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A Voice

It’s odd.  I’ve always considered myself a writer, but I’ve always found it hard to write in my own voice.  As myself.  Poetry, Fiction, commentary–these genres were infinitely easier than writing a mere letter to someone.  That seemed too personal.  The task made me uneasy and anxious.  As much as a simple thank-you note could involve dozens of drafts and hair-pulling fits of exasperation.

But since beginning my transition, I’ve found a voice.  I don’t think it’s a new voice.  Rather, it’s a voice long buried by fear and anxiety.  Fear of saying the wrong thing.  Fear of being misunderstood.  And fear of emotion.

It’s my real voice.  A voice yearning to express itself after years of silence.

It’s still unsure of itself, sometimes.  Halting here and there.  But it flows from my imagination without the restraints of timid self-censorship.

My voice is not afraid anymore.  






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Over half a year ago, late at night and wide awake, I watched a speech by Lana Wachowski, who spoke movingly of her journey coming out as transgender.  I mark that moment as my own coming out, even though it would be weeks before I shared my story with family and friends.  The speech consoled me at a time when I needed consolation.   It was not a dramatic revelation sent  from the heavens or, for that matter, Hollywood.  But it was exactly what I needed, and it arrived exactly when I needed it–a friendly nudge redirecting me on my true bearings.

Ever since the age of two, I’ve felt apart.  Ever since my teens, I’ve felt that a last-second fetal glitch kicked me out of the XX line.  Through my entire life, I’ve struggled with psychological problems galore.  My dysphoria has ebbed and flowed, sometimes hiding deviously beneath the currents of other anxieties and fears.

But in late summer of 2012, the pressure became too much.  My life became consumed by one thought: I cannot live one more second as a man.  That one thought modified every life event, every conversation, every trivial daily-ritual.  And I tried to bottle it up inside, just the way I had done my entire life.  Only this time, I couldn’t do it….

Now there’s another pressure building.  A good one, though.  I want to get things down.  Stuff about transitioning, stuff about music, stuff about other people.  Stuff.

So, here I am, writing (and living).  Spilling.  Consider this first post just a brief introduction.  I don’t know what manner of posts will follow, but I hope to make the journey an interesting one.  No speeches, though–I could never match Lana’s.

My name is Miranda.