I think the part of all of this that is the most difficult to recover from, personally, is knowing how badly I've let myself down.
The 12-year-old version of me — who has already had her self-esteem destroyed, who has already become convinced that she is repulsive and unlovable — probably could never have predicted her eventual medical masculinization, but she would be unsurprised that the 37-year-old version of me is unmarried and childless.
Maybe the other kids were right to act as if they'd caught the damn plague when they accidentally touched me. Maybe they were right to give me a wide berth. Maybe there was a reason barely anyone spoke kindly to me.
Maybe when I was 19 and my boss told me that everyone in the store hated me, there was a reason.
Maybe when I was 22 and one my roommates told me that everyone in the house was talking about me behind my back, there was a reason.
Maybe when I was 32 and detransitioned and people started to slowly drop out of my life or quietly fade out or went down calling me a bitch, there was a reason.
Maybe they’re right. It’s hard to believe that many people think I’m dirt — even people who knew me quite intimately — and for it to not mean anything. Consistent. Since childhood. Every step of the way.
Maybe I was never going to be the most important person to anyone. Maybe it was all destiny to be ruined, sterile, repulsive, and alone. Maybe every time I try to overcome it is embarrassing to watch. Maybe this is just it forever.