I suppose I should tell you a little about myself before I get full on into blogging. As of June 29, 2015, my name is Tyler. It was Christina. I don’t like labels, but if I had to really narrow myself down for the sake of identification, I’m say I’m a bisexual trans boy. If you’re up for a little reading, I’ll extrapolate.
I was born female. A middle child between two brothers, I was the only girl on both sides of the family in my generation, until my brothers and cousins started to get married, of course. I was the feminine reprieve in a male-dominated family. Except I’d rather play with G.I. Joe than Barbie and picked Hotwheels over My Little Pony any day. (Well, except that one time, but that’s a story for another day)
For as long as I can remember, I was just one of the boys. Sure, I had long hair, but inside, I was just one of the boys. This caused a few problems when I hit puberty around 14. What are these stupid boobs for anyway? As a teen, I convinced myself that I wasn’t really interested in sex. This was mostly my way of acknowledging that I wasn’t really interested in boys. All the while, my mom shoved me into the girliest clothes we could agree upon (usually jeans and a t-shirt) and we all pretended I was a girly girl… I mean I played softball with other girls. That’s a girly sport, right? Red flag, mom. Red flag.
So fast forward to senior year of high school. I’m dating a boy because that’s what’s expected of me. I feel like I used him and I feel bad for him. He was a good guy and in other circumstances, I feel we would have been good friends, but I did hurt him. But here I am, sitting in Calculus class, behind the cross country star with the amazing ass. Every time she’d lean up to talk to the girl in front of her, I was forced to question my sexuality a little more. By the time I graduated high school, I had accepted that I was bisexual. I hadn’t admitted it yet, but I had accepted it.
Bring on college. Finally free of my mom’s control, I started dressing more comfortably. Men’s pants, boxers, men’s shirts. Then, on the night of my birthday my freshman year, I got drunk and told the person who would become my best friend, “Danielle…I like girls”. Her response, “No shit, honey. Have another shot.” And that was it, just like that I went from closeted me to out me. The world didn’t end.
As time continued, I grew more and more confident in my own skin. I went from that long-haired girly girl to that long-haired androgynous figure. And that’s what bring me to where we are today. Where I’m less confident in my own skin and more curious about the feeling that I have. And that’s what this blog it. It’s exploring all of that. So here I am, 5 years out of college, and ready to embark on my next journey. I don’t know how far I plan to transition, or even if I plan to do anything more than cosmetic. As far as this blog goes, I welcome questions, comments, encouragement and those seeking encouragement, but not hate. Regardless of what you believe is right or wrong, if you think I’m a sicko or a savior, please keep the hate to yourself.
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