Dating an intersex person
Not even the almighty gene provided any clear answers, since it was discovered that I was a mosaic, with some cells in my body having the XY genotype and others having XO. Consciously, deliberately "raising me female"—it's like consciously, deliberately breathing.
I quickly came to understand that that tomboy—the gender identity with which I had escaped childhood—was less acceptable in adolescence.
She listened and learned, and gave me similar lessons in her anatomy.
And then, one night in bed, she whispered playfully in my ear: "Boy, Jude, you sure are weird." Exactly.
Everything that didn't make sense in my tortured world—even the scars—blossomed into perfect clarity when viewed through that lens: I am a lesbian! But I also carried another truth, a terrible corollary to the first secret: I cannot be with women.
For being with a woman revealed what I wasn't—"finished," a girl, normal—and (so much worse) revealed what I was—a freak, a monster, an anomaly.
All around me, my peers and former playmates were dating, fooling around, giving and getting hickeys, while I, whose puberty came in pill form, watched aghast from the sidelines. The doctors and surgeons assured me I was a girl, that I just wasn't yet "finished." I don't think they gave a thought to what that statement would mean to me and my developing gender identity, my developing sense of self. The "finishing" the doctors talked about occurred during my teen years—hormone replacement therapy and a vaginoplasty.