@Willow Summer. 1993. I was 13.

Puberty hit me hard between grades 7 and 8. Fast. Ugly.

I was mistaken for my dad on the phone. Adam's apple to next week. Hair already giving away the fact I'll go bald. I hated every moment of it, way more than the other boys.

It hit so hard, in fact, that my pituitary gland had to balance my body out with estrogen, with an unexpected side effect: hard lumps under my nipples.

The doctor said it was temporary, puberty-induced gynecomastia, and that it would go away in about 6–12 months. Most boys would probably be elated and play video games. I walked out of his office numb. And that numbness bothered me. In fact, it bothered me the rest of the day.

You see, I was a kid who ideated suicide a lot, very quietly. My parents screamed and fought constantly. I was viciously abused at school for my high marks and my (unaware-to-me) queerness. I was used to the numbness of wanting to cease.

This wasn't that. This numbness pulled. At my mind. The rest of the day. And it wouldn't leave

I went to sleep bothered not to be able to figure it out, like a limb that fell asleep that won't wake up. I eventually decided to try to sleep and worry about it the next day. My brain went quiet. Until:

“Oh,” a little, calm, rational voice — my voice — said, “you have little breast buds and you don't want to lose them.

But. You're going to. And that hurts. That's the problem.”

That voice was tiny, but it split my brain like a thundercrack. I immediately knew.

I was a girl.

I cried silently in my bed for what seemed like hours. It wasn't a mistake, what this voice said. But God wouldn't fuck up this bad. Science wouldn't fuck up this bad. There has to be something.

What can I do?

What… could I do?

There's… nothing I could do.

I cried myself to sleep knowing who I was, but more trapped than I could imagine.

That's the story of discovery. I'll write more later.