write and write and write—

No promises made—

Except—

(only promise I can make)—

Like Eowyn, I shout: I am no man. 

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