I grew up in a small community of a couple thousand people located in the middle of nowhere.  In my experience, growing up in such a close-knit community can go one of two ways. You’re either a part of a large family of people you love and trust no matter what. Or you’re on the outside. I think I always knew I was different. I never felt that deep connection with the people in my hometown, as others did. I guess it’s always been a part of my personality to not quite fit the mold.

When the other girls wanted to play beauty salon, I politely declined and headed for the construction kits. Some of my fondest memories from early grade school are of building towers with Legos and destroying them, reading books about science, and feeling very upset when the teacher declared we were too old to play in the dirt during recess. I was a cowboy for Halloween one year, and I totally rocked it more than the princesses with their high heels. I always wondered why my name tag had to be pink with a dress on it; I never wore dresses. In fact, one of my earliest memories is arguing about formal attire and pageants with my parents. All this caused tension between other kids and me, which, in turn, caused anxiety for me. I started to have severe social and separation anxiety when I was just four years old.

When the girls in my class began wearing makeup and doing their hair, I was still wearing my motorcycle overalls and building things with my grandpa. I spent afternoons outside with my dad, working on small projects. I couldn’t wait to ride his motorcycle and own a helicopter and a muscle car. I dreamed of skateboarding, BMX bikes, soccer, and scooters. So you can probably imagine my distress when puberty hit and my body started changing in ways that I wasn’t ready for.

During that time, I was in a very dark place. When I look back now, I feel as if part of my childhood was taken away. I didn’t understand what I felt or why, all I knew was distress and despair. I started harming myself to cope with the anxiety and depression that plagued me. I remember the disappointment in my parents’ eyes when they found out. But even with counseling and the “support” of the those around me, I struggled to find a sense of worth or value in my life. I was constantly miserable. I was tired of rebelling. I was tired of fighting myself. I wanted to die.

After many attempts to fit in, to rebel, to try to be tough or cool or pretty enough or popular enough, I finally was introduced to social networking outside of the mainstream websites. Suddenly I found all kinds of people who were much more liberal than those who had tried to confine me to my “box” at home. There were platforms for blogging and expressing ideas with communities of accepting people from all backgrounds and lifestyles. They welcomed me with open arms when I was looking for somewhere to turn. They told me it was okay to be myself, even if others said it wasn’t.

I remember the first time I tried to look like a boy. I tied my hair back and stuffed it under a hat. I put on baggy pants and a dark hoodie. Transforming myself made me feel powerful. I could take on the world just by changing my appearance. But at school people called me a lesbian, freak, dyke, and other names both derogatory and silly – regardless of whether I dressed the way I felt comfortable or if I tried to fit in by wearing what was in style with the girls. Once a girl stole my iPod and circulated my private photos, including some of me dressed as a boy. This made the teasing worse. I was physically assaulted and tormented daily despite my attempts to conform. I had peers yell hurtful things, slam my head into lockers, push me into walls, threaten to kill me, and throw rotting fruit at me. Once I was sexually assaulted in the school bathroom by another girl because, according to her, if I wanted to be a “real boy,” I would have to be taught how that works. I ran crying to my best friend at the time, who told me it was nice that I was trying the gay side of things.

That was the year I took up skateboarding. I was the only girl in town who did, which led to more labels and disapproval from both my peers and the community. Many adults regarded me as a trouble-maker for dressing the way I did and enjoying the sport I loved. Adults would whisper about me in the grocery store, and the stories made their way back to me through my grandmother. How she was not ashamed of me, I do not understand.

In tenth grade I had finally had enough of the bullying and decided to switch schools. The abuse had escalated. A boy even held a knife to my throat in front of everyone. Nobody tried to help me.

Not long after starting at my new high school, I met my best friend. During our first sleepover I told her I thought I was bigender. It was completely out of the blue, but I wanted to see if she would accept me. And she did. She was very encouraging, even letting me wear her brother’s old clothes when we hung out. She also helped me shop for boys clothing; I was afraid to go through the checkout, but she wasn’t. She bought me my first pair of boxers.

She also tried to convince me to join our school’s LGBT group as a way to meet more supportive people. I furiously declined. She explained it was okay to be straight and attend meetings, but I didn’t want to be associated with those people. I had had so many problems at my old school that I was afraid I would be attacked again. It took her months to convince me to attend. When I gave in, I ended up meeting some very cool people who were a lot like me, or at least showed more understanding. I learned that not everyone is homophobic or transphobic.

Even though by this time I clearly knew, I still tried to ignore my true self. I wanted to be normal, to fit in. I tried makeup and grew out my hair. I participated in pageants and wore fancy dresses. It gave me a lot of stage confidence, but that doesn’t last behind the scenes. Those finite moments felt as if they were worth the trouble, dysphoria, self-hatred, and competition, but it wasn’t really right. It still wasn’t me. The high was only temporary.

My school had a dance one night, and that day in particular I felt very dysphoric about my body. My chest was too big, my figure too feminine. My hair was too long, and I looked too much like a girl. I so desperately wanted to be a boy. I had to wear a dress, and just looking at it made me sick. I felt very uncomfortable the whole night. Instead of enjoying the dance, all I felt was disgust and hatred toward my body.

I went to a camp last summer. Toward the end of the month, we did an activity called “Cross the Line.” The facilitator said to step forward if you were a girl, and then if you were a boy, and then if you identified as something different. Without even thinking I waited to step out. I didn’t know “something different” would be an option, but neither of the others felt right to me. I immediately worried that these people would judge me, but they didn’t. They accepted me. We talked about it more after the activity, and my group was supportive and interested in hearing what I had to say. This was the first time I truly came out to anyone as genderqueer.

After that it became easier. I told some of my friends online. I told some of my close friends in person. I’ve still never told my parents, but I don’t think that’ll ever be easy. Sometimes I’ll mention the topic or they’ll see a picture of me with short hair wearing a bow tie. The disappointment in their voices, the same tone I heard when they found out I had hurt myself on purpose, makes it clear how they feel.

Being genderqueer is more than just clothing and style or what you like and don’t like. It’s a personal issue that affects how you feel, your emotions, your body image, and your being as a whole. But often looks are the way you’re perceived first and foremost, and that can make a huge impact on your identity and self-esteem. It’s all a part of a bigger story.

Yes, I’m genderqueer. I now use they/them/theirs pronouns, but it’s not something I assert much because the people around me still don’t understand. I’m lucky to be in a better place now where I have the love and support I’ve always needed. It’s liberating to be able to be myself, even if only for a moment and only in certain circumstances. The freedom of self-expression is a right that everyone deserves.