I will start off by introducing myself - Hi, I am Matt and I am transgender...
I am also disabled, a refugee, and unable to raise more money for my surgery... Any help, no matter how big or small will go a long way.
Please donate and share. https://www.youcaring.com/mattmathers-95...t=cf_cp_01
**Coming Out Story**
When I was growing up, gender roles were an illusive thing; my mother did not care if we played with toy cars or Barbie dolls. She did not care if I wore a dress or the traditional clothes of Saudi Men - Thobb.
I still remember the first time I wore a thobb; I was nine and I painted the ugliest goatee and mustache on my face. I used an eyeliner I found lying about, and my aunt - who was sixteen at a time - joked about not being able to tell me and her brothers apart. I was the happiest I’ve been.
In middle school, I was the school’s tomboy, everyone called me by my family name - it sounded more masculine and more badass, after all. Aziz, is also what they called me - short for Abdulaziz - and I lived for it.
I was the happiest when people joked, when people told me I was pretty much a boy, though my mother dismissed it as just a phase. She believed it was because I was born between two brothers, that I only had them as an influence, which was the furthest thing from truth; I grew up around my cousins, most of whom were girls.
As a child, I did love dressing up and playing pretend - though, I mostly took the role of the boy, I did love playing the girl. Specially if said girl was as badass as I thought myself to be.
The first time I thought of marriage, I was eleven and it was after a fight with my mum. You see, she was angry at me for talking back to my brother, who was angry at me for wearing shorts - I was longer a child in their eyes, I was a woman, and women were supposed to cover up and be chaste.
She yelled at me that day, hurled words that cut deeper than any knife could, and threatened to marry me off... She threatened to marry me off to some ugly conservative distant cousin I never heard of, and that was the first time I thought of marriage, because I realized I would be someone’s wife not someone’s husband.
I cried myself to sleep that night, not because she hit me or because of the threats she made and slurs she hurled, but because the realization cut deeper than anything could. I would never be someone’s boyfriend, I would never be someone’s husband, I would never be someone’s son.
I remember thinking that - maybe, just maybe, I would marry someone who let me be me. Who would play pretend with me and let me take up the role of the boy I always believed myself to be.
At fourteen, I was determined to fit in. You see, I was the socially anxious and strange kid everyone bullied, the kid who thought they were a boy… And after a whole year of bullying, I moved school.
The second year of high school went more smoothly than the first. The new school I was in was smaller and friendlier, and I made friends, but deep down I was hiding many dark secrets like disordered eating and self-harm.
Slowly, I began to identify as genderfluid and genderqueer, agender at one point. Because it was easier to hide behind labels no one at my school understood, and it was easier to admit that I wasn’t a girl than it was to admit that I was a boy...
It was easier because I thought it would make me want the things I want less.
At seventeen, who I used to be – who I /tried/ to be – was beginning to fade. I began asking my close friends to call me by a different name – the name I still go by today.
At eighteen, my life changed. I was in a new country, a new place, with a chance to seek the help I desperately need. I met many people, made many more friends, and still remember the first time I had the courage to tell someone I was a boy – it was at the lounge after a long day of skipping classes, we were watching videos on the Hijra in India when I decided to tell this friend.
She did not believe me and it broke my heart to bits. I came out to two other people, one who dismissed it as a phase, telling me that I will always be a sister to her, which broke me into tears.
The first person to take me seriously was my friend. And I honestly don’t know where I would be, if it weren’t for them.
Flash forward to the march of 2016, I came out to my brother who convinced me to tell my mother. You see, I was naive. I thought he wanted me to tell her because he cared for me, but what he wanted was scapegoat, something to use against my mother when she calls him out on his mistakes.
It goes without say, my coming out did not go well. I had to listen to threats of death and rape, threats that became a recurring thing after this, and slurs. More slurs than I could count. She forced me to return to Saudi - a country that would kill me, should they find out about my identity - and thus began the months of endless abuse.
Despite every effort my mother took to make my life a living hell, I survived. Granted, I had to lie to convince her to send me back to Canada, but I'm there now and I am safe and far from her reach. I am still healing, still struggling with depression and anxiety and PTSD, but I've come to terms with who I am and that was the biggest relief.
I realized that I will never be someone's wife or someone's daughter; I am someone's brother, someone's son.
I am also disabled, a refugee, and unable to raise more money for my surgery... Any help, no matter how big or small will go a long way.
Please donate and share. https://www.youcaring.com/mattmathers-95...t=cf_cp_01
**Coming Out Story**
When I was growing up, gender roles were an illusive thing; my mother did not care if we played with toy cars or Barbie dolls. She did not care if I wore a dress or the traditional clothes of Saudi Men - Thobb.
I still remember the first time I wore a thobb; I was nine and I painted the ugliest goatee and mustache on my face. I used an eyeliner I found lying about, and my aunt - who was sixteen at a time - joked about not being able to tell me and her brothers apart. I was the happiest I’ve been.
In middle school, I was the school’s tomboy, everyone called me by my family name - it sounded more masculine and more badass, after all. Aziz, is also what they called me - short for Abdulaziz - and I lived for it.
I was the happiest when people joked, when people told me I was pretty much a boy, though my mother dismissed it as just a phase. She believed it was because I was born between two brothers, that I only had them as an influence, which was the furthest thing from truth; I grew up around my cousins, most of whom were girls.
As a child, I did love dressing up and playing pretend - though, I mostly took the role of the boy, I did love playing the girl. Specially if said girl was as badass as I thought myself to be.
The first time I thought of marriage, I was eleven and it was after a fight with my mum. You see, she was angry at me for talking back to my brother, who was angry at me for wearing shorts - I was longer a child in their eyes, I was a woman, and women were supposed to cover up and be chaste.
She yelled at me that day, hurled words that cut deeper than any knife could, and threatened to marry me off... She threatened to marry me off to some ugly conservative distant cousin I never heard of, and that was the first time I thought of marriage, because I realized I would be someone’s wife not someone’s husband.
I cried myself to sleep that night, not because she hit me or because of the threats she made and slurs she hurled, but because the realization cut deeper than anything could. I would never be someone’s boyfriend, I would never be someone’s husband, I would never be someone’s son.
I remember thinking that - maybe, just maybe, I would marry someone who let me be me. Who would play pretend with me and let me take up the role of the boy I always believed myself to be.
At fourteen, I was determined to fit in. You see, I was the socially anxious and strange kid everyone bullied, the kid who thought they were a boy… And after a whole year of bullying, I moved school.
The second year of high school went more smoothly than the first. The new school I was in was smaller and friendlier, and I made friends, but deep down I was hiding many dark secrets like disordered eating and self-harm.
Slowly, I began to identify as genderfluid and genderqueer, agender at one point. Because it was easier to hide behind labels no one at my school understood, and it was easier to admit that I wasn’t a girl than it was to admit that I was a boy...
It was easier because I thought it would make me want the things I want less.
At seventeen, who I used to be – who I /tried/ to be – was beginning to fade. I began asking my close friends to call me by a different name – the name I still go by today.
At eighteen, my life changed. I was in a new country, a new place, with a chance to seek the help I desperately need. I met many people, made many more friends, and still remember the first time I had the courage to tell someone I was a boy – it was at the lounge after a long day of skipping classes, we were watching videos on the Hijra in India when I decided to tell this friend.
She did not believe me and it broke my heart to bits. I came out to two other people, one who dismissed it as a phase, telling me that I will always be a sister to her, which broke me into tears.
The first person to take me seriously was my friend. And I honestly don’t know where I would be, if it weren’t for them.
Flash forward to the march of 2016, I came out to my brother who convinced me to tell my mother. You see, I was naive. I thought he wanted me to tell her because he cared for me, but what he wanted was scapegoat, something to use against my mother when she calls him out on his mistakes.
It goes without say, my coming out did not go well. I had to listen to threats of death and rape, threats that became a recurring thing after this, and slurs. More slurs than I could count. She forced me to return to Saudi - a country that would kill me, should they find out about my identity - and thus began the months of endless abuse.
Despite every effort my mother took to make my life a living hell, I survived. Granted, I had to lie to convince her to send me back to Canada, but I'm there now and I am safe and far from her reach. I am still healing, still struggling with depression and anxiety and PTSD, but I've come to terms with who I am and that was the biggest relief.
I realized that I will never be someone's wife or someone's daughter; I am someone's brother, someone's son.