Comments

Trigger warnings: Slurs, transphobia, self harm. Discretion advised.

“Anyone who’d want to cut off their dick is retarded.”
Ow. That stung. I read over the comment again, and then I move my mouse to delete it. Why do people keep posting such things?
I try to distract myself by checking how my last post did, though it doesn’t help. That comment and so many like it are lodged into my brain like bullets, each one aching like an actual wound. When my mother comes in to tell me dinner is ready they’re still repeating in my head, over and over again.
My mother hands me a small cup with three pills in it and I inspect them closely. Do I even want to take them? I dismissively shake my head and swallow them, trying to dig into my pasta with the same hunger as usually. It’s my favorite food. But today it tastes boring, like someone just took the taste out. My arm itches and I want to scratch it but I just keep my head down and after a while push my plate away, having barely eaten anything. My mother gives me a questioning glance, asking if I’m not hungry but I shake my head and go back to my room.
Why does it even hurt that much? I should be used to that type of comments. I’ve been running that blog for two months now, and almost daily I get them.
I should be happy.
After three months my breasts are finally starting to grow. But instead I’m sulking about some comments online… even if they sting.
After a while I hesitantly decide to make a new post, contemplating what I should write. Then I get an idea and start typing, and after an hour or so I typed up a pretty acceptable post about how important a support network is while going through hormone therapy. I sigh again as I look down at my arm.

Practice what you preach, I know. But I don’t want to tell my mother how much it hurts me to read those things every day.
It shouldn’t.
But it turns out reading every day how you’re mentally ill and should be put into special institutions isn’t very good for your mental health.
I distract myself by watching some YouTube videos, trying to think of anything but that. And for a while it works. But then I get a much dreaded text-message from my father: he wants to talk. He regularly tries to take me to go fishing or do other “manly” things. But I hate fishing, and I don’t want to hear anything about it. I don’t reply.
I wish that’s where it stopped. While scrolling through my timeline I keep seeing dumb jokes about people like me, and some of them are outright cruel. I block everyone who makes them but they just keep popping up right next to the posts telling me how to handle myself on estrogen and the tutorials on how to bind. After a while I check my blog again. Ten new comments.
“Trannys don’t deserve support.”
The user has a swastika as a profile picture, of course. I delete the comment and others like it; but now that I’ve read them they’re added to my collection of bullets. It’s growing large.
I’m tired, I want to go to bed but my mother tells me I have to shower.
I shower in the semi-dark so I don’t have to see my own body that much, poking what might one day be real breasts as I wash my chest. It feels so wrong to be standing here, like my own skin just doesn’t fit me.
Maybe they’re right? Maybe I am mentally ill? I try to shake the thought off and pretend I never thought that, mumbling my name time and time again to remind me I’m an actual girl. But in the back of my head I can hear people calling me by what is still my “real” name. We didn’t change it yet.
After washing I sit down, resting my head on my knees and crying, like I almost always do at this point. And I start playing with my razor, like I almost always do. I shave my legs just to keep my hands and head busy, cutting myself a few times and watching the blood run down my legs. Afterwards I turn off the shower, putting the razor away and getting out to get a towel. The air dries me, even if it takes longer than just drying myself off with a towel. That way I at least don’t have to touch my body.
I was so happy when I started that blog. Still new to the hormones and excited to finally start taking them I made a bunch of posts about the changes I expected to happen, what taking estrogen feels like and how I feel. I even kept a diary to document any changes I noticed.
But now I feel like it was a mistake. Like I’m wrong or broken and worthless.
I’m not sure why that is, if I’m really just a boy or if it’s the hate-comments I get.
How can something that’s making me this happy make me this depressed too? My inbox is full of messages of people I helped or people asking me for advice or if I can cover certain topics. I’m doing something good. Of course I deleted all the messages telling me to kill myself and that I was human trash, but I read them all. And added them to my collection of bullets.
As I check my inbox to try and find some of those encouraging messages a new one pops up.
“If she has a penis she’s a dude.”
Don’t those people know I’m a person too? Don’t they get how bad it feels being told time and time again that the only thing that defines me is a body I don’t want?
I delete the message and push back my chair, looking up at the ceiling and blinking away the tears forming in my eyes.
I have to go to bed. But I feel so weak, I don’t even have the energy to stand up.
Eventually I can finally pick myself up and go over to my bed. No brushing my teeth, no changing clothes. I’m just too exhausted.