At 14 I identified as a Lesbian. I liked girls, I found that actually quite a few liked me. Even straight girls were okay with kissing, dating me. I was their dirty little secret, tucked away in the bathrooms at school, online at night. I was raised female, I knew what girls liked for the large part, I had insider knowledge.
At 18 I knew I wasn't a lesbian. There was something foreign and off sounding about the term. I had even gone deeper into the culture to see if I could manage to convince myself that I belonged there, fit there. It's painfully obvious to see now, and I understand that. I was male. A wolf sewn into his sheep skin costume. Unable to open his jaw for anything much more then a few words, afraid to let the other sheep know of his identity; surely he'd be hated for it. So instead he sits on the hill at night, howling and crying at the moon.
I howled. I howled and cried and begged and whined. The lone wolf in a pack of sheep. I had never known that at the base of the hill on all those nights, there were wolves in sheep's clothing, answering to each other and helping each other tear off the wool, never again to bleat. A pack, a brotherhood of wolves-once-sheep.
It's January, 2010, 2:00 in the morning and I am awake. Staring at my laptop screen, once again doing google searches on transgenders. My girlfriend was in Arkansas, and I was deeply depressed.Unsure of myself, my world. Howling at the moon, looking for answers.
By three I'm staring myself in the mirror. A song comes to mind, Who Is that Girl I See, staring straight back at me? A tear rolls down my face and I realize that I don't recognize myself. I had always viewed myself as a masculine force, a male entity, I always figured that surely I was seen the same way, but I did then notice I was lying to myself. I was a girl, an eighteen year old girl with short cut hair, breasts and curves everywhere that I never wanted them. I howled again, but this time I heard an answer. Another howl. A friend of mine answered and confessed that he too was trapped in a sheep skin costume, forced to bleat when he spoke. We began to go to the meetings at the base of the hill and one by one, each of these meetings helped me tear off the horrible white wool. Even now, I slowly tear off the wool. I howl in the night, but no longer a lone. I howl in a pack. A pack of once-sheep-now-wolves. There's different stages, that's for sure. Some are still sheep looking, some you would have never known. But there's always help, assistance. A howl to accompany your own. A brotherhood that has come of the blinding ordeal. Understanding that each has walked both sides of the tracks, bleating instead of howling, being sheared instead of biting the hand. Some sheep are shocked that you walked in their presence, as one of them. Some sheep saw it coming, they somehow saw you on that hill, crying to the moon.Now, I no longer cry alone, knowing others have done it too. I stand in a pack, a wolf in the making. I howl and I know I am heard.
At 18 I knew I wasn't a lesbian. There was something foreign and off sounding about the term. I had even gone deeper into the culture to see if I could manage to convince myself that I belonged there, fit there. It's painfully obvious to see now, and I understand that. I was male. A wolf sewn into his sheep skin costume. Unable to open his jaw for anything much more then a few words, afraid to let the other sheep know of his identity; surely he'd be hated for it. So instead he sits on the hill at night, howling and crying at the moon.
I howled. I howled and cried and begged and whined. The lone wolf in a pack of sheep. I had never known that at the base of the hill on all those nights, there were wolves in sheep's clothing, answering to each other and helping each other tear off the wool, never again to bleat. A pack, a brotherhood of wolves-once-sheep.
It's January, 2010, 2:00 in the morning and I am awake. Staring at my laptop screen, once again doing google searches on transgenders. My girlfriend was in Arkansas, and I was deeply depressed.Unsure of myself, my world. Howling at the moon, looking for answers.
By three I'm staring myself in the mirror. A song comes to mind, Who Is that Girl I See, staring straight back at me? A tear rolls down my face and I realize that I don't recognize myself. I had always viewed myself as a masculine force, a male entity, I always figured that surely I was seen the same way, but I did then notice I was lying to myself. I was a girl, an eighteen year old girl with short cut hair, breasts and curves everywhere that I never wanted them. I howled again, but this time I heard an answer. Another howl. A friend of mine answered and confessed that he too was trapped in a sheep skin costume, forced to bleat when he spoke. We began to go to the meetings at the base of the hill and one by one, each of these meetings helped me tear off the horrible white wool. Even now, I slowly tear off the wool. I howl in the night, but no longer a lone. I howl in a pack. A pack of once-sheep-now-wolves. There's different stages, that's for sure. Some are still sheep looking, some you would have never known. But there's always help, assistance. A howl to accompany your own. A brotherhood that has come of the blinding ordeal. Understanding that each has walked both sides of the tracks, bleating instead of howling, being sheared instead of biting the hand. Some sheep are shocked that you walked in their presence, as one of them. Some sheep saw it coming, they somehow saw you on that hill, crying to the moon.Now, I no longer cry alone, knowing others have done it too. I stand in a pack, a wolf in the making. I howl and I know I am heard.
