Welcome to Metamorfauxsis

This is where I shall detail my attempts at transition from female to male (FtM), as well as whatever else I feel like including. It's going to be a long, tedious process, and I don't blame you one bit if you get bored and quit reading.

Anyway, I figure I should give you about a novel's length of background before I attempt any more posts. I am nearing 14 years of age, 12.5 of which I lived fairly happily as a queer white girl in the suburbs.

You might be wondering what happened around the 12.5 mark. To make it short, sweet, and harder for you to think about long enough to judge me, I fell for my sixth grade homeroom teacher. I won't post the details, because I'm sure they're absolutely nauseating - heaven knows I almost threw up looking through my notebooks a year later! After I graduated elementary school, so to speak, I was left with a void in my life. Crushing on her the whole year had given me energy, enough even to come out of the closet as inexplicably queer to nearly everyone in my life. There were positives to come out of that summer, such as my first ever murder mystery, but also many, many negatives, including a general distaste for life that haunts me no matter how hard I try to shake it.

I thought that middle school would keep me busy enough to take my mind off of things. Alas, it was far too easy, enough so that I had the time to research for and develop a global peace plan for 10+ minutes at the end of each period. Finally, seeking a challenge, I transferred back to AAP (the Advanced Academics Program, the local gifted program) at the beginning of the second semester.

Thankfully, I quickly developed a good relationship with the team counselor, due to the amount of times I was sent to his office for ending all my short stories in dramatic suicides. This would come in handy from February onwards, when I discovered my true identity and plan for life: to live as a man.

For the first few months afterwards, I was so deeply closeted and depressed that I lost my voice. No, not physically; I simply could no longer write nor sing, and those were the only two ways that I had engaged myself before that. They were my coping mechanisms for lighter depression, but they were gone, and with them my creativity. There was very little to distract me after that; for a while, I was able to channel all my energy to a thesis for school on LGBT+ rights, which I may post here at some point, but once that was gone, I only had my mind to keep me company, and that was more dangerous than anything else.

That is leaving out one vital location, however: my favorite doll collecting forum, AG Collectors, where I was accepted with open arms. (If y'all are reading this, thanks so much, because you delayed my foray into madness for months!) Dolls on their own do not engage me much anymore, except for when I am in the mood for making a lesbian photostory, but the fine folks over there are truly what kept me sane.

I eventually worked up the courage to come out to my parents, who rejected it completely and said we'd revisit the topic in a year, after giving me a lovely lecture about the subject that culminated in the sentence "But you used to LIKE painting your nails!" Also, my father then asked, many times, if it was because I thought he treats my younger brother better than me. (Yes, because who wouldn't want to be trans solely for the male privilege?)

He now believes that by wearing baggy clothes and letting my leg hair grow out (and it's now longer than the hair on my head), I am "self-sabotaging."

I wanted to die before, because I felt useless and like nobody liked nor appreciated me. But over this summer, I began to contemplate existence more and more, until I came to the conclusion that death would be good for the environment. I felt such guilt over my being, for I was a waste of resources. There was no justification for me using the wondrous Earth! So I scratched, and punched, and bit, until bruises formed on my stomach. Thank God my best friend emailed at that moment, because I don't know what would've happened otherwise. As was, he talked me down and eventually persuaded me to chat with the folks at the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255). And so it was alright for the day (mind you, my arm still hurts, but it'll heal).

I have ambition. I will work for the United Nations some day, hopefully become the High Commissioner for Human Rights. It's my duty to humanity to work to make others' lives better, and I will do the absolute best I can to get there. And when I do, well, I'll have a flat chest and the perfect amount of stubble and life will be birds chirping and children playing and happiness. Until then, though, I resign myself to a corner of the internet and a promise that it will eventually be okay.

-Matt