Everyday Trans-man: Personalities Of Dysphoria

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Hi I am Damien Skye Knight Aka Raven/ Koraki. This is Comic 3 of Everyday Trans-Man

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Dysphoria has become this dirty word in the trans community. This is the face of my dysphoria.

 

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Jan 19, 1986

My name is Damien Knight. I am a 32-year-old female to male trans-person. Today is my birthday. I have lived as male since 2009. I was on testosterone for 3 years and desperately want to get back on it. I also desire one other thing, top surgery.

I have lived 32 years in a body that causes me discomfort, anxiety and depression. The dysphoria once was so bad I attempted suicide. Today I no longer try to die but I think if I had surgery I would be less depressed. This year I hope to raise 1000 toward my goal. Please, for my birthday I ask that people donate toward my surgery fund. Thank You.

The Go Fund Me for my surgery The Shadow’s Journey : https://www.gofundme.com/TheShadowsJourney

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A Life

By Damien Knight
I took a life today

I didn’t mean too, 

I wasn’t wanting to murder

But father said I killed her.

Father said I commited slaughter

Yes I took a life today because

Father didn’t have a son but a daughter

Never mind the love I gave

Trips to the lake…
….I will take a life tomorrow

Mine.

By Damien Knight

Finding myself in the mirror of my past, am I free at last?

When she haunts my dreams can I ever be me?

Saturday I spent my afternoon with my Step-mother and My father at Chuck-e-cheese. For the first time in ages I had a deep heart to heart with my step-mom. For me, despite all I went through, this was the woman who raised me and she is my mom so here on out I will refer to her as such.

I admit I had been harbouring some anger at perceived rejection this past month due to scheduled and canceled visits but the reality was every time we wanted to meet just was not optimal. I always have a way of making more of things than what they are. Those who know what I went through would understand why.

I did not bring up what I felt because once I was alone with my mom and we were talking I realised how petty it was in the grand scheme of things. Still the questions she asked could never be fully answered in one sitting. No one can fully grasp what my life was like but still I feel like I have to try.

I mentioned in my post  Pinocchio- To Be a Real Boy I knew I was a boy since I was a very young age. At 6 years old I told my dad that this world had to be a dream and that I would wake up as me one day. I cried when he told me I was a girl. I constantly asked why I couldn’t use the men’s room. These were all cries for recognition from a child who had no way of wording: “I think I am Trans.” I don’t fault my dad for not remembering these things. I really don’t fault them for incidents they do not know about.

As I got older I formed an Alter ego, or more like he fractured from the girl I was forced to be. I gave him the name of the first boy I envied. Eddie. He didn’t care for this name and renamed himself Raven. I don’t blame Eddie Gang for telling me he had no desire to go by the name of someone who tormented us. Either way during pretend I used Eddie Gang, and his voice as an outlet. It was just a game, I could be a boy during play and it was harmless. I was a ghost.

This wasn’t the only way I ghosted. My step-sister, she’s gorgeous, rambunctious and unapologetically tomboyish. Growing up everyone commented on how much of a tomboy she was while I would buy Black shirts and men’s Jeans and sneakers. They would fret that she wasn’t allowed to cut her hair meanwhile I ordered the stylist to “cut it like a boys.” While they gushed over her being a tomboy I hung out with a crowd of male friends. I was a ghost. A ghost in plain sight.

Every photo where it is obvious I wore clothes I loved I looked male. I loved when I was mistaken for being a boy and my dream was to go back to Disney world dressed as a boy and to use the men’s room. I constantly fantasized this. I saw many therapists none who I told the truth. I told them my suffering abuse and that was honest but I didn’t display my inner turmoil. I didn’t divulge wanting to die because I couldn’t stand one more second as a girl. That I was cutting to try and remove the body I wasn’t suppose to have.

My biggest fear growing up was admitting my feelings for girls. I always had one close “Girlfriend” growing up. Every girl should have a “bestfriend” but for me these girls meant more. I usually had a crush on the girl and knowing I couldn’t dare express this I opted to befriend them. I only dated one girl growing up and because she still isn’t out about her sexuality I will not expose her.

It was scary feeling these things. I was sure God must hate me, and my family would too. For these reasons I was vocally homophobic in later years. I was afraid that gays were going to hell after all. When I was younger I simply defended friends accused of being gay by assuring they were not, rather than saying “So what if they are?” When I got older I spoke out against gay marriage (Bush era) and condemned them and in so doing myself to hell. The self hate is very real.

Speaking of self hate could you imagine that beautiful red headed child in my first photo would hate themselves so much they would tie bed sheets around their neck? When I was 14 I hated my face. I would scream, cry and claw at my skin. I swung between feeling comfortable as me to hating my life and everyone around me. I slept hours on end waiting for the nightmare to end. I chopped my own hair off many times. I would slice my chest. The chest my sisters mocked for being so big praying they’d shrivel. I threw myself at men. Men I secretly envied.

I felt apathy towards others but more over I despised myself. Looking my lovely angel in the eyes at 4 months old I was done and I popped a full cabinet of pills. I instantly regretted trying to die and committed myself. Coming out saved me. Coming out made me able to connect with others. Every day I still struggle. Everyday I pray I wake up and see me. My biggest dream is that I will be able to finally have surgery. Please if you can spare 5 dollars donate to The Shadow’s Journey.

The Shadow’s Journey

By Damien Knight Finding myself in the mirror of my past, am I free at last? …

The Shadow’s Journey

By Damien Knight

Finding myself in the mirror of my past, am I free at last?

When she haunts my dreams can I ever be me?

Saturday I spent my afternoon with my Step-mother and My father at Chuck-e-cheese. For the first time in ages I had a deep heart to heart with my step-mom. For me, despite all I went through, this was the woman who raised me and she is my mom so here on out I will refer to her as such.

I admit I had been harbouring some anger at perceived rejection this past month due to scheduled and canceled visits but the reality was every time we wanted to meet just was not optimal. I always have a way of making more of things than what they are. Those who know what I went through would understand why.

I did not bring up what I felt because once I was alone with my mom and we were talking I realised how petty it was in the grand scheme of things. Still the questions she asked could never be fully answered in one sitting. No one can fully grasp what my life was like but still I feel like I have to try.

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Caged Inside

By Damien Knight

Hello, My name is Damien Knight, I have self claimed many titles, Artist, Poet, Scientist. I have wrapped myself into these layers to define me. But I am caged into other title, “Daughter, Mother, Sister.” SHUT UP! I want to scream, but I’m afraid.
I started writing when I was young, perhaps 9 years old I wrote my first poem. I would write about dinosaurs and silly things and make drawings to accompany my writings. I loved art I could fling paint onto anything and forget my sorrow. Poetry and Art made me forget. I joined the writers club in fourth grade. I wrote brilliant stories. Mostly stories that came from dreams just as I still do today.
My sister joined the art club, and I gained a new cage. I couldn’t be an “Artist” because she was. I had been painting long before she had but because she’d accuse me of copy catting I was denied my passion. I’d paint in secret crushing rocks and mixing dirts with egg-yolks to create my own paints. I’d glaze my paintings with clear nail-polish. My favourite painting had been made with a red dirt and black charcoal paints I called “Brick wall” or “Brick Road” depending on my mood. It was painted on discarded cardboard.
Don’t think my parents forced me to paint this way. Some cages are self built. My parents encouraged art for me and actually discouraged it for my poor sister. They bought me art books and when they learned I was making my own paints bought me a kit to teach me proper paint making techniques. My sister meanwhile was yelled at for using her talents on the “devil’s work” Anime. This may have been part of what fueled her to insult my art and call me a copy cat.
I am not sure what I was going to say in this originally when I started writing but I guess the same could be said for the painting I have as my background for this piece. Caged, I spent growing up locked in my room or in psych-wards but that’s not the same as being caged inside. I was locked in my mind. I wrote poetry and painted trying to express myself. When I painted ‘myself’ I was always some gangster looking guy. No one noticed.
“Daughter.” That label made it impossible to realize the male in the sketch spray painting a wall was supposed to be me. You can medicate depression, give talk therapy for anger issues but if you ignore that your child is not the girl you want her to be the result might just be a dead child. I attempted suicide at the tender age of 13. I popped all my Depekote given for mood disorder… and I woke up the next morning like I hadn’t did a thing.
Ten plus suicide attempts, 12 times in facilities, plus one last time as an adult. I haven’t written any new poems in ages and I paint occasionally but after my last hospitalization I found the keys to my mental cage. Hints had been there all along, the child crying because he was told to wear a shirt because he’s a girl, the 14 year old sitting in the waiting area of Ten Broeck Hospital and seeing a news clip about a female swimmer so affected by steroids she “transitioned” to male. The 20 year old engaged ‘girl’ watching Maury  episode about trans-males and commenting how “she” had wanted to be a boy once. The reason I tried to kill myself wasn’t post partum. It was because I failed to fit the cage of the labels I was expected of me.
You realize you can’t raise children living a lie, or look yourself in the mirror. Today I am free. I hope to paint again soon, and who knows maybe write new happier poetry. Because today I can do anything. Today I am no longer caged.

If you wish to support my transition go donate The Shadow’s Journey. Thanks.