Not all of it is skin deep

Earliest memory I have is not playing with friends or trying assist barbie in her dress but my parents screaming about how they wrecked each other’s lives. “Never asked for this” or “Just go fuck yourself”. There were days we were locked out by my mother or taken by children services, only to return a week later. I had days where death seemed the easiest route.
I started feeling suicidal before even knowing what it was called, I was 8 years old with those thoughts.

My parents met in their early twenties. My Father came from a family of alcoholic father and a nurse of a mother. He travelled and lived life. My Mother came from an abusive family. Her mother was a strict catholic who beat anyone they found bad. I remember her hurting us with both words and her hands. I hate her still to this day.

At first came my Brother and then my sister. I came in third place. He was deemed the boy to follow my father’s mechanic future and my sister was the smart one. I was the strange child who kept to herself. I got picked on a lot, I was small and weak. I was an easy target. Made fun of my clothes, my father that lived on the bottle and the mother that cared more about a man’s opinion then the welfare of her kids. I hated them both.

My sister used me to feel better about herself with her fists and words. My brother became like my mother, low self-esteem and failing grades. I’d love to one day say I’d want to go back to my childhood, but I can’t. The nightmares would only return to strangle me.
Next came my little brother. He would be considered a ‘bastards child’ but my father loved him as if he was his own. To me, I was replaced. I barely had his love, and then it was gone to a child I barely knew.

Growing up, my best memories were playing in the mud, pretending to discover dinosaurs and mummies. Playing in the woods and trying to make friends with animals. I never really had friends that were human, I hated people too much and a teacher had deemed me ‘anti-social’ based on my behaviour of not wanting to play with kids that only bully me.

My mother beat me, and my Father barely noticed me. I had nightmares for years until a voice told me it was safe, and they would never let anyone hurt me. Crazy as it may sound, my nightmares decreased, and my bravery rose. I fought back against the ones that made me cry and beg for silence. My family.

One day, a usual fight, my mother breaking things and my father scream and drinking. I screamed to either stop or leave and die. I ran to my room and locked myself in a closet. My mother, instead of encouraging it’ll be okay, had told me to either come out or be put into a strait jacket and thrown in a looney bin. That same night it was between the knife I had to my throat or a future for myself. I decided to live.

Years went by, I ignored my folks as much I could and tried to make friends. It didn’t help when they invited people inside the house. I had many on looker’s that creeped me out. Especially one that kept “accidently” walking in on me while I took a bath. He never did anything, but I knew he was bad and I still know he had paedophilia tendencies.

Age 11 and up seemed to get better. I made more friends, I dreamed of happy futures. I wanted to dig up dinosaurs, travel and collect historic relics. I loved Indiana Jones, Librarian, and Jurassic Park. They made me curious and excited to learn. I was considered a tomboy at this point.

One day it all ended, it was summer, and I was happy. A man said he was lost and as a child, I believed him. It was the same day I lost trust with most people and hated myself. He touched me. And I wanted to die. Even though I was the victim, I felt disgusted. Afraid. And never told anyone in fear my parents might think I just wanted attention. It was a time I wish never happened and I buried it until 2015, when I confessed to a friend. And a few more after that. Still, till this day, my family has no clue of this event. I still want to cry and cut away the places he touched. His face burned in a memory I locked away.

After a couple years of forcing to forget, I tried to build back a self-esteem I lost. It was then I realized who I was. I realized I was in the wrong body when I was 15. I didn’t know what it was called and if I were alone. So, I hid it.

Once I got into high school, things got better. I knew who I was and even though I hid my family. I wasn’t afraid to be me. At least parts they were allowed to see. I learned I enjoyed the reactions of others and did social experiments. I wore a tail and ears once a week. I cross-dressed and many more. I also made great friends, but I still had certain feelings. I wanted to tell someone, but fear told me not too. So, I buried it deeper than a murderer burying a body. I tried finding my ‘girl’ self but nothing worked. Even though my suicidal thoughts deceased, my depression and anxiety still stayed. Mocking me for the skin I wore.

After high school, I tried college, different jobs before realizing I wanted to be an Art teacher but decided on the Military before school. Not the best decision but no regrets. I passed. I proved everyone I could do it. I was 90lbs when I joined but I defeated the views. I kicked ass. I gained weight and passed each time during training. I loved it.

Once I got out of training, I still had my so-called family and my friends that I loved. And the fact I was transgender still rang in my mind. I hid it until 2016, I told my folks and certain friends. Now it’s 2018 and everyone will know. All friends were told and soon the Army will know too, my E6 and E7 are on my side.

My eldest brother became a recovering addict, like my mother. My sister is a workaholic, but we now get along and mainly supports who I am and will be. I don’t really talk to my mother, but I do have two other brothers. With a family of six siblings, you get tired of being the middle child.

My only regret in life was not telling sooner and not fighting the man that hurt me. It is my main reason I support the death penalty on paedophiles. One day, I will be-able to share that part of me with my family but until then, I’ll fight against the men and women that sexually assault children.

That’s my story, what’s yours?