Well, I'm a female-to-male transsexual, so puberty was an absolute fucking nightmare. NIGHTMARE. I dealt with it by mentally blocking out as much of it as I possibly could; thus, there are various parts of it that I have no recollection of whatsoever.
Breasts were the worst. I went from "nothing" to a C cup practically overnight, and the shame, mortification, self-disgust and horror stemming from my gender dysphoria was soul-crushing. I considered taking a knife to them more than once. Also, the sudden attention I started getting from horny teenage boys and sick fucks of adult men at 13 or so only repeatedly underscored the trauma of being the fave of a few "funny" teachers BEFORE my boobs went pop. Having what sometimes felt like every OTHER guy suddenly be interested in pinching my butt and chasing me home from school shouting lewd comments was not a fucking improvement. Ugh forever.
So glad it's over. And the first time I successfully managed to pass for male in public and realized that other guys were giving me no more than a passing glance...the relief was euphoric.
I'm pretty sure there was way more to puberty than just getting ogled (my mother talks a lot about my mood swings, for example - mood swings, me?), but it's one of the few parts I clearly remember.
Although that was also about the age I started sneaking my father's shaving cream and play-shaving my face, pretending I needed to shave like other guys. Except once I messed up and gave myself a massive shaving cut on my upper lip, and my god, that was embarrassing. It would have been less embarrassing if I wasn't supposed to be a girl, but, well. I didn't actually NEED to shave, but I had to deal with the thought that now everyone thought I secretly had a heavy mustache or something. Tried to pass if off as a cat scratch, and spent the next few days "coughing" into my hand.
Oddly enough, I had enough to deal with regarding my gender, and any confusions over my sexual orientation (bisexual, turns out) were basically put on the back-burner until my twenties, so I didn't concern myself much with that.
Oh, and because some of you pansies apparently want this spoiler-boxed:
Breasts were the worst. I went from "nothing" to a C cup practically overnight, and the shame, mortification, self-disgust and horror stemming from my gender dysphoria was soul-crushing. I considered taking a knife to them more than once. Also, the sudden attention I started getting from horny teenage boys and sick fucks of adult men at 13 or so only repeatedly underscored the trauma of being the fave of a few "funny" teachers BEFORE my boobs went pop. Having what sometimes felt like every OTHER guy suddenly be interested in pinching my butt and chasing me home from school shouting lewd comments was not a fucking improvement. Ugh forever.
So glad it's over. And the first time I successfully managed to pass for male in public and realized that other guys were giving me no more than a passing glance...the relief was euphoric.
I'm pretty sure there was way more to puberty than just getting ogled (my mother talks a lot about my mood swings, for example - mood swings, me?), but it's one of the few parts I clearly remember.
Although that was also about the age I started sneaking my father's shaving cream and play-shaving my face, pretending I needed to shave like other guys. Except once I messed up and gave myself a massive shaving cut on my upper lip, and my god, that was embarrassing. It would have been less embarrassing if I wasn't supposed to be a girl, but, well. I didn't actually NEED to shave, but I had to deal with the thought that now everyone thought I secretly had a heavy mustache or something. Tried to pass if off as a cat scratch, and spent the next few days "coughing" into my hand.
Oddly enough, I had enough to deal with regarding my gender, and any confusions over my sexual orientation (bisexual, turns out) were basically put on the back-burner until my twenties, so I didn't concern myself much with that.
Oh, and because some of you pansies apparently want this spoiler-boxed:
My first period. Yeeeah. I had just turned 12.
There is seriously nothing that prepares you for the trauma of bleeding from the crotch. Nothing. I knew it was coming, and I still panicked and screamed bloody murder the first time I saw blood in the toilet. I thought I was injured! It's a pretty scary thing to discover you're bleeding when you had no awareness of it.
So yeah. I started hopping around the bathroom (thank god I was at home) in a frantic, adrenaline-fueled panic with my pants around my ankles. Not thinking clearly at all, I started worrying that my parents would be angry about any "mess" of blood anywhere, and that I would be smacked upside the head for it, so I started anxiously trying to clean up any blood without cluing in that I needed to deal with the SOURCE of the blood FIRST.
By the time I figured that out, me and the bathroom probably looked like Sissy Spacek at the end of Carrie. There was blood in the toilet, obviously, but there was also blood on the outside of the toilet, blood on the bath mat, blood on the floor, blood on the counter, blood in the sink, bloody hand prints on the wall, and blood on every article of my clothing.
...A year or so before that, my sixth-grade teacher had explained to the girls in our class that your period was a "beautiful miracle of life." Hopping around the bathroom, I said to myself, "WHAT A LOAD OF SHIT."
There is seriously nothing that prepares you for the trauma of bleeding from the crotch. Nothing. I knew it was coming, and I still panicked and screamed bloody murder the first time I saw blood in the toilet. I thought I was injured! It's a pretty scary thing to discover you're bleeding when you had no awareness of it.
So yeah. I started hopping around the bathroom (thank god I was at home) in a frantic, adrenaline-fueled panic with my pants around my ankles. Not thinking clearly at all, I started worrying that my parents would be angry about any "mess" of blood anywhere, and that I would be smacked upside the head for it, so I started anxiously trying to clean up any blood without cluing in that I needed to deal with the SOURCE of the blood FIRST.
By the time I figured that out, me and the bathroom probably looked like Sissy Spacek at the end of Carrie. There was blood in the toilet, obviously, but there was also blood on the outside of the toilet, blood on the bath mat, blood on the floor, blood on the counter, blood in the sink, bloody hand prints on the wall, and blood on every article of my clothing.
...A year or so before that, my sixth-grade teacher had explained to the girls in our class that your period was a "beautiful miracle of life." Hopping around the bathroom, I said to myself, "WHAT A LOAD OF SHIT."
