Sam Dylan Finch

I used to think that I would only be happy if I came as close to being “neurotypical” as possible. I thought that I needed to be cured to live a whole, fulfilling life (which is one of the downsides of the medicalization of our struggles, but that’s a story for another day).

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.”

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?

Everyone, whether they have a mental illness or not, knows what it’s like to be in total despair and have no idea what to do about it. You’re curled up in bed, you don’t want to move, and you desperately wish you knew how to make things better.

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.”

One thing I’ve noticed about mental illness is that it’s a mess of contradictions. It tells us one thing, urges us to do another. We have one desire, but then act totally to the contrary because… reasons.

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.

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.