by Nevo Zisin
I had never liked being naked and I had never been naked at ConFest. I loved being surrounded by naked strangers in a totally non-sexual situation, but I didn’t think it was something I could do myself. The people I went with were encouraging of nakedness and for the first time in a long time I took my shirt off in public. I had such a heightened awareness of my body, of other bodies and of the wind on my nipples. I spent most of the time walking around at ConFest with my breasts out, talking about how they were out. Tia stood next to me, laughing at how much I was talking about the fact I was topless. I was trying to convince myself that this was a liberating experience for me and I was reclaiming my body, but really I was just anxious and trying to ignore the niggling at the back of my brain telling me that this didn’t feel right.
When I got home from ConFest, I started researching. Although I had been in the LGBTQIA+ community for a couple of years, I had never been exposed to transgender issues. I think that’s because the community is quite divided. Often mainstream discourse from the gay community focuses on its L, G and maybe occasionally B members, but there is a rather large eclipse of the other letters in the acronym. I knew nothing of trans, gender diverse and intersex people.
I looked up the sort of anxieties and concerns I was having: dreams I had where I was almost always a man, and the fact that whenever I played online roleplaying games, I always chose the male character. I’m not saying this is the same for everyone. There is no single trans narrative. This is my experience and my experience alone. But I read things online from other trans people that resonated with me. With each story and anecdote I read that I could relate to, I developed a deep, tight knot in my stomach that I knew would not easily come undone.
I became obsessed. My dysphoria started to grow and take over. My head was filled with paranoia and self-hatred. I ran away from the world around me that I felt would never understand, into the world of the internet. I went out less and immersed myself deeply in my research every day after school. It was a can of worms that once opened could not be closed, and I found solace in the research that I didn’t quite feel in anything or anyone else.
A lot of how I felt as a child started to resurface and I spent time looking back on old photos and trying to understand why it was that I identified as a boy for five years. I had always assumed it was because I was a lesbian and as a child didn’t understand that. I thought maybe my younger self felt in order to be attracted to women I would have to be a man. The thing I hadn’t considered was that I wasn’t attracted to anyone when I was four. This had nothing to do with attraction or sexuality. It was about me, internally, not my interactions with others. I had to begin to look at that stage of my life very differently and unpack some of the meaning behind it. I had never thought any of the feelings I held as a child could be relieved in any way, but the more research I did, the more I felt truly seen. Things started to make sense and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to celebrate or break down and cry. I felt like I was finding a part of myself that had been lost for a very long time. But did I want to find it? I was scared of this discovery. I didn’t know who I was any more.
I desperately searched for information on trans issues. The last few years have brought an increase of transgender representation and topics into the mainstream media. However 2013, although not long ago, had very little discussion surrounding these issues. I wasn’t sure where to turn for support. Part of me wanted to run away, deny and reject any potential that I could be trans. I wanted to ignore the feelings that were powerfully bubbling up. But I could think of nothing else.
I needed to get to the truth, because I wasn’t sure if I had been lying to myself for my entire life. I couldn’t work out which versions of myself had been the most authentic ones. I thought I had been genuinely honest about who I was throughout my life. I was panicked and so deeply trapped in my own head I felt no one else could reach me. I didn’t know how to put the feelings and experiences I was having into words. I felt entirely isolated.
I thought finding trans stories would maybe give me the vocabulary to express the mess that was happening in my brain. The only trans representations I managed to find ended in tragedy, heartbreak and death. There was nothing in mainstream media to show me that it was okay to be trans, that I could have a future.
Something scary happened at this point. I stopped imagining myself as an older person. Before this I had spent a lot of time romanticising my future. I would often think about getting married and having kids, what job I would have, my house, my pets, how I would go on to live my life. As soon as I thought that I might be trans, that all came to a dramatic halt. I couldn’t see it any more. I couldn’t imagine myself surviving this discovery, and if I did, I was unable to grasp the idea I could be happy.
Chapter 6: My Mother Doesn’t Know My Name
I went into survival mode. I got out of bed each day, went to school, kept my head down and came home. My days lost meaning and I was just trying to get through them. I stopped picturing a happy future because I didn’t believe it was possible. I had an overwhelming urge to rip out of my body and fly away. I didn’t want to be me any more.
I was a hazard to myself; I didn’t fit into the world. I couldn’t see people like me anywhere, and I was consciously aware of myself all the time. I became fed up with the discussion I was having with myself. I wanted to shut off. It felt as if I had brought this discovery upon myself, when everything had been fine, as if I had some sort of deep desire to ruin everything. I was angry. I hated myself. I wanted to be someone else.
With each day, getting out of bed took more energy. Bags formed under my eyes and my body became heavier. I was lugging around chains of emotional weight. I had dealt with depression before, but this was unlike anything else. I was constantly anxious and quiet, conjuring up scenarios where I would tell people I might be trans and they would never speak to me again, or worse, become violent. I had created a world of my own, filled with misery, and I needed to let someone in before it swallowed me whole.
I hid this from my mum; I didn’t think she would understand. At school I performed a false happiness, pretended to be okay so no one would see what was really happening – I was falling apart. I needed to hold myself together by the thinnest string because I could not afford to lose everything at this point. This was my final year of school, I just needed to make it through.
Before things got worse I turned to Tia. She didn’t understand what I was going through, but she tried, and I didn’t feel as alone. Shannon, Siobhan and Leila were on call. They came over whenever I needed them and sat with me, even when I didn’t feel like talking. I didn’t tell them what was going on; I didn’t need to. I started to see a faint light in the distance. When I finally did tell the girls that I thought I might be trans, Leila looked at me and said, “I know.”
With my friends and partner by my side, I became more stable and was able to face the reality that I was transgender. As much as those closest to me tried their best, they could not truly understand how I was feeling or what I was going through. I needed to immerse myself in the transgender community.
Because I didn’t actually know anyone who was transgender, I turned to YouTube and stumbled upon a world I hadn’t realised existed – the trans world. There were videos where trans people spoke of their experiences and lives at different ages and stages of transition. The most striking thing was a lot of them looked happy. I started to piece together a future I thought had shattered permanently.
I stumbled upon a “One Year on Testosterone” transition video made by a transgender man. It was a series of photos and short clips, following his life until he had been on testosterone for a year. There were photos of him as a young child, teenager, getting married to a man, presenting as masculine and in a relationship with a woman. Then there was a short video of him explaining he was trans and was about to undergo a medical transition. The photos showed him and his girlfriend, his first testosterone injection, videos of the changes he was experiencing.
It was quite surreal and I watched these photos and videos of him changing, with his girlfriend right beside him. Then there was a photo of her pregnant. I burst into tears. I wasn’t sure how they managed to have a baby, but all that mattered to me was that it was possible. They got married and there were photos of him holding his child. When I realised I was trans I stopped imagining ever being a parent. This video changed everything. He was happy, healthy and alive, and I could be too.
I was overcome with emotion. I showed my mum the video. Not because I was ready to tell her how I was feeling, but because I needed to share this video with someone. I needed her to respond emotionally and I guess I wanted her to miraculously understand this was going to be my journey too. I told her I had a trans friend and it was important to me that she watches this video, so she will understand better. She watched it while cooking, said, “That’s nice,” and turned back to her pot. I waited to see if that was the end of her reaction but found comfort that she hadn’t been appalled by what I had shown her.
I discovered later she had called a friend of hers immediately after and said, “I have a terrible feeling that my child might want to be a man.” We didn’t talk about it again for a while. I was feeling confident she would handle my coming out fairly well, while at the same time she was terrified this video was an indication I might be trans.
I came across an interview on YouTube with a trans man and his mum. I had never seen anything like it before. I had assumed most trans people would be estranged from their parents because their family could never come to understand or accept them. At least that was the impression from the tragic media narratives I had been exposed to. The video was of a trans guy only a few years older than me, sitting with his mum and discussing how his transition had been for them. His mum spoke about how it helped both of them that her son had told her about his gender questions early on in his process, before he was more certain of himself. She explained that this offered them the opportunity to go on the journey together and support each other. She felt that questioning his identity alongside him allowed both of them to understand things more deeply and it was empowering for their relationship.
I had initially planned to wait before talking about my gender with my mum, but this video made me rethink things. I thought it could be an opportunity for us to be closer. I realised in my depressive and self-hating state, I was shutting her out and maybe I needed to give her more credit. I resolved to speak to her earlier. We had always been very close and I wanted her to go on this journey with me. I felt alone enough in my own head; I didn’t want to feel alone in my house too. I needed her to understand that I was struggling, that it was complex and that I was in need of support.
One day we were driving and I told her I was beginning to question my gender. She immediately freaked out. (I recognise retrospectively that the car is probably not the best place to reveal life-changing realisations.) She explained how much more radical a gender transition is and said she had come to accept my sexuality, “Why can’t you be happy with that and not push things further?” She was angry, confused and upset. I felt the same way. I sat there, gently sobbing, holding my breath until we arrived home. I felt sick.
As soon as we got home, I launched out of the car, tears pouring down my face. I raced straight to my room. I exploded – all the anxieties and fears I had been holding onto erupted. Things were only beginning to look up after the deep pit I had fallen into, and in that moment I was right back at the bottom.
I heard Mum’s footsteps coming up the staircase. I didn’t want to speak to her. I wasn’t sure what to say. She came in and I turned away from her. I didn’t want her to see how much I was panicking. She wouldn’t understand. But she held me and said that no matter what, I would always be her child and she would love and support me regardless. She had never been particularly good at comforting me or understanding what I need when I’m panicked, but what she said calmed me and I appreciated it. She left shortly after and, in the exhaustion I had created through my anxiety, I fell asleep. It seemed the worst was over.
We didn’t speak about that day again. I realised we weren’t speaking much at all, actually. The tension in our household was tangible. Mum wasn’t sure how to process the information I had given her. She went from silent to angry. She lashed out at me because she felt this was something I was purposefully forcing upon her, as if I wasn’t content with the difficulties in our life already, and I was trying to make things harder. This made everything worse.
I longed for the invisibility I once had. I felt exposed and vulnerable and attacked. She used aggressive and antagonistic language towards me and to the parts of my body I was feeling anxious about. Home became a scary place for me. I spent more time at friends’ places as well as my dad’s. I hated myself enough. To see it mirrored even in the slightest way in my mother was too much for me to handle. I needed to escape.
I had very rapidly transitioned from confident and outgoing back to quiet and anxious. I became smaller, took up less space and my head was filled with aggressive words and reactions I expected to hear from everyone around me. My dysphoria spread like a virus through my body. Parts of myself I had never quite been aware of felt like they had grown or pronounced themselves in ways they hadn’t before. I had a heightened awareness of the lumps below my shirt, the delicateness of my fingers, the size of my hips, my voice. I hated everything.
I wanted to go out into public dressed as a man. I wanted to put into practise the feelings I was having and see whether it felt right. I wanted to know if being perceived or “read” as male would alleviate the anxiety I was having.
I started researching binders. A binder is an undergarment that can press your breasts down to make a more flat-looking chest. I had always hated my breasts. They were totally different sizes. I was incredibly insecure about them and hated looking at them. I remember going to the doctor when I was younger and asking if there was anything I could do about it. Instead of telling me how normal it is for breasts to be different sizes, she told me my only option would be surgery. Chest surgery was on my mind from a young age.
I wasn’t sure what a binder would feel like, so I was too scared to buy the binders that were available online. They were expensive and I felt like purchasing one would be a big decision. So Leila and I went to a department store to buy tight crop tops that could do the job. I was excited to see how flat I could make my breasts. The problem was I had to choose a flat chest over breathing.
I wore them for a few days before I almost passed out. But the feeling I got when I looked in the mirror at my flat chest revealed to me that buying a proper binder was an investment I would have to make. I found one online that looked good and ordered it. I had to use Tia’s credit card because I was too afraid to ask my mum for hers. I counted the days until its expected delivery.
When it finally arrived I rushed to my room and put it on. It was comfortable and it didn’t constrict my breathing to the extent that the crop tops had. I looked in the mirror and couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I emptied my cupboard of my favourite shirts and tried them on with my new flat chest. Everything sat better on my body and for the first time I believed I could pass as a boy. I took photos and posted them on a private blog I had created to track my transition. I kept running my hand over the totally unfamiliar flatness.
When I was born, I was named Liat. Liat is a Hebrew name that my mum felt very strongly about, one that I grew to feel a deep connection with. It translates loosely into English as “You’re mine”. It was a special message from my mother to me. Those series of letters somehow became defining to who I was as a person.
Some trans people hate their birth names. There is a lot of associated trauma and distress and many refer to it as their “deadname”. It is considered an act of transphobia to use someone’s birth name without their consent. I have had mine used many times without consultation, in interviews and articles and by people who have decided it is too difficult to adjust to a new name. That nam
e being used as a way of invalidating my identity has caused a bitter rift in my relationship with those people. Though truthfully, I love my birth name. Revealing that name to people is a recognition of closeness. So by choosing to include my birth name at this point in my book, I am allowing you to see a very guarded part of me.
There will always be a part of me that is Liat. I think of her almost as a little sister, and sometimes I miss her. When I refer to my past self, sometimes I use “she” pronouns and sometimes I use my old name. By no means does that give permission to anyone else to do the same. I exclusively use they/them and he/him pronouns now, and that is what I expect people to use when referring to me in the past. I know this sounds confusing, but I think it’s okay to have a different set of rules for myself in relation to my gender and past than I do for others.
There is a part of me that wishes I could have kept my birth name. But as time went on, my name felt distant. I started to see it as a “girl’s name” rather than my name. Out of the mouths of those I knew would not accept me it felt like a slur, an insult and total invalidation. When people said that I would always remain Liat to them, it felt like they would never see me for who I truly was, just merely the performance I had been. Once my name became my insult, there was no getting it back.
I spent a long time deciding on a name for the new me. It’s difficult to choose your own name. I started making lists and searching Hebrew baby-name books. It was important to me that the name would be Hebrew as my Israeli heritage is central to my identity. I thought about Lior – close to my name; maybe too close. It would feel strange correcting people. Also, it’s a gender-neutral name and it was very important to me to have a masculine name (whatever that means!). I read my list of new names to Tia. She didn’t like any of them. But they were Hebrew and probably sounded very foreign and strange to her. I would have loved my mum to be a part of my name-choosing process, except she was not ready to face the reality of my transition.