Sam Dylan Finch

A thousand Bach violin concertos swirling around my crib, imprinting those melodies on my brain, had not changed the fact that I was meant to be a cellist. And a thousand “she’s,” beginning from the moment that I was born, had not changed the fact that I had grown up to be a “he.”

For years, I didn’t know I was hearing voices. When it started to happen, it felt like someone else’s thoughts were being inserted into my mind, shouting at me, undermining my reality — impossible to control.

This is fancy talk for “holy shit, I cannot make peace with my body today or ever, because this body is telling the world I’m a woman when I’m actually not.”

I spent many sleepless nights worrying that being transgender meant that I would live a troubled life.

I was so ashamed of being transgender that I held out for years, thinking if I waited long enough, this part of myself would retreat into the dark spot of my mind – the trapdoor where all the bad memories fall in and disappear.

You were on the back burner — I thought you were Type 2, manageable, no big deal — which goes to show just how deeply I’d slid into denial. But there’s no denial here anymore. Just statistics and medical terms floating around in my brain, reminding me that I can’t afford to forget you, that you’re too “severe” for that.

You can swear up and down that you meant it some other way, but the reality is that “crazy” and “insanity” refer to a lack of sanity, which will always circle back to and affect mentally ill people, especially when it’s used in ways that diminish or sensationalize our experiences.

Dating while trans is scary, especially when you’re starting to “pass.” What are his expectations for my body, if any, and what if I’m not what he had in mind and he rejects me outright?