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In retrospect, it seems odd that a tomboy should have been so removed from her body.
But instead of a daily, muddy, physical celebration of life, my tomboyhood was marked by a reckless disregard for the body and a strong desire to be annihilated.
I quickly came to understand that that tomboy—the gender identity with which I had escaped childhood—was less acceptable in adolescence.
Despite social and family pressures, despite a mountain of shame surrounding my queered genitals, I did it, and my liberation—I thought—was complete. But a proud butch identity and a powerful femme at my side weren't enough; Frankenstein's monster would not be propitiated.
The doctors who told me I was an "unfinished girl" were so focused on the lie—so invested in selling me "girl"—that I doubt they ever considered the effect a word like "unfinished" would have on me. I could see that compared to—well, compared to everyone! Still, the only thing that felt complete was my isolation.
Now the numbness below my neck was real—a maze of unfeeling scar tissue.
I wandered through that labyrinth for another ten years, with a gender identity and desires born of those medical procedures. At 21 I found myself, a college dropout and a runaway, in bed with an older woman, my second sexual partner and the first naked woman I had ever seen or touched.
I began to experience myself as a sort of sexual Frankenstein's monster. I was incredibly inhibited about my body, the scars, the mysterious medical condition and history that I—the patient! The differences between our bodies were staggering.