I Was A Four-Year-Old Trans Kid

How I tried to bury the real me

I tried so hard, I really did. I stuck her in a box, nailed it shut. I sobbed as I piled on layers of earth. And when I was done, I took a breath, turned around, and she was watching me with a smile.

“Hey babe! What are you up to? Grab your things, it’s time to go for a ride.”

— Melissa Green

I thought I buried that bitch. Well, didn’t she turn out to have the last laugh on me. Well played, me. Well played indeed.

What does it mean to be transgender? There is no single answer that is appropriate for everyone who falls under this umbrella. We all have different experiences, different environments, and different individual physiological and psychological makeups that inform our own definitions.

For myself, it’s pretty simple. In 1976, at the age of four, at the point in a child’s psychological development when they become aware of themselves as a “self,” of being their own person, I became aware that I was…wrong. Everyone referred to me as a little boy, and called me with a boy’s name, but it felt wrong.

I had no idea what to call it, this inner knowledge that I was actually a girl — it was just something I knew. Just like most of you are certain that you are male, and typically masculine, or that you are female, and typically feminine, and you never question that — I never had that certainty of knowledge about myself, I was always questioning it.

I didn’t have the language, or the frame of reference to even describe it, and it certainly wasn’t anything that was talked about in that era.

I’ve spent my lifetime trying to overcome this, and at the same time searching for answers. And by overcoming it, what I really mean is I took all my feelings, all my insecurities, all my emotions, and all of my capacity to love myself, and I locked everything up tight inside a heart-shaped box.

This box was a talisman, a grail that could seemingly never be attained in this lifetime. It was tucked away safely inside of me, a part of my identity that was forever isolated and could never be allowed to see the light of day. This heart-shaped box contained my feelings, insecurities, emotions, and self-love — this box contained me. The real me. My female self.

I have always had what could most charitably be described as a tense relationship with my father. Even at a young age, I was witness to, and on the receiving end of, emotional and psychological abuse, and he was always quick to respond with his hands or with his belt.

Consequently, I very quickly became an expert at compartmentalization, of taking whatever I was feeling at a given moment and burying it deep down inside of me. It was completely the wrong approach to take with a child, any child, as the impressions left by such treatment leave wounds that never heal.

Over time, I became moody, sullen, shy, and introverted. And it was therefore only natural that this most important aspect of myself, my knowing that I was a girl, was the most deeply hidden part of me. I grew up hating myself, hating what I was, and thinking that I could never be that which I was meant to be. And I never told a soul.

I battled through more depressive cycles growing up than I could possibly count. Looking back, many of them would easily qualify to be diagnosed today as clinical depression. As much as I really wanted to do well in everything I tried, including school, there was a part of me that knew it would never be good enough for dad; and besides, I wasn’t really worth that much, anyway.

So, time and time again, self-loathing won the day, and any fleeting feelings of positivity were quickly gathered up and locked away. I lacked self-confidence, and I lacked pride in myself.

I didn’t have a girlfriend until I was 19, and even that turned out to be the first and last of my youth, as I entered into a mistake of a relationship that lasted 17 years. We even actually married, but because the intoxicated pastor never registered the marriage, we were never legally married, just common-law. Anyway, this relationship somehow stumbled along, lasting through college, years of minimum wage employment, many fights, my joining the Navy, and a move to British Columbia.

The Navy gave me structure and focus, something to direct my energy into, and it turned out to be something I was actually pretty good at. My home life was a disaster, but work was my escape, and deployments at sea were a comparative vacation. My inner self seemed easier to hide, for a while anyway. But that knowledge was never far from the surface, like a second heartbeat pulsing within me. I was just skilled at ignoring its pleas for release.

And then my life changed. I met my future wife, found the courage and strength to cut ties with the mistakes of the past, and moved forward into a promising future. Finally, after so many decades, I believed I could actually be a man instead of the façade I presented to the world.

I was, after some initial hesitation, accepted into a new family, and I finally had the father figure I had missed growing up. I had conquered my gender dilemma! My compartmentalization abilities had succeeded!

Yeah, not so fast, sister.

After getting married — for real this time — I fell into the worst depression in many, many years. I don’t know what specifically triggered it, but I have given it some thought. The only explanation that makes sense for me is that, having finally attained the archetype of manhood, the façade was finally beginning to crack. I mean, I loved my wife dearly, I still do, but I think it all became too much to bear.

That box inside of me was demanding to be set free. I kept trying to compartmentalize, but it was a weakening skill. So, finally, I told someone — my new wife, my best friend.

Fast forward to 2018, and the birth of our third child. My wife and I had discussed my gender transition desires at length, and we agreed that, since this was something I needed to do, that I would take the last four months of parental leave to commence my social and legal transition.

I started hormone replacement therapy, or HRT, on 28 April 2018. By July I had told my chain of command at work, and several colleagues. I was off work from early September until early January 2019, when I returned to work, legally a woman, socially female, and with a new name.

After this lengthy discourse, I’ll return to my original question: what does it mean to be transgender? It means that, barring four events in my life — my marriage, and the births of our three children — I am finally, truly happy. I am free to be myself, to express to the world the adult woman who was once the little girl inside of me.

Everything that has happened in my life, every decision, encounter, experience, it has all led me to this point in time, and combined to make me who I am today. It means I accept and celebrate that I have a past, as it has impacted too many people for me to disregard it. However, I now have a future as my true self.

I still have work to do on communication, of not always needing to hide my feelings, as the habits of many decades are hard habits to break. But I’m getting better.

After nearly 47 years, I was finally able to open my heart-shaped box. Just a peek to begin, to feel the breath of Meghan on my face. Now she is free, and she is me. And the heart-shaped box is no longer a talisman, but a memento.

No one is harder on us than ourselves. I tried to kill my inner self, but she turned out to pretty damn resilient. The bitch I thought I buried? Well, it just so happens I like her a lot.

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