I was old when I got my period for the first time.
I was the last one to get it at school.
I was 15 years old.
I was terrified of getting it. I would cry when I felt it coming soon.
I hoped I’d never get it.
I wanted to tell my father that I wanted a sex change surgery.
I thought boys were stronger, and that their lives were easier.
I was disgusted by femininity.
I was disgusted and scared by the sight of my mother and sister wearing low cut blouses that revealed cleavage or red polish on their nails.
I thought being feminine was dangerous—a ticking time bomb on the verge of explosion.

I was a tomboy for a couple of years before I started changing bit by bit.
I was always careful not to wear anything too feminine.
I went crazy one time and wore a tight pink dress to my sister’s graduation party.
“Look who finally decided to look girly!” my aunt exclaimed.
“Girly? I’m not even feminine,” I told her.
“You don’t think you’re feminine? Everything about you screams femininity!” she said.

I wanted to disappear off the face of the earth.
I felt like a piece of meat.
I wanted to disappear or hide because I couldn’t handle the embarrassment.