I stared helplessly at the mirror in front of me. My shoulders are too small. My eyes are too big. My hips are too round. My lips are too full. My hair is too long. My face is too soft. My chest is too big. I hate my body. I hate it. I hate my body because it is not the right one.
My name is Andy. It has always been Andy. It's always been Andy in my heart, anyway. My birth name is Alexis. Alexis. It means "to help defend". That's such a stupid meaning for a name. Defend from what? My depressive thoughts? My incorrect body? I don't know anymore. Andy, however, is short for Andrew, which was derived from the Greek name Andreas. Andreas means "man". I am a man.
I hate my family, and they hate me. When I told them my feelings, they said I was sick and needed therapy. They told me that they were going to help me get better. I'm fine. I'm not sick. They're the sick ones. They won't even accept their son, their brother. My mom's name is Keahi, which is the Hawaiian word for flames. That makes sense because if her habit to get drunk and scream. My dad isn't really in the picture anymore, but I was told his name was Chase. His name basically means "chase, hunt". That makes sense to me, too.
It hurt the most when my brother didn't accept. My dear, dear little brother, Achilles, called me a liar. He threw things and scowled at me. He made me feel worthless. Of course, his name means "warrior". He always has been one, but now, I'm not so sure. They say Achilles only had one weakness, his heel.
"You're a liar! I have an older sister, not a brother. You're a girl! A GIRL!"
I think I found Achilles's heel.
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I don't think I'll ever recover from hearing those words. The words that proves what I always feared. My family is much less accepting than I thought. I hate it! I am who I am. They can't change that. They shouldn't want to! I'm their family. I'm their flesh and blood. Apparently, there is more to family than blood. In fact, I don't even think they deserve the title.
My mother already hated me. All she did was drink and curse. She only put up a front for our neighbors. I hated her, too, but my brother, I loved him. I still love him. I practically raised him. How could he not love me? How could he when I taught him to respect everyone? How?! I hate it. I hate myself. I just wish I were normal.
My mom, no, mother won't buy me a binder. Of course, she wouldn't. She told me I'm just doing it for attention. I'm not. She won't allow me to cut my hair. She wouldn't buy me more masculine clothes. No, she doesn't care for me or my well-being.
She doesn't know how much worse she's making it my forcing me not to do what I so desperately want to. Dysphoria always tugs at the corner of my vision. Depression hangs over my head. Unhappiness consumes me. When I hear my birth name, uncomfortable shivers, each one a stab of pain and longing, run down my spine. I just want to die.
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I have to go to school. I have to see people staring at me. I usually have red, swollen eyes from a long night of crying. If I cry, my eyes look even more feminine. It just makes me want to cry more. My life is a pointless circle. I go around and around with no point at all.
I tried bandages, but it just bruised my skin and made me wheezy and breathless. I tried wearing baggier, more loose-fitting clothes. It helped a little, but it was nowhere near the comfort it would be to wear more masculine clothes. I just want to be happy. Is that too much to ask? I just want to feel comfortable in my own skin! I just want to smile more than I cry for once! I just want... I just want to be in the right body. That would solve almost everything. If I had just been born normal, everything would be better.
