This September marks the 25th anniversary of coming out as a lesbian, at the ripe age of 19; it just so happens to fall in the same month of my birthday too, which is another reason to celebrate this time of year! For the first time in my life, I really do feel like celebrating this year, versus just simply acknowledging the day I was born. Over the course of the last 18 months, I have completely changed my life and finally built the life I was finally meant to lead. I left my toxic marriage of almost 10 years, moved to a brand new city, alone, and finally started living again. I started taking improv classes at The Second City, got back to the gym, and landed the job of a lifetime with the Chicago Cubs. So why was it with all of those incredible achievement was I still miserable? And by miserable, I mean still having reoccurring thoughts of self-harm despite being properly monitored and medicated by doctors and therapists for several years leading up to this point in time.
In order to talk about today, I have to talk about how I got here. First of all, I always hated my government name: Julie, and to boot, my middle name: Ann. Most kids growing up in the 80s and 90s knew that hearing your first and middle name together meant you were in BIG trouble, so needless to say, I heard that combo yelled ALOT. I never really felt like a “Julie” and I would actively tell that to new people I would meet during introductions, but I couldn’t actually explain it beyond “I just don’t feel like it fits who I am.” So I often settled for whatever anyone wanted to call me, minus Julie Ann. Gross.
One name I always felt comfortable with and rightfully called was Jules – it’s the commonplace nickname most family and friends of a “Julie” would use, but in my life, it felt especially correct and fitting. Many variations of Jules would make their way in to my life, like: JuJu, Ju, JuJuBeans, Juji (pronounced JOO-JEE) and even varied spelling and pronunciation as Julis (pronounced JOO-LISS). Needless to say, I preferred to be called anything BUT Julie.
Looking back now, it’s practically laughable how uncomfortable my entire existence has been by trying to fit in to a patriarchal society, where I felt like I had to choose to follow a binary gender construct. Given my upbringing, my lack of knowledge and understanding around gender identities, and just close-mindedness in general, I had no idea what the term non-binary even meant, but once I did, it perfectly identified the way I’d felt since childhood…neither girl nor boy.
It really wasn’t even until this past January, when I was struggling with the original concept of my blog, The Dysfunctional Dyke that I hit a metaphoric wall.
I was laying in bed, writing about my high school girl crush and how it ultimately led to my coming out story, lesbian edition. It made me finally acknowledge that while I originally came out as a lesbian, in response to my same-sex attraction to women, that I could also find myself attracted to men(gasp!) Now, I grew up in the days were the acronym for us homos was GLBT, and while it has rightfully evolved to something more in today’s world, I’m still a boomer when it comes to learning the terminologies of it all. The best way to describe my attraction to people these days is simply “hearts, not parts.” But I digress.
From what I can recall, there was no lightbulb that went off over my head or a bolt of lightning that struck me, like in cartoons, but it was in that moment I knew I could no longer keep living my life the way it had been to this point; I wanted my story to continue, unlike in years past when I just wanted it all to end.
I remember laying there in bed, with my cat, Tezzie, curled up next to me when I felt an immense weight slowly lift from my entire soul. Similar to the night I signed my lease on my apartment in Chicago, solidifying the fact that my broken marriage would soon end, I sobbed uncontrollably. Maybe it was the grief of a life I was losing, or the time I felt like I had lost to those years of my emotional imprisonment, but there was more of a sense of relief than anything.
As a recovering pathological people pleaser, I spent far too long worrying about what others would say or think versus how I needed to live my OWN life. In reflection of my inner turmoil, specifically my depression and anxiety, it disappeared almost overnight, like an overpowering weight had finally been lifted. Then, in March of this year, I began HRT (hormone replacement therapy) to further my gender-affirming care. At that time, I had no idea how greatly it would impact and improve my life, both physically and mentally.
To be clear, EVERYONE should have access to gender-affirming care, because just like our fingerprints, we all have a uniqueness to ourselves, and it is not simply a trans issue. In my journey back to physical fitness over the last four years, I was reminded that our mental fitness is just as vital to our health and success. While everyone’s story has its own origin, I personally don’t look at my gender-affirming care as a way to transition to a man, but simply have my outward appearance reflect my inner-self. Not only am I gaining a deeper voice, darkening, thicker body hair, and a more defined muscle mass, but I’m finally able to see the person who has been just beneath the surface this whole time.
I don’t wish that I was born and raised as a boy, and I’ll even take it a step further by saying I embrace being “AFAB” or “Assigned Female At Birth” because my personal experience is not one of regret, but rather of gratitude. I wouldn’t be the same open-minded, empathetic, kind-hearted person that am if I had been raised as a boy in the 80s and 90s. You might be thinking that’s extremely narrow-minded and judgmental, but for someone who was conditioned to believe that women are secondary to men, in work, at home, in life, I can assure you that would have been my fate. I was raised to believe that feminists are ugly, mean, wretched, lonely cat-hoarding old maids who hate men. Ironically enough, having embraced myself in the last year, I am a bigger feminist now than ever before, and also, cat ladies are hot af; I have far more to say about toxic masculinity, but that post is for another day.
I’ve spent years in therapy, and thousands of dollars to be reassured by medical professionals that my feelings and identity are valid, knowing now that I’ve spent far too long thinking something was inherently wrong with me. Today, I celebrate the life I’m choosing, yes CHOOSING, to lead. I used to be afraid of being labeled as “choosing” to live a certain way, when really life is all about making choices, and this is the most important one I’ve made to date. Today, I am reaffirming my choice to be here, fully and authentically, to celebrate the 44 years I’ve been given to this point, and to make the most of the years ahead of me.
The human body is simply a vessel that our souls are carried by here on this planet – I just shipped in the wrong box – (lesbian joke inferred, btw). So while my appearance will continue to evolve, I’m still the same person you’ve grown to love, adore and wish you could be when you grow up. But most importantly, at the end of the day, I know the person looking back at me in the mirror and it’s just Jules. 🙂
