it’s a wide ocean and a tight emotion

I suppose this is a place as any to start mentioning how I feel recently about my gender identity and how others are coping.

No, I’m not completely out yet, so I don’t suppose others would suddenly start referring me as Jordan and be fine with it, no questions asked. But I have been dropping enough hints for people — those who have a shred of respect left in the humanity tattered body of theirs — to start referring me as male.

Unfortunately, there aren’t actually that many people. And even within the people who are willing to, they don’t seem to actively do it.

I think I have to actually come out to them individually, in case they have any misunderstandings and start calling me names.

Hong Kong is a very close-minded society. We cringe at gays and use transgenderism and transsexuals as the butt of our jokes. Mean words are uttered when referring to those who don’t feel comfortable in their own body and makes light about going to Thailand for a sex change to those who feel like they need it.

I hate it.

It isn’t something we choose, and if I had the chance to choose, I’d choose to be cisgender. Then I will have the privileges and at least reduced emotional stress over the entire thing. Not to mention financial stress for legal changes and surgery.

I tried to come out discreetly on Facebook to ask friends who are interested to message me and I’d come out to them there. But it seems like I have posted the status way too late and it didn’t get through to a lot of people — unless they didn’t want to hassle of messaging someone.

So in short, I only came out to two other people: one of them not in our school anymore and the other who supposedly already knows.

Then I came out verbally to another student, who had mentioned that she already knew because of the obvious hints. At least, people are picking them up?

I heard from a third party that students in our form think I’m a TB. Tomboy, as they have likened the term to “butch lesbian”.

It is extremely inaccurate and makes the assumption that I identify as female — which I am not.

No, I don’t get “triggered” because of it, but constant exposure to the same pronoun referring to me does actually make me so physically uncomfortable to the point where I feel myself getting sick.

That brings us to the topic of the school report card. Teachers actually leave comments on my performance and even though they are usually copied and pasted, they somehow make sure the pronouns are correct.

In this case, they’re all wrong. But I couldn’t complain because Hong Kong goes by sex and not gender. I can tell them my gender is male and they’d flip their shit because they don’t think there’s any difference between the two. And I do not have the time nor the patience to explain everything to them and have them understand — even before having them accepting the fact.

I felt sick having to read over seven paragraphs of the forbidden name and pack filled with female pronouns. There really is no choice, and I thought I could handle it but I was wrong.

If only I could tell them. If only they understand.

It hurts even to think about the fact that there are teachers who think I actually do identify as female and call me as such. I did tell one teacher, and his knowledge of it softens the blow if only just a little.

But even if I manage to get the entire school on board, I still have to get past one huge obstacle.

My parents.

They won’t ever accept it.

My father won’t, at least. My mother might.

My father is hellbent on having a daughter. But there is none for him to have. Unless he wants to pick some random girl off the streets, then there really isn’t any hope for him to have a daughter who likes boys and pink things and painting her nails and wearing dresses.

Because all he has right now is two sons. One son might be asexual and the other is luckily gynesexual. Although that son has no interest in children nor could he ever have the chance of impregnating a girl.

It might sound bad but my dad touches me like he would touch a girl. Not– not sexually, but hands on the hips, or something. It makes me so disgusted with myself that ending my life doesn’t sound too bad. My body is horrible, it’s a wretched thing. Funny how one simple motion that would be deemed polite and proper etiquette would cause me to feel completely repulsed.

Well, it’s not really funny considering I was the receiving end.

It breaks my already “fragile masculinity”.

I try to do something fun with my dad and he goes and does something disgusting like that. I can’t even begin to explain how I’m really feeling and those words I just said isn’t enough.

I’m tired.

My dad always says something when I have something to say. I mention I want a haircut, and he’d go and say, “guys like girls with long hair.” or “I like you more with long hair” or “I think you look prettier with long hair”.

I say something about pants and he’d say, “try wearing a dress, I think you’d look pretty.” or “boys like girls who wear dresses”.

I don’t understand him.

I want to either die, crawl out of my own skin, or move as far away as I physically can from this dreaded place.

His touch still burns on my flesh through the fabric of my clothes. I’m going to cut off my hips.

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