Who’s also a type 5, an Aquarius, a Ravenclaw, a transman, an asexual, a type O blood, and a rooster of the Chinese zodiac.
I must confess—I was planning to introduce myself using these labels, and then proceed to explain why they define me. But as I was typing them, I couldn’t help but giggled. I felt stupid.
Funny how labels work. People don’t want to be labelled, yet they use those to identify themselves. At first they might use it so others can understand them better. Then eventually, they try to fit themselves to those labels just so they can understand themselves better. And soon enough, the sense of identification turns into a sense of belonging.
It’s rather often that I hear people say something like:
“Hello. My name is X. I am a Gemini. That means, I am sultry, though I can’t feel things because I’m a Thinker. I am a People Person Thinker, however, as I am an Extrovert, so I probably excel at judging people. But I suck BIG TIME at sympathy. You can imagine how many times I break hearts because of this, and not feel sorry about it, and that’s probably why I’m never gonna be a Hufflepuff. But oh well, that’s all because I’m a type…”
—and so on, and so on.
Yet when I tried doing the same earlier, with each box, I feel further and further away from myself instead.
Am I really an Investigator? Do I rather feel than think? Those tests on the internet claim to be accurate, and people claim that they are indeed accurate. Then why am I doubting myself even more? Is it because that’s what Type 5s do?
Those questions made me feel ridiculous, to be honest.
One label I am certain though: I am transgender. Always have been since as long as I can remember. And always will be—of that I’m sure.
What’s unclear to me is when people ask, ‘How do you know you’re trans?’
I mean—what is it exactly that they want to know?
Do they wonder how I know there was something wrong with me that, eventually, it sent me into years of depression and self-hatred? Do they want to know the moment I finally figured out the source of it was dysphoria? Or are they curious about when I finally learned the name of this monster?
If what they want to know is why I decided to be this way, they’re asking the wrong question. I didn’t browse the internet one day and decided that yes, ‘trapped in my own body’ sounds just like me! I should be one!
No, I didn’t decide anything. I don’t have that privilege.
I just was.
I just am.
The only thing I decided was what actions I should take regarding my condition. I decided to stop hating myself, to stop running away from reality. I decided to face my fears. I decided to start accepting myself for who I am. I want to be at peace with my monsters.
I think in the end that’s what makes me a transman.
My experience.
My story.
So I think, maybe, let’s forget about labels or boxes I am in. Maybe I should introduce myself by telling you bits of my stories instead.
So let me try again.
Hi. My name is Ken. I like the sky, puzzles, and stories.
When I was young I envied birds cause they can fly. To me, their wings represent freedom, and the sky is the limit. I often wished that I could have wings like they do, or a hover board at least, if not a jet pack. I knew I couldn’t, though—my wish was ridiculous.
But there was nothing ridiculous about the depth of the sky and the way clouds moving across it so calmly. It’s rather therapeutic, actually. Looking at the sky makes me feel less trapped. I like the sky cause of that.
And puzzles keep my mind busy. You see, due to my monster I tend to isolate myself from the world—mostly to keep me from being hurt. During those self-isolation my thoughts are all I have. And they can be quite scary.
I do anything to survive them: drawing, reading, writing, even juggling and doing puzzles. Games that require strategical solutions are my favourite.
With stories, it’s special. I like them so much I turn them into a profession. Either in the form of written words, visual, or verbal; fictional or real—stories have the ability to transform me into someone else I’m not, living the life that’s not mine. It’s a nice break from reality; they’ve become my oasis.
(Thanks to depression, melancholic stories that play with sadness and loneliness as their theme tend to attract me more. Heck, my favourite film is Naked by Mike Leigh!)
There are many other things about me, and each has its own story attached. No labels can grasp the idea of the person I am. Labels don’t decide my story. They don’t define me. It’s the other way around.
So whatever box they put me in—a transperson, an AFAB, a walking tragedy, an abominable sin, a freak, a human being—it won’t matter. My stories will always remain the same, for they are the truth. My truth.
The best thing about them? They’re mine. My own. They will tell you who, what, and why I am the way I am. I love my stories. I have a set of them that is so unique it belongs only to me. Without my stories, I pretty much don’t exist. Through my stories, I learn to love myself.
And guess what?
You, too, have stories that belong only to you.
And I bet they can explain who you are more than those internet labels do.
