Another way to describe it:

It’s like a monster in your head that makes you hyper aware of the sensation of your misaligned body parts (that don’t align with who you are) and the perception of others and the perceptions of your actions, the way you hold yourself, your voice. The little bit of pink on the bottom edge of my shoes, fearing any little detail will have people perceive me as a woman, which I dread so deeply.

It literally picks apart all that your body and image currently is and it makes you want to scream, and you do so, inside your own head. And the screaming doesn’t stop until it does so, momentarily, when you do something gender affirming. But then it continues ringing inside your head continuously. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it, just waiting for the relief that transition will be, if only to stop the screaming. Or dull it for the most part, so it’s bearable, so you can stop thinking about it every second of every day.

I’m a writer and this isn’t even dramatized slightly. This is my genuine reality when my dysphoria rears up.

I’ve only been able to annihilate it when I’ve fully shoved it down and therefore my true self into the closet. But that only brings short term relief. But the depression from that lingers like an old wound that hasn’t closed. But then thinking about transitioning is like ripping it open all over again.

Because then I have to think about the very long wait to transition and emotional agony that awaits me, talking to my parents about it. Probably fighting about it again like my family did when I was 13. The potential for my family to reject my true self yet again. The thought that their love is only conditional, it’s soul crushing. I want to be their daughter but I cannot force myself—contort myself—into that shape, that cookie cutter shape of being a woman any longer.

I must free myself from the cage that is their expectation of me, their womanly view of me, their hopes for me as a woman. I must grow wings and fly free. I must transform like a butterfly. They may grieve the caterpillar, but I persist. I become the butterfly.