When I was about thirteen, I went from being a fairly happy-go-lucky child to a self-hating, morose teenager. It was all about words; words from an authority I trusted: The King James Bible. Perusing my grandmother's huge and ancient family bible one day, I stumbled upon Deuteronomy 22:5:
The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the Lord thy God.
I was struck to the heart. I had been crossdressing for as long as I can remember, but not until this moment did I feel guilty about it. Yes, I knew it wasn't socially acceptable, but I really didn't think it was morally wrong until now. Now I was branded an abomination, "a thing that causes disgust or hatred", according to my dictionary. It was the beginning of a long, dark period in my life.
No matter how I prayed for help, though, I could never stop dressing in women's clothing at nearly every opportunity. I called myself the most horrible names: Sinner. Evil. Abomination. I cried in anguish and despair. I hated myself so deeply at times that it's a wonder I didn't try to commit suicide. I heard words at school, meant to ridicule and wound, and wondered if they applied to me: Sissy. Queer. Fag. Homo. Gay. I policed my movements and speech in order to hide any suggestion of femininity.
When I was a little older, I started looking at psychology books for more insight into why I wanted to dress and act like a woman. Many of the books were old, and none of them were very enlightened. I got some new words for my internal collection: Pervert. Deviant. Neurotic. Sick. Crazy.
By this time I was filled so deeply with self-loathing and shame that I could not conceive of anyone actually loving, or even liking me, if they knew the truth about me. I felt had to carefully maintain a facade of likeability to hide what I really was underneath. Like a chameleon, I tried to blend in. At the same time, I castigated myself with more words: Impostor. Fake. Phony. Liar.
Thankfully, I eventually turned a corner and headed in a healthier and more positive direction. I've come a long way, baby. But those hateful words are still rattling around in my head, and when I read or hear transphobic speech those words can come alive again, buzzing, swarming, and stinging like angry bees. Sickened, I feel myself teetering on the edge of depression, and sometimes I fall in.
Words can hurt. Why do some people lash out at others, using hateful words to inflict pain? Why do some people torture themselves with those same poisoned words? There is enough pain and suffering in this life. Be kind to each other. Be kind to yourself. No more hurtful words.
