looking back on high school, one month after grad.
aka: teenage woes.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: mentions of transphobia, gender dysphoria, suicide, and sexual assault.
I graduated from high school last month in June, and while I felt somewhat triumphant, I found myself detached from the whole experience. There was one half of me that wanted to celebrate the culmination of years of hard work, the bittersweet goodbye to my teenage years, and the march towards adulthood. The other half of me felt like I was finally getting permission to leave a party that was fun for a few hours before I grew sick of it.
During my graduation ceremony, I performed "Somewhere Only We Know" by Keane on the flute with a group of friends. Before rehearsal, we ate pizza in the dressing room, fucked around with hair clay, and struggled with tying our ties. I walked across the stage, waved to my friends, took some obligatory photos with my parents. Then I left as soon as I could and went home to sleep it off like it was just another regular day.
Writing this in July, I look back at the whole ordeal with nothing but indifference. I feel irrationally guilty for not cherishing that day when my friends, peers, family, and teachers did. Now, I'm writing this blog post in an attempt to give myself some closure and, if I can, some hope for the future ahead of me.
the covid years.
I started high school in 2020, right when everything was falling apart in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic. My first two years were spent in classrooms with hand sanitizer stations everywhere, separated lunch periods, and a lot of time spent online. All the opportunities that they sold us on in elementary school: extracurriculars, field trips, and competitions--got cancelled. The restrictions wouldn't lift until I was in tenth grade.
It was a bizarre way for most people to begin high school. Everything felt muted and half-cancelled before it could really start. I'd hear older students and teachers talk about "how things used to be," and it became clear we were getting the discount version of the high school experience. I spent those early years wondering if this was just what high school would be like from then on.
I don't think the education system really recovered from COVID-19. The pervasive issues with student behaviour, academic performance, and student mental health before the pandemic were only exacerbated by it. My teachers are now struggling with younger grades who've given them the worst they've seen in years, paired with parents who can't, or don't want to, give a damn.
I am grateful that I've graduated high school before having to witness how the younger students will turn out by senior year.
tran-sing my gender.
Around the same time I started high school, I was figuring out that I'm transgender. It wasn't some big revelation. It was more like finally putting a name to something I'd always felt. I've had this passive disconnect from being seen as female for as long as I could remember, but growing up, developing more obvious secondary sex characteristics, and having more gender expectations placed on me made it impossible to ignore any longer.
If you aren't familiar, body horror, also known as biological or visceral horror, is a subgenre of horror that explores the grotesque, unnatural, and often disturbing transformations, degeneration, or destruction of the human body. Films like The Human Centipede (2010) and more recently, The Substance (2024) use graphic imagery to evoke disgust and psychological unease by depicting violations of the body.
For trans kids going through puberty, body horror is our reality--and it is ugly, painful, and visceral. When I developed breasts and widened hips, the changes felt wrong in a way I couldn't articulate to anyone, least of all my parents. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror without feeling like my body was distorting into something I couldn't recognize. I hated wearing bras and would refuse to get new ones when they got too small. When I received my first "real" bra, an awful sickness festered in my gut and left me crying on the floor. I was looking into the face of a monster and I couldn't do anything to defend myself against it.
The gender expectations got heavier as I got older. Teachers would separate us by gender for activities, other students would make assumptions about what I was interested in or how I should act, and none of it ever felt right. I didn't fit with the girls because I wasn't one, and I couldn't fit with the boys because nobody saw me as one. I existed in this weird in-between space where I belonged nowhere. It's a lonely place to live. It's a terrifying place to live.
neuro-die-virgin.
The worst part was not having language for it at first, and then when I did find the words, not having anyone safe to say them to. Some of my cis male "friends" in grade 8 wanted to sexually assault me when they found out about my transmasc identity. (Charming bunch, really). I tried to kill myself twice during high school. I couldn't do it, but I frequently contemplated and planned my death with the same methodical attention I gave to my homework.
I succeeded academically, but I often struggled to connect with my peers. I was cringey. I was awkward. I was socially unaware in ways that made me want to crawl into a hole every time I replayed conversations in my head. I couldn't maintain friendships for a long time because I feared so greatly that they wouldn't want me after "finding out" who I really was. Ironically, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy.
By tenth and eleventh grade, many of my peers began dating. I couldn't get myself involved with the scene. There were barely any other lesbians in my grade and I really couldn't bring myself to care about romantic relationships and sex at the time--I still can't. Above all, I felt, and I still feel, quite unlovable. It is very hard for me to imagine someone willing to make concessions for my confusing gender identity, my neurodiversity, and my lack of interest in having sex.
Due to what I now recognize as undiagnosed autism, it made sense that the oddities and differences that led me to be bullied in elementary school would isolate me in high school. My cohort was, according to my teachers, some of the brightest they'd had in years. And there's nothing like being surrounded by overachievers to make you feel like your maximum effort was someone else's minimum.
my waifu would never do this to me.
Most of my high school experience was spent online. I found more kinship with outcasts, queer kids, and nerds on social media where I felt free from expectations and could be what I wanted. No one could see who I really was behind a screen. No one had to know about the ugliest parts of my existence.
My adolescence was characterized by different "phases" of fandom special interests: My Hero Academia, Red Dead Redemption 2, Genshin Impact, Resident Evil, and now the Iliad (by Homer). I couldn't find peace and belonging with real people, so I developed deep fixations on fictional worlds and characters. This is common for many autistic people. Special interests often act as outlets and self-management tools. But sometimes they can become harmful if they consume your life to the point that they prevent you from seeking out real-world experiences and relationships. That, and my dependence on online friends certainly did it for me.
The irony wasn't lost on me that I was more invested in the emotional development of video game and book characters than in forming actual human connections. But fictional characters don't judge you for being weird, don't out you to your parents, and don't threaten to assault you. They're remarkably low-maintenance that way. To this day, I still love to daydream about scenarios where I am loved unconditionally by my favourite characters to make up for the love I often can't show myself.
Still, my escapes weren't safe. Those online spaces became riddled with meaningless fandom discourse, harassment, and bigotry. I was sent death and rape threats over shipping fictional characters. My close friends turned on each other frequently. And as I grew older, my patience for all of that nonsense quickly disappeared. I deleted Twitter around early-2024 and I wish I'd done so sooner.
things do get better.
Despite everything, I did make close IRL friends who I will certainly miss when I move away from home. I got involved in extracurriculars like the First Responder team, the Gay-Straight Alliance club, and the school band. Engagement with the "real world" did help somewhat. When COVID restrictions were drawn back, I had a lot of fun going sea-kayaking and camping with my class.
Recently, I've begun to improve drastically. I had a special interest in Chernobyl and nuclear reactors that inspired my career path. This fall, I'll be attending the top engineering program in my country and living in a city with endless opportunities. I am surrounded by teachers and adults who genuinely care for my well-being and have provided me with more support than I can ever pay them back for.
I no longer feel actively suicidal, even though my gender dysphoria remains. I feel like I have a purpose, and people who have my back.
Things aren't perfect. I still don't have access to gender-affirming care due to my parents. I still go through bouts of anxiety and depression. I still often feel hopeless about my future. But I do have dreams and ambitions worth fighting for.
the end.
I still don't feel too attached to high school. I don't like most of the people there, and I won't sugar-coat my experience when these were some of the hardest moments of my life. When you're neurodivergent and queer, high school isn't always the formative experience it's supposed to be. Sometimes it's just something you survive.
But here's the thing that makes me feel guilty; I probably don't know most of these people well enough to dislike them. Maybe some of them were dealing with their own shit, their own closets, their own diagnoses they didn't have words for yet. Maybe some of them would have been kind if I'd given them the chance. Maybe I was so busy protecting myself from rejection that I rejected them first.
After these past 5 years, I'm reassured to know that I can survive difficult things. I'm reassured to know that I came out of high school with friends, teachers, and mentors I can rely on. I'm reassured, most of all, that this isn't my peak and it shouldn't be.