I hate how people martyr the pre-transition version of myself, as if they were an innocent victim I've killed.
When they speak about my past, they use my old name, and always in a somber tone, as if they're mourning this poor innocent person who had so much promise, who had achieved so much. When I remind them it was me, I'm still here, I'm told that it was them who achieved these things, that I need to remember that.
That person they remember so fondly, mourn so much was a shell. They mention how pretty she was, how accomplished she was. They speak about me now with disdain, like I've ruined her memory. Like everything I'm doing now is an affront to what she did. They attribute the achievements I made to somebody else, somebody who doesn't exist.
I was miserable. I made all of those achievements in spite of my suffering. On paper I was the perfect granddaughter, the oldest daughter, the golden child. In reality, I couldn't imagine a life where I could ever feel happiness, barely took care of myself, was numb to everything. All of those achievements are nothing in comparison to the joy that living my life authentically has brought me. The passport showing my sex as male, with my chosen name, is worth so much more to me than my degree certificates.
Doing what was expected of me what easy, nobody would have shunned me for being the perfect daughter. The efforts I've made over the past year to build a life worth living, just for myself, in spite of how I've been treated for it, that has been hard. But that is worth it.