|
|
|
Notifications
|
|
|
|
So....not sure how to start this....
My given name is Morganna Holland, though my chosen name is Morgan. Though born and raised as a girl, I am most definately male, and it was especially dificult for me to admit to others and even myself that this was the case.
When I was a little kid, my mother told me that the reason she was still around, despite how cruel life had been to her, was because she had me, that by being born as her daughter, I had saved her life. I was overjoyed when she first told me that, because she loved me enough to stay with me, and do her best to give me a happy home. To repay her, I was going to be the best daughter I could be. I did well in school, was social, and went to acting and modeling school. Thoguh I was always happy to see that she smiled because I did well in these things, something never felt right.
At night, I would frequently take the plastic knives and forks from my tea set and stab myself with them. I would stab my chest, my belly, I'd stab and cut at my face, hair, and even my genitals. After several minutes of this, I would feel better, though I never understood why. I did, however, know that causing pain to any living thing, even oneself, was frowned upon, so I stayed quiet, not wanting to worry my family and friends. But I still couldn't figure out why it helped, or why I felt so broken at times.
At first, I thought 'maybe it's because I don't have a daddy, or a sibling', so I asked her one day if daddy wasn't around because he didn't want me. In reality, it was because he couldn't get what he wanted from her. Then I asked why I didn't have any brothers or sisters. She responded with 'Because I have you. I got it right the first time, so why should I try again?'. Then, foolishly, I asked on a few different occasions, 'Mom, what would you do if I had been born a boy?'. Her answer terrified me. She had said that she would not be able to keep me, and would have given me to some friends of hers before leaving, most likely to die. I didn't want her to die. The thought scared me so badly when I was a child.
As I got older, my taste in things....I won't say they changed, but rather, I allowed myself to think in ways I'd been to scared of previously. Though I'd been allowed to play with boy's toys before, beyond video games and hotwheels, I payed them no mind. In fact, I straight out avoided them. But when playing the role of the perfect daughter began putting too much strain on me, I had little elsewhere to turn.
Before I knew it, by playing with boys toys, hanging with the guys, and all this started happening, I felt more like myself than I ever had before. When I realized the hardship and heartache I'd put myself through for years to make my mother happy, I wept. At first I kept it secret, and told noone about the real me, always putting on a mask before going out in front of people. For years I'd kept up this routine, and with each passing day, it got harder and harder to keep that mask on.
I attempted scuicide by hanging one day, when the pain got to be too much to bear. I was in the third grade. I used the jump rope I used all the time, and with how much I'd used it, it was not strong enough to hold my weight and it broke. I cannot express how glad I am for that. I stayed there on the ground for several long minutes, wallowing in sorrow before realizing the mistake I'd almost made. 'If I were to die now, mother would be sad, and she would die. I don't want her to die. I have to keep going.', that is what I thought to myself. And for several years, I succeded.
By seventh grade, I was diagnosed as bi-polar, and went to a therapist. I was lucky, for he was amazing. I spoke to him about everything that had gone on in my life, the fact that I had a younger half brother and didn't so much as know his name, that my mother was my hero, and that, for as warm as my home was, whenever I was there, I felt broken. I told him I wore a mask around them, but I never told him what was BEHIND the mask. If he figured it out, he never told me, or my family. I'm not sure if I should be grateful for his silence or no.
I continued my act as best as I could for a couple more years, but my costume was falling to peices. I had begun to wear more boy-ish clothing, continued to rough house with my friends, even my guy friends, and had take a more serious interest in various forms of fighting, including belching matches with my buddies. But, as my grandmother so loved reminding me, 'The clothes you pick aren't flattering at all', 'Wrestling with boys at your age isn't appropriate', 'Burping like that is not at all attractive', and one of her personal favorites, 'Why do you do stuff like this? It's not very lady-like'. From junior high to the begining of highschool, that was all I ever heard out of my grandmother. And in the middle of my freshman year of highschool, I broke, and had turned to cutting my arms and legs, occasionally stabbing myself, all in hopes of easing the emotional pain.
After a while, I knew it wasn't enough, and I did the only thing that was left for me to do.
I had to tell my mother the truth about myself. That the daughter she loved wasn't the real me.
I had hoped that my mother, who had done nothing bu praise me and love me my entire childhood, my mother, the one who put me on a pedestal, my mother....my childhood hero, who adored me and cared for me and whished me nothing but happiness in my life would understand me, forgive me for decieving her my entire life, and would continue to love me. I told her that, despite everything she had seen up to that point, I was a boy, and deep down, I had always felt as such, and that I was scared to admit it to her or anyone else.
She DENIED it. Without so much as batting an eyelash. That day, my hero crumbled before my eyes.
At first, I crawled into myself, and blocked out everyone else. I tried to keep my distance from others, never wanting to risk getting close. The self mutilation got worse, and I began to carve self hating words on various parts of my body, including my breasts. All the while, I tried going back to how I had been, in some demented hope that if I did so, everything would be okay. It only got worse.
Halfway through highschool, I came out to the friends I had made, and although some had difficulty understanding me, they almost all accepted me. That was one of the first real smiles I'd been able to make in almost two years, and I will forever be grateful to them.
After that, I started turning aound. I let myself wear boys clothing, use a more boy-ish way of talking, walked around and acted in a more masculine way. The self mutilation and self hatered stopped. I was being me, and I was happy.
But in doing so I upset my mother and grandmother. My grandmother because I don't fit into her perfect mold for her only grand daughter, and my mother because she has this hatred of men that I don't understand, and I don't think she realizes she has.
But, as sorry as I am that they are not able to accept me for who I am, I will no longer hide myself away from them. I will not be 'loved' for what I pretend to be. If I am hated for what I am, then that is on them. It's sad, but it's my life. I can't live it for someone else anymore.
I try not to bring up the subject of being transsexual to my family, because I know that all it will do is cause fights. I still live with my mother, and so long as it isn't mentioned, we get along fine same as always. I still hope that one day she will accept it, but I won't hate myself because she gets upset at the idea of me being her son rather than her daughter. I'll no longer think I'm a horrid person just because I don't live up to her or anyone elses expectations of me.
A friend of mine once told me, 'Your body is the only thing in this world that is truely yours, so you should do with it as you want.' and it's true. Though some arguments are had, I am happier with myself now than I have ever been, and I won't let the feeling's of those who are not me hold me back any longer.
It's my body. My life. My being. And most importantly....it's MY happiness. I've spent too long trying to make everyone else happy. Now it's my turn.
Anyone else who has had a similar experience, if you need to talk to me, then please, contact me. And if, for some reason, you don't, just keep moving forward. By being gay, lesbian, a cross dress, a transgender or a transsexual, you are not hurting someone else the way a murderer does. In this case, if someone else has a problem, it's on them, not you.
Just because you're different, it doesn't mean that you don't deserve a little bit of happiness too.
