by SilhouetteStation » Tue Jan 01, 2019 8:28 am
Username: SilhouetteStation
Name: Bernard Cahvren (previously Bernadette)
Nicknames: Bernie, Freckles
Gender: Male (trans; ftm)
Prompt response:
It started with a dress.
It wasn't a particularly special dress, but a dress all the same, and for some reason, it felt wrong. Bernie was hardly two years old, but she felt it. She cried, and tugged at the sleeves, and tried to wriggle away. Her parents cooed at her childish antics, hushing her gently and assuring her she would get used to them.
But she never did.
She pretended to, of course. It made her parents happy to see her all dressed up, playing with dolls and brushes and kids makeup. Sometimes she'd glance at herself in the pink plastic mirror, and for a moment, her smile would flicker.
Time went on, and she never seemed to be able to shake this feeling. In fact, if anything, it began to grow. Skirts became uncomfortable. Stockings were almost unbearable. They made her shift around in her seat, and constantly try to adjust them. Sparkly necklaces and gemstone earrings, silver bangles and lacey heeled boots; it just didn't feel right. Didn't feel like her.
On weekends, away from the public, she dressed more casually. Jeans, sweatpants, baggy shirts and hoodies; comfortable clothes. Not like most of her wardrobe. She told herself she shouldn't feel like this. Her parents had lovingly brought her these clothes, and she had no right being selfish and rejecting them. It's just some weird phase, she told herself. You'll get over it.
She began her last year of high school, and things seemed to spiral from there. She had friends, and a loving family, but something felt off. Like she was missing something. Again, she ignored it. She would put on her clothes, put on a smile, and get on with it.
All of this started with a dress, and it was a dress that finally pushed her over the edge.
Prom night. After weeks of excitement, everyone was buzzing for one of the biggest nights of the school year. Weeks of planning, and shopping, and gushing over each other's outfits, the time had finally arrived. Bernie should have been estatic for this event, she knew this. All of her friends were. But she wasn't. She couldn't be.
Because as she stood alone in the bathroom, door locked, staring at herself in the mirror, it wasn't her.
This dress, with it's shimmery and flowing material, and the matching necklace, the flower crown in her hair, the shiny heels; this wasn't her.
She looked at her reflection, and a stranger stared back. She watched as their eyes began to water, and tears fell down their cheeks, leaving a trail of dark mascara. She wanted to help them, but she couldn't, because she didn't know them.
She said this out loud. "I don't know you," she whispered, and the strangers mouth moved to synchronize with her own. "I don't know who you are."
Silence.
"What do you want?" she forced herself to ask, voice cracking. She wasn't sure if she was questioning herself, or the reflection. "You have so many nice things, and nice friends, and family, and your life is good, so what else do you want?" She gripped the edge of the sink, choking back sobs as she glared at herself. "It's just a dress. Why do you have to make this such a big deal? All the other girls wear them, so why do you have such a problem?"
It was in that moment, when those words fell from her lips, that she found her answer.
A subtle shift in her brain, like something had finally clicked; a light had come on in a dark place, after years of trying to find the switch.
The crying stopped, and their eyes widened, and they stared at the bewildered expression looking back at them. Slowly, they took out a makeup wipe, and dabbed at their face. Off came the mascara, the eyeshadow, the gloss and the tear trail. Off it all came, until it was just them. Until it felt right.
They let the quiet drag on for a few minutes, trying to piece together their frazzled thoughts. "You don't like dresses," they said quietly. "You don't like skirts, or stockings, or makeup. You don't like people fussing with your hair. You liked playing soccer with the boys back in primary, and you didn't know why the other girls didn't. You don't like people calling you a pretty girl, not because you were embarrassed, but because it made you uncomfortable…"
They trailed off, looking up and meeting their own gaze. Their bottom lip trembled as they spoke, finishing what they were afraid to say.
"Because you're not."
Fresh tears began spilling over.
"You're not a girl. I'm...I'm not a girl."
The words seemed to swirl around them, in their head, their body, the atmosphere around them, in the reflection they saw. Not a girl. Not a girl. Not a girl.
So what am I?
"A boy."
To his own surprise, he laughed. A cracked, sobbing laugh that can only come with tears, but a laugh all the same. Because finally, finally, they'd found the answer to the question they'd always been asking themselves. But that laughter quickly faded when the importance of their discovery dawned on them. The sound faded, and they were left looking at their own frightened expression.
It wasn't this easy. It wasn't as simple as walking downstairs and saying "Hey everyone, turns out I'm actually a boy! Can I borrow a tux for prom?" Because things didn't work that way. It would be wonderful if they were that easy, but he knew it wasn't. Well, he thought to himself, first things first. Time to fake a stomach ache to get out of going.
His acting went rather well, actually. A combination of pretend cramps and headaches brought him a few days to himself, up in his room, to come to terms with these new thoughts and feelings. He researched a lot, and it didn't take long to find what he was. Transgender. A word he knew a few things about, but had never really delved into. He wasn't sure if it was because he thought it didn't affect him, or if deep down he hadn't wanted to know. He researched what was involved in transitioning, and what procedures he would need to undergo, and what it would cost. The worst thing was the waiting list, but he decided that he could wait. He'd have to, there wasn't another choice. But by far, the scariest thought was having to tell his friends and family.
He started with his parents by sitting them down one day, his stomach filled with butterflies and determination. They had seemed concerned at how serious he sounded.
"Is something wrong, darling? Has something happened?"
He took each of their hands in his own, and with a tearful smile, began to speak.
About how he'd always disliked the feeling of certain clothes, and how he enjoyed things other girls didn't, and liked things that other boys did. How he'd always felt something was wrong, or missing, and that he'd never figured it out until prom night. How he'd been lying to himself, thinking it was a phase, that it was a feeling that would go away. How he'd researched extensively, and how he could say without a shadow of a doubt, he knew who he was. "I don't want to be a pretty girl anymore," he whispered. "I want to be a boy. Your boy. I want to be your son."
As expected there were many tears and many questions, as Bernie had expected. Had they done something wrong, was he unhappy, was he absolutely sure, was he sure he wasn't confused. He reassured them many times that he wasn't confused and, in all honesty, hadn't been properly happy for a long time. But this could change that; this could make him who he was meant to be.
He knew it would take awhile for the news to properly sink in, and in the meantime, they settled on an agreement. He would stay as he was, and not tell anyone, until he finished high school. They didn't want him to face the stress of bullying or for his exams to be disrupted in any way. And, he thought this understandable, they wanted to tell their family together. Overall, he was their child, and they loved him.
So he persevered, and in the meantime, he tried to discover more of himself. What he liked, and what he disliked. What hobbies he'd like to take up. The kinds of clothes he'd like to start wearing. He started wearing jeans and tights a lot more, to try and feel more comfortable. He stopped denying himself the things he did before; the things that felt right, and made him feel good inside. He stopped lying to himself that he disliked them, and instead started to embrace them.
The end of the year came around, and once the stress of exams was out of the way, it was replaced with the anxiety of telling people. So many fearful questions ran through his head. Would my family accept me? Want to disown me? Will my friends want to stay friends? What if all of this goes wrong?
But then he tried to turn it around, and asked himself more important questions instead. What if I didn't tell anyone? What if I kept lying to them all? What if I kept pretending to be someone else? And each had the same answer; I'd be miserable.
It was during the holidays that he gathered up his closest friends together at home, and told them everything. How he'd been feeling, what had happened on prom night, that he'd told his parents. And, although it made him tear up, said that if they no longer wanted to be friends he would understand. A long silence followed his words, broken by one of them saying, "We could have gotten you a tux if you'd asked."
To say he burst into tears would have been an understatement.
There was a lot of crying that afternoon, mixed with thick laughter and jokes to try and lighten the mood. "You couldn't have kept lying to us about it forever," one of them said somewhere in the mix. "Wouldn't be fair on anyone."
Telling the rest of his family was a bit more wobbly. Some of them weren't so sure. One looked disapproving. A few of them seemed neutral on the matter, but the rest were supportive. It was a relief to finally have this secret revealed, although he knew it would take people a little while to say 'he' instead of 'she'.
Discussions began about transitioning, and the steps they would need to take in order to get this process rolling. A doctor's appointment was made to talk about starting hormone treatment. There was also the question of what he would like his name to be. The thing is though, he quite liked the nickname Bernie. It felt right to him, and he wasn't sure that he wanted that to change. And so, he decided to draw inspiration from his birth name.
"I like Bernard," he said. "Feels right. Plus it's easy to remember," he added jokingly.
He felt lighter, now. Like a weight certainly had been lifted. He still had the support from his friends and family. Transitioning was a scary and exciting prospect to look forward to, and he couldn't wait to get started. Things were changing, yes, but for the better. He could be honest about who he was now. He could be himself.
(1932/2500)
2 extras:
Last edited by
SilhouetteStation on Mon Jan 21, 2019 8:31 am, edited 4 times in total.
