I fully expect this piece will be misinterpreted, misunderstood, and even mocked. I suspect I’ll be called “oversensitive” or “whiny” and get accused of “trying to make my issue everyone else’s problem” or something to that effect.

 

I expect those things because they happen often when I discuss how it feels to have a gender identity or sexual orientation that isn’t typical or widely accepted.

But I’m writing it anyway. I’m writing it for others, who can’t find the right words, or, if they can, are not in a position to share them without serious repercussions. I want you to see yourself in these words if they apply to your life. Let them be your words, too.

 

But I’m also writing this for me because it’s time to heal a big wound, and writing is my healing tool. Also, my therapist said it was a good idea and she’s definitely smarter than me. So, here it goes. I’m dusting off the ol’ blog to let out my feels. Let’s talk about what life has been like over the last few months.

 

I came out as non-binary last year. It was a long time coming. I knew for ages the sex I was assigned at birth did not line up with how I see myself. When I was a kid, I knew I wasn’t a girl, but “boy” didn’t fit either. We didn’t have language for anything else. I reside somewhere in that beautiful spectrum of gender, leaning more feminine one day, more masculine another. It’s messy and fluid and great and I’m still figuring a lot of it out. I guess that’s why some call it a journey.

 

In many ways, I’ve never been happier. Being able to see myself—my whole, wonderful self—when I look in the mirror every morning is a joy. Having family members who are no strangers to a shift in gender identity makes everyday life within the walls of our home safe and affirming. I helped create this environment and, for a long time, I thought I was doing it for my wife and child, who both came out before me. Maybe I knew I needed this space, too. Maybe, subconsciously, I was also creating it for the time when I would be ready to reap its benefits.

 

I wouldn’t trade coming out for the world. But I wish living as a visible non-binary person was easier. Of course, there’s the hate I receive daily, in which I’m called everything from a “freak” to a “sicko” to a “groomer” to an “attention seeker” for having the gall of existing openly as myself.

 

Weirdly enough, if this were all I received, I could manage it. I’ve been getting heaps of hate from trolls since our child came out in 2014. I don’t take any of it on as my truth. I’ve fully wrapped my head around the truth that bigotry is on the person being a bigot. It’s not on me or my beautiful family.

It’s the other stuff—the smaller, often well-meaning stuff—that hurts more. It compounds over time, like one pebble and then another, until it feels like there’s a boulder on my back. It’s the kind of stuff that leaves me wondering where my place is in the world.

 

It’s going to a supposedly LGBTQ-inclusive event and hearing “ladies and gentlemen” and “men and women” over and over, as if everyone fits into those two categories.

 

It’s being grouped in as “one of the ladies” when I’m not a lady. This word, and word like it, are a proverbial punch to the gut.

 

It’s having a new credit card arrive with “Ms. Amanda Jetté Knox” on it because they offered no gender-neutral honorifics and I had no choice but to have one that doesn’t fit at all. Now I get to look at it every time I pull out my card.

 

It’s people trying to pay me compliments and saying, “you go, girl!” or “way to go, sister!” or “you’re such a strong woman!” and knowing that they mean well, but they don’t get it; even after months of being open about who I am and the language that creates discomfort and distress within me, it still happens. Despite having “nonbinary” and my pronouns in all my social media profiles,

it

still

happens.

 

And I get it. I do. I know we’re conditioned to see the world as binary in Western culture and a lot of us are trying to unlearn that. Heck, even I still am. Systemic transphobia is real. But that doesn’t make it sting any less when it happens on repeat.

 

Yesterday, on International Women’s Day, I had more gender dysphoria—that deep feeling of unease or distress some trans people feel when the world doesn’t see us as we see ourselves—than I’ve ever experienced. It came after months of everything I just described and was compounded by issues specifically surrounding that day: several emails to well-meaning people explaining that I was not the right person to give a keynote address reserved for a woman, declining invitations to “women only” events, and being tagged in the days leading up to IWD in posts about “inspirational women.”

 

When the world continuously refuses to see you as you know you are, it hurts. It’s exhausting. It cuts into your very humanity. I waited a long time to be myself, and part of that wait was because I was worried about exactly what I’m dealing with now: feeling erased, unseen.

 

I took a long nap yesterday afternoon and stayed largely offline to avoid a lot of the IWD discourse. I spoke to a genderqueer friend of mine who I knew would get it. And today I had a therapy session, in which my therapist, smart as she is, pointed something out to me: I stand up for other trans people when they get misgendered or feel unseen.  Why am I not standing for myself?

 

Because I’ve been afraid, that’s why. Afraid I’ll hurt someone’s feelings by correcting them. Afraid they’ll think I’m difficult or touchy. Afraid people I love will leave me. Afraid of all the things I mentioned at the beginning of this piece. It’s a people-pleasing behaviour, which is a default I tend to go back to whenever I’m feeling vulnerable.

 

But what I realized today is that by not honouring myself and asking for this basic respect of my identity, I’m turning that anger and frustration inward, and it’s eating me up. It’s hurting me. I’m hurting me.

 

So, I’m not going to do that anymore. I’m not going to try and make life easier for everyone around me if it’s going to cost me my serenity. This piece is a declaration of my unapologetic decision to expect respect. And sure, I’ll also expect mistakes (I make them too), but the effort has to be there.

 

I will remind others I’m not a woman or girl or a lady or (ugh) a ma’am. If an organization or event claims to be inclusive and doesn’t use inclusive language, I’m going to suggest they start. And if someone is chronically disrespectful of who I am, I’ll be re-evaluating that relationship.

 

At some point, we have to learn to stand up for ourselves as much as we stand up for others. I give a good chunk of my daily life to fighting for everyone else. I deserve a little bit of that, too.

 

I mean, I always have, but I’m finally starting to see it. Cheers to that, and love from your non-binary internet mom.