When I started my Twitter account, I became part of an ongoing discourse, and I’ve spent nearly every day since then discussing or listening to discussion on gender, transition, medicine, and ethics.
I’m in a weird spot, though, because if I want to take a break, I don’t really have anyone else to talk to.
This has been the case for awhile. In 2014, I went from having most of my friends within easy reach of me, visiting pretty frequently, to seeing almost none of them—and I’ve never recovered since. The friendships never felt the same, or my friends also moved away.
In 2020, when the most significant event of my life so far occurred—I realized that the hormones I’d taken and surgeries I’d undergone were unnecessary—all of my friends and family either (1) didn’t know very much at all about the inner workings of the online “trans community” or (2) would likely accuse me of being a bigot if I criticized said community.
I had one friend who had detransitioned (who remains my closest friend) that I could confide in, but otherwise there was no one.
At this point, the Internet has been a socialization replacement in my life for more than 20 years. The sad part, though, is 20 years ago, I was much more “free” online. I was more likely to say whatever I was thinking. I still overreacted, but it was usually over personal drama rather than political opinions. It was also relatively easy for me to private message people and make friends. Not anymore.
Social justice online culture honestly crushed my online personality in the same way that being bullied as a child crushed my real life personality.
These days, I stress about most online contact, even if it’s coming from someone complimenting me or reaching out. I overthink my words. I overthink my punctuation. It creates so much stress that a few people who message me just don’t receive a response (sorry).
I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy at this point. Maybe my entire adulthood has been a subconscious validation of those core beliefs that I might be inherently unlikeable, unfeminine, and unappealing. And who can argue with me now? Who can tell me I’m not unfeminine? Who can win a debate on whether my post-surgical body would be appealing to most of my potential suitors? No one. I’ve won.
I can only hope to get by on personality at this point.
That’s not a very comforting thought.
I hate Twitter. I’ve been pretty open about that in the past. Twitter punishes nuance and rewards rage. Most social media platforms do.
But I care about people on Twitter. I’m in contact with people who went through the same thing I did. I’m hearing pieces of my story reflected in theirs. And I’m not seeing my story reflected in my real life—anywhere. Even with the people I’ve only spoken to a few times, I’m probably overvaluing that relationship. It means more to me than it does to them.
It isn’t what “real” friendship looks like, but it’s the closest I’ve got right now.
If I need to get off Twitter, who do I talk to? Who else understands? I spent a decade of my life acquiring friends who are very ideologically-minded. Because I was very ideologically-minded. None of them can help me now.
And outside of my existing friends, how do I make new ones? I’m 34 years old. Where are the thirty-somethings who need friends? And I have such anxiety about trying to join women’s groups… like sports or something. Since the day I decided to detransition, part of my grief is that my body no longer signals solidarity to other women.
I’ve done my best to “pass” as a woman. At a year and a half after detransition, I’m now reaching the point where I’m starting to process that it might never be good enough unless I completely change who I am as a person (e.g., put on makeup, wear dresses, get surgery). I’m 5’9” and 200 pounds, flat-chested, with a deep voice. Even with long hair, I’m still being called “sir.” It is what it is.
I accept it, but I certainly don’t like it. Who wants to be reminded of their biggest mistake over and over?
So I’m desperately lonely, and it’s something Twitter will never be able to resolve.
Where do I look next? Dating apps?
How much do I reveal in my Tinder bio? Do I say I’ve had a mastectomy? Do I say I’m infertile? Do I warn them ahead of time about my voice? Do I say I used to be trans but am no longer? Does that mean they’ll assume I’ve had genital surgery? Am I just alienating anyone who might otherwise be into me by overexplaining?
There’s no manual for this. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t even know what’s reasonable.
Another part of when I felt “freer” on the Internet is that I was able to express when I didn’t feel so great. Now I feel guilty and delete things that sound too negative.
As I’m writing this, I’m worried. I might be finally putting words to things I feel—recognizing that I’m kinda nosediving towards a state of hopelessness—but I’m thinking about any detransitioners who might read this… I don’t want to influence anyone into feeling this way. I don’t want detransition to feel hopeless. I don’t want that to be the message people get coming away from this.
But today—and for many days in the past month or so—I’m sad.
Lately I have been feeling more compassionate towards those who waffle and even retransition. Sometimes it feels like it would be easier to just use the men’s room for the rest of my life than to keep opening this wound over and over and over.