By

~

When I was six years old, I had my first crush. I told my dad about her, how beautiful she was, how shocked I was that people like her exist, because it was unfair. I always thought I would marry a girl just like her, someone to share my life with and marvel at every day.

When I was seven years old, I told my dad that I wanted to be a boy. His response was simple: "you could get surgery when you're older, if you want to change that." His response seemed so simple, and I couldn't get my head around why people would ever think any different.

When I was nine years old, someone called me gay. A friend. And I laughed and denied it, said that it was impossible, nothing but a lie. She said that that was good, and I nodded my head and pretended to agree.

Eleven years old, a new school, a school where I had to fit the feminine mould, where I had to fit the cookie cutter made for me and that was expected of me. I decided to yell a defiant "no" to this, coming out to my friends as transgender and bi and revelling in the defiance I was wracking up against my name.

And I went to Pride. A local one, with my friend, and it was, quite frankly, the best day of my life. All the times I'd been called a fag or a dyke or whatever had only made me stronger, had built my armour, and I was all the better for it.

When I was twelve years old, my psychiatrist promised me an appointment at a gender identity clinic. The best news I'd heard in months, a light for a dark time.

Well, until my parents blocked it. A classic story of teen angst, misunderstanding and frustration. Sat at dinner, arms folded - "what's wrong?"

"Dad, I am so tired of waiting."

And I have to stay awake.