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Description
When I started preschool, I was a loner, because none of the boys wanted to play with me. I only had a few friends, mostly out of the other boys who were loners.
I didn't want to play with the girls. They liked boring games. None of them wanted to play with dinosaurs, and they thought kickball was stupid.

I eventually learned that girls were supposed to like pink, and that boys weren't allowed to. I've hated the color ever since. I don't even know if I genuinely hate it, or if I hate everything society has made it to be. They have become inseparable in my mind.

There was a girl at my elementary school who had short hair. Everyone mistook her for a boy. I tried to hang out with her and acted like we were friends.
We weren't. I was just jealous.

When I started to develop my own clothing preferences, my mom wouldn't let me wear black t-shirts. She said that black wasn't a color for little girls. I was so mad. I didn't see any difference, and decided it was all just unfair.
I'm 22 years old. I'm still mad.

I tried to sneak into the boys' restroom one time. I was too young to know why they were separate, or what a urinal was, or what boys needed in order to use one. I was simply curious.
I ran into a boy on his way out. He and his friends made fun of me for "trying to peek". I remember being teased more than I remember whatever the "actual" punishment was. I was still curious to try the boy's restroom, but was too scared of what people would think if I were caught again.

Sex education occurred in fifth grade. While asking my mom questions about pregnancy after school, the topic of morning sickness came up. She mentioned that she decided not to get morning sickness, and so she didn't.
I decided that I wouldn't get breasts.
It didn't work.

In middle school, everyone suddenly started dating. My friends started asking who my crush was, and I panicked, because I didn't have one. I sat down one night, drawing out tables and charts, trying to decide on the least ugly male in 6th grade. (Very hard.)
I did everything right. I flirted, acted embarrassed, whispered his name when asked The Question. Every now and then, I could change the answer. Playing along was easy.
I wondered when it would become real.

By eighth grade, I thought that the only way to have breasts removed was to have cancer.
I began to wonder how I could fake cancer.
I didn't know that transitional surgery was an option. I hate myself for such dark thoughts, but I also hate society for failing me.

A boy asked me out in high school. After several weeks of dating, I shaved my legs for the first time. My mom was very relieved, after all her "subtle" hints that everyone could see I didn't shave, and everyone noticed. "People talk," she told me. I don't shave anymore, so I'm sure they still do.

I remember seeing my first transgender person on TV. My mom told me he used to be a girl, but got surgery to be a boy. I didn't know people could do that. It was cool that he was allowed to be a boy now, but I couldn't imagine ever having surgery just to get a penis. Worth it? No way.

During conversation, my mom mentioned to watch out for boys, because they all wanted sex so badly. She said that was why teenagers were always having sex, which was very bad.
I asked why girls didn't just say No when their boyfriends asked for sex, if girls never wanted to have sex.
She said "I don't know."
Asexuality is hereditary, and sometimes I wonder if I inherited mine.
If I did, my mom would never admit it. I just know I grew up hoping that I might be normal after all, no matter how many people at school asked me why I hadn't had sex yet.
Compared to my friends, I thought something was wrong with me.

When I was almost sixteen, I got my first computer. I loved communicating via typing. In the early, awkward stages of making online friends, at least half asked if I were a boy. I felt a deep satisfaction every time, even though I didn't know why.
I was always disappointed if they thought I were a girl.

On a field trip, I met a friendly girl at our lunch table who mentioned playing soccer. She got kicked off the soccer team during puberty. We were confused, and she explained that as a little kid, her parents cut her hair short and gave a fake name because her school only had a boy's team. I wondered why my parents couldn't have let me cut my hair and choose a nickname.
I'd always wanted a nickname. My name didn't fit right.

When people asked me to guess their gender online, I always asked if they were a boy, even if I knew they weren't. "Girl" had always hit me like an insult. I thought that they would rather be guessed a boy than a girl, like I did.
I was wrong.

Late high school, I got really into wearing hats. I wore them normally during the day. However, in the privacy of my bedroom, I used to secretly wind all of my hair up as tight as it would go, and attempt to stuff it under my hat in a way that stayed. My hair was always too thick to hide entirely, and the hat never sat correctly on top of it. I didn't look like a boy.
I looked like a girl, failing to hide her hair under a hat.

One time, an online stranger referred to me by male pronouns. I made no comment on it when responding, and felt giddy all night.
A friend saw, and "corrected" the stranger.
I was so mad at that friend.

I was floored when I first saw the word "asexuality" used to describe humans. Everything suddenly made sense.
Maybe I wasn't broken after all.

Age seventeen, I reluctantly joined Facebook. Instead of my legal name, picked a name that was neutral, a name that I liked and that didn't reveal my gender. It felt good to try on. I ended up trying it on for five years after that.
It stuck, by the way.

My freshman year of college, an adult male decided that he was The Cure™ to asexuality. He thought that if I found out sex was Good™ I would want to have it with him all the time. He wanted to make me understand, through force or otherwise, so that I'd realize what a Huge Favor he had done for me, and I would finally be Freed™ to give him all the sex he wanted.
Strangely, even though it didn't seem possible, I felt even more asexual afterwards than before.
He broke up with me.

After turning eighteen, my best friend came out to me as genderfluid, and said she might even want to transition in the future. I had to ask what that word meant. When I got home, I read up on it for hours and hours. I eventually came across the terms "agender" and "nonbinary". The definitions were the story of my life.
It was nice finally finding labels that fit like a glove, in sharp contrast to the ill-fitting shoes I'd been trying to cram onto my feet ever since I began walking down the horrendous path of my life.

Under the guise of cosplaying, I bought my first binder. I chose to be honest with my mom when it arrived in the mail, although I claimed it was to play a male character; which was true of the upcoming convention I would attend. She seemed accepting of it. I tried it on "to practice for the convention," and was secretly thrilled by the results.
Later that night, at the family dinner table, she announced that I had to show everyone what I had gotten. At first I thought she was joking. She was not. I had never been asked to strip naked in front of my family before; especially not my brother or father. Perhaps due to being startled, I somehow found the courage to say No.
She was furious; my other family members were simply confused. I excused myself, and was able to escape to a friend's house for comfort and safety. In the solitude of the car, I cried.

On campus, I joined a Christian club. I'd had the label slapped on me since birth, but was finally learning about my own religion for the first time.
One of the other members of the group was gay. The secretary was a lesbian. The president was bisexual. I had been taught to believe that God rejected those who were not born straight, but suddenly, I began to wonder, if maybe my parents were wrong.
Maybe I were still worthy of love after all.

Several summers into college life, I finally cut my hair. I'd always wanted short hair, ever since meeting that girl in elementary school, who proved that having short hair looked great on any gender. I'd been putting it off out of fear.
It felt even better than expected.
Finally.

I started shopping in the mens' section at stores, occasionally. At first, when my parents noticed, they didn't like me doing that either.
Eventually, they started giving me my brother's hand-me-downs.
Progress, not perfection.

During senior year, I found another person with the same sexuality and gender as me. We dated for several months. I felt powerful, walking down the street holding their hand. We were everything that society hated in romantic partners; Same sex, gender nonbinary, asexual, interracial. Merely existing, we were spitting in society's bleak face.
Looking back, I think we only dated for that reason. It was comforting to find someone finally alike, someone else who understood. A person who agreed that we belonged. That we had a right to be here.
It wasn't enough for a relationship.

While accidentally high, I mentioned top surgery to my mom, and then promptly forgot.
She did not forget. She exploded about it three weeks later, apparently having let it simmer all that time.
I didn't change my mind. One of these days, I am giving "Them" an eviction notice.
People can complain, but no one can stop me.

Recently, to the last few people who did not know, I asked to be called by my true name instead of my birth name. My parents say they are trying. The only others who struggle are my coworkers, who had been working with me for six years before learning my name.
What nobody realizes is that it is hard for me, too.

But it is time to transform.

I feel that my entire life has led up to my discovery of myself.
Figuring out who I am, in spite of all the negativity society has thrown at me.
The negativity towards the LGBT+ community.

It needs to stop

We need to live

We need to be free

Description
When I started preschool, I was a loner, because none of the boys wanted to play with me. I only had a few friends, mostly out of the other boys who were loners.
I didn't want to play with the girls. They liked boring games. None of them wanted to play with dinosaurs, and they thought kickball was stupid.

I eventually learned that girls were supposed to like pink, and that boys weren't allowed to. I've hated the color ever since. I don't even know if I genuinely hate it, or if I hate everything society has made it to be. They have become inseparable in my mind.

There was a girl at my elementary school who had short hair. Everyone mistook her for a boy. I tried to hang out with her and acted like we were friends.
We weren't. I was just jealous.

When I started to develop my own clothing preferences, my mom wouldn't let me wear black t-shirts. She said that black wasn't a color for little girls. I was so mad. I didn't see any difference, and decided it was all just unfair.
I'm 22 years old. I'm still mad.

I tried to sneak into the boys' restroom one time. I was too young to know why they were separate, or what a urinal was, or what boys needed in order to use one. I was simply curious.
I ran into a boy on his way out. He and his friends made fun of me for "trying to peek". I remember being teased more than I remember whatever the "actual" punishment was. I was still curious to try the boy's restroom, but was too scared of what people would think if I were caught again.

Sex education occurred in fifth grade. While asking my mom questions about pregnancy after school, the topic of morning sickness came up. She mentioned that she decided not to get morning sickness, and so she didn't.
I decided that I wouldn't get breasts.
It didn't work.

In middle school, everyone suddenly started dating. My friends started asking who my crush was, and I panicked, because I didn't have one. I sat down one night, drawing out tables and charts, trying to decide on the least ugly male in 6th grade. (Very hard.)
I did everything right. I flirted, acted embarrassed, whispered his name when asked The Question. Every now and then, I could change the answer. Playing along was easy.
I wondered when it would become real.

By eighth grade, I thought that the only way to have breasts removed was to have cancer.
I began to wonder how I could fake cancer.
I didn't know that transitional surgery was an option. I hate myself for such dark thoughts, but I also hate society for failing me.

A boy asked me out in high school. After several weeks of dating, I shaved my legs for the first time. My mom was very relieved, after all her "subtle" hints that everyone could see I didn't shave, and everyone noticed. "People talk," she told me. I don't shave anymore, so I'm sure they still do.

I remember seeing my first transgender person on TV. My mom told me he used to be a girl, but got surgery to be a boy. I didn't know people could do that. It was cool that he was allowed to be a boy now, but I couldn't imagine ever having surgery just to get a penis. Worth it? No way.

During conversation, my mom mentioned to watch out for boys, because they all wanted sex so badly. She said that was why teenagers were always having sex, which was very bad.
I asked why girls didn't just say No when their boyfriends asked for sex, if girls never wanted to have sex.
She said "I don't know."
Asexuality is hereditary, and sometimes I wonder if I inherited mine.
If I did, my mom would never admit it. I just know I grew up hoping that I might be normal after all, no matter how many people at school asked me why I hadn't had sex yet.
Compared to my friends, I thought something was wrong with me.

When I was almost sixteen, I got my first computer. I loved communicating via typing. In the early, awkward stages of making online friends, at least half asked if I were a boy. I felt a deep satisfaction every time, even though I didn't know why.
I was always disappointed if they thought I were a girl.

On a field trip, I met a friendly girl at our lunch table who mentioned playing soccer. She got kicked off the soccer team during puberty. We were confused, and she explained that as a little kid, her parents cut her hair short and gave a fake name because her school only had a boy's team. I wondered why my parents couldn't have let me cut my hair and choose a nickname.
I'd always wanted a nickname. My name didn't fit right.

When people asked me to guess their gender online, I always asked if they were a boy, even if I knew they weren't. "Girl" had always hit me like an insult. I thought that they would rather be guessed a boy than a girl, like I did.
I was wrong.

Late high school, I got really into wearing hats. I wore them normally during the day. However, in the privacy of my bedroom, I used to secretly wind all of my hair up as tight as it would go, and attempt to stuff it under my hat in a way that stayed. My hair was always too thick to hide entirely, and the hat never sat correctly on top of it. I didn't look like a boy.
I looked like a girl, failing to hide her hair under a hat.

One time, an online stranger referred to me by male pronouns. I made no comment on it when responding, and felt giddy all night.
A friend saw, and "corrected" the stranger.
I was so mad at that friend.

I was floored when I first saw the word "asexuality" used to describe humans. Everything suddenly made sense.
Maybe I wasn't broken after all.

Age seventeen, I reluctantly joined Facebook. Instead of my legal name, picked a name that was neutral, a name that I liked and that didn't reveal my gender. It felt good to try on. I ended up trying it on for five years after that.
It stuck, by the way.

My freshman year of college, an adult male decided that he was The Cure™ to asexuality. He thought that if I found out sex was Good™ I would want to have it with him all the time. He wanted to make me understand, through force or otherwise, so that I'd realize what a Huge Favor he had done for me, and I would finally be Freed™ to give him all the sex he wanted.
Strangely, even though it didn't seem possible, I felt even more asexual afterwards than before.
He broke up with me.

After turning eighteen, my best friend came out to me as genderfluid, and said she might even want to transition in the future. I had to ask what that word meant. When I got home, I read up on it for hours and hours. I eventually came across the terms "agender" and "nonbinary". The definitions were the story of my life.
It was nice finally finding labels that fit like a glove, in sharp contrast to the ill-fitting shoes I'd been trying to cram onto my feet ever since I began walking down the horrendous path of my life.

Under the guise of cosplaying, I bought my first binder. I chose to be honest with my mom when it arrived in the mail, although I claimed it was to play a male character; which was true of the upcoming convention I would attend. She seemed accepting of it. I tried it on "to practice for the convention," and was secretly thrilled by the results.
Later that night, at the family dinner table, she announced that I had to show everyone what I had gotten. At first I thought she was joking. She was not. I had never been asked to strip naked in front of my family before; especially not my brother or father. Perhaps due to being startled, I somehow found the courage to say No.
She was furious; my other family members were simply confused. I excused myself, and was able to escape to a friend's house for comfort and safety. In the solitude of the car, I cried.

On campus, I joined a Christian club. I'd had the label slapped on me since birth, but was finally learning about my own religion for the first time.
One of the other members of the group was gay. The secretary was a lesbian. The president was bisexual. I had been taught to believe that God rejected those who were not born straight, but suddenly, I began to wonder, if maybe my parents were wrong.
Maybe I were still worthy of love after all.

Several summers into college life, I finally cut my hair. I'd always wanted short hair, ever since meeting that girl in elementary school, who proved that having short hair looked great on any gender. I'd been putting it off out of fear.
It felt even better than expected.
Finally.

I started shopping in the mens' section at stores, occasionally. At first, when my parents noticed, they didn't like me doing that either.
Eventually, they started giving me my brother's hand-me-downs.
Progress, not perfection.

During senior year, I found another person with the same sexuality and gender as me. We dated for several months. I felt powerful, walking down the street holding their hand. We were everything that society hated in romantic partners; Same sex, gender nonbinary, asexual, interracial. Merely existing, we were spitting in society's bleak face.
Looking back, I think we only dated for that reason. It was comforting to find someone finally alike, someone else who understood. A person who agreed that we belonged. That we had a right to be here.
It wasn't enough for a relationship.

While accidentally high, I mentioned top surgery to my mom, and then promptly forgot.
She did not forget. She exploded about it three weeks later, apparently having let it simmer all that time.
I didn't change my mind. One of these days, I am giving "Them" an eviction notice.
People can complain, but no one can stop me.

Recently, to the last few people who did not know, I asked to be called by my true name instead of my birth name. My parents say they are trying. The only others who struggle are my coworkers, who had been working with me for six years before learning my name.
What nobody realizes is that it is hard for me, too.

But it is time to transform.

I feel that my entire life has led up to my discovery of myself.
Figuring out who I am, in spite of all the negativity society has thrown at me.
The negativity towards the LGBT+ community.

It needs to stop

We need to live

We need to be free