My Journey: From Erasing Myself to Rediscovery
Fourteen years ago, I stood at a crossroads. At 40, I was morbidly obese, grappling with chronic health issues—severe obstructive sleep apnea, PTSD from my military service during Desert Storm, and major depressive disorder. I was married, a father of two, and working as the head of psychology at a maximum-security prison in West Virginia. Physically and mentally, I was a wreck. On my daily commute, I’d fantasize about crashing my car to end the pain, only to arrive at work, bury my feelings, and soldier on.
A Childhood of Trauma
My struggles weren’t new. As a child, I endured severe physical and mental abuse from my parents, who were racist and homophobic. They beat me daily, with punishments intensifying if I stepped outside gender norms—keeping a journal, writing poetry, or skipping sports. I tried to “act like a man,” but it was the best a hurt little boy could do. Worse, I hid a secret: I was gay. My evangelical Christian parents, staunch believers in “spare the rod, spoil the child,” would have likely disowned me—or worse—if I’d come out. My father’s hateful dinner-table rants about “fags” made that clear. So, I vowed to keep it hidden, a decision that later rippled through every aspect of my life.
Living a Double Life
From ages 18 to 40, I lived as a bisexual man. I enlisted in the military, married a bisexual woman I’d grown up with, attended college and grad school, and had children. On the surface, all seemed well—but inside, I was crumbling. The weight of being the provider, protector, and head of the household, as I’d been raised to be, crushed me. Grad school added more pressure: money was tight, and I juggled four jobs to make ends meet. I barely had time to eat, let alone address my trauma in psychotherapy. My life blurred into a chaotic mess.
A Breaking Point
After graduating, I took a job at a youth prison facility back home in West Virginia, easing the financial strain. I began seriously addressing my PTSD, but almost immediately, I experienced a severe bout of depersonalization that lasted two and a half years. I couldn’t care for myself, and my spouse stepped in, saving me from institutionalization. I’m eternally grateful for her support, but the strain caused her vicarious trauma, compounding her own struggles. This led us to begin a divorce process, which, due to state laws, took at least a year.
The Path to Transition
Amid this perfect storm of crises, I confronted a long-buried truth: from a young age, I’d felt a mismatch between my mind and body. I’d always pushed these gender-related feelings aside to complete whatever “mission” life demanded, but they resurfaced during this traumatic period. Was my desire to transition tied to childhood abuse, sexual trauma, or a genuine sense of gender dysphoria? Many transgender people I’ve met share histories of childhood trauma, raising questions about whether body dysmorphic disorder or past pain influenced my feelings. I don’t have all the answers. What I knew then was that I felt like a failure, and the only treatment endorsed by major medical organizations seemed to be gender-affirming care.
Erasing and Rediscovering Myself
Transitioning did what it was designed to do: it reduced my dysphoria by fundamentally altering who I was. In the process, I erased my old self—and discovered someone I loved, someone I was proud to be. I began investing time and effort into self-care, addressing my physical and mental health. The only part of my old self I didn’t change was my voice. After two rounds of voice therapy and considering surgery, I hesitated. I realized my reluctance stemmed from this being the last remnant of my pre-transition self.
Around this time, I started listening to diverse perspectives on transgender issues. I saw how close I’d come to fully erasing myself, caught up in a system of support that often felt steeped in rigid ideology. As a detransitioner, I’m now grateful I preserved my voice. I’ve decided against further gender-affirming surgeries and reject the one-size-fits-all narratives prevalent in some transgender support systems.
Lessons Learned
My journey taught me that I didn’t hate everything about my pre-transition self. I value my core personality and, in hindsight, see strengths I overlooked amid the pain. Detransitioning doesn’t erase my past or the validity of others’ paths; it’s simply my truth. I share this story to shed light on the complexity of identity, trauma, and self-acceptance, hoping others might find resonance or clarity in their own journeys.
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