I saw that it wasn’t being female that was stopping me from being myself; it was society’s perpetual oppression of women

When I was a little girl living in the Midlands, I used to say, “When I grow up, I want to be a boy.” I even used to wee standing up. I loved playing football, but when I was about seven my friends said I had to stop because I was a girl. I told them I didn’t see what difference that made, and one of them pulled his shorts down and showed me. A sickening feeling washed over me: something about me, and my body, was wrong.

These feelings became more powerful as I grew older. When I saw my chest changing I was horrified; I developed an eating disorder to try to delay puberty, cut my hair short and started binding my chest. I was depressed and tried to kill myself. At 14, I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital for a couple of months.

My parents were stunned, and tried to convince me to start embracing life as a woman. They arranged for someone to teach me how to apply makeup, hoping that if I learned to look more like other girls, I would feel more like them.

It wasn’t until I was 15 that I found out about transitioning. Everything fell into place: this was who I was. I realised I could have the body I wanted. When I went to my GP, aged 17, I was told I was too old to refer to children’s services and too young to be seen as an adult; I didn’t get my first appointment until three months after my 18th birthday.

After months of waiting and appointments, none of which included counselling, I finally started on testosterone gel, later switching to injections. It was a huge thing when, at university, my voice broke, and my figure started changing: my hips narrowed, my shoulders broadened. It felt right. Passing as a man, I felt safer in public places, I was taken more seriously when I spoke, and I felt more confident.

Then I had chest surgery. It was botched and I was left with terrible scarring; I was traumatised. For the first time, I asked myself, “What am I doing?” I delayed the next steps of hysterectomy and lower surgery, after looking into phalloplasty and realising that I was going to need an operation every 10 years to replace the erectile device. Trans issues were starting to be written about in the media, and I understood that people would always be able to recognise me as having transitioned. I just wanted to be male, but I was always going to be trans.

At the same time, there was a significant change in how I felt about my gender. Reflecting on the difference in how I was treated when people saw me as a man, I realised other women were also held back by this. I had assumed the problem was in my body. Now I saw that it wasn’t being female that was stopping me from being myself; it was society’s perpetual oppression of women. Once I realised this, I gradually came to the conclusion that I had to detransition.

I have come off testosterone and, as my body has resumed production of its own hormones, I have become someone female who looks like a man. I will always have a broken voice and will never regrow breasts, but my hips and thighs are getting bigger. Being male was more comfortable for me, but remaining on hormones means I would have continued to focus on my body as the problem – when I don’t believe it belongs there. What feels easiest isn’t always what’s right.

Experience: I didn’t speak for 17 years Read more

I made the best possible decision in poisoned circumstances, and if I hadn’t had treatment when I did, I might not be alive. But I do feel very sad when I think of my fertility: I want to be a parent one day, but it’s likely that being on testosterone has made that more difficult. I’m now in my late 20s and won’t know until I try to have children.

I feel happy for those people transition has helped, but I think there should be more emphasis on counselling, and that it should be seen as the last resort. Had that been the case for me, I might not have transitioned. I was so focused on trying to change my gender, I never stopped to think about what gender meant. Ultimately, I feel hopeful for the future. I’ve seen that I have an immense capacity to change and grow, even in very difficult circumstances. That is who I am.

• As told to Moya Sarner.



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