When I was a kid, wildly inhabiting the alien worlds I made of the beaches in New Zealand, I had hair down to my shoulders, and people often mistook me for a girl, or better still – a tomboy. I must have spent as much time climbing trees as I did sewing. My father, who I always called Dave even though he really was my father, was a homophobic, macho womanizer. Not fully understanding this, when I was about seven I had an epiphany, and marched out to tell him. There he was, leaning on the fence with a beer in his hand, talking to our Samoan neighbor who probably also had a beer in his hand (Hank Hills of the Southern Hemisphere). I proudly announced, “Dave, you know when a girl does boy’s things they call her a tomboy. Well I like doing girl’s things, so I’m a tomgirl.” I skipped away feeling rather clever, but I will never forget the look of horror, disgust and crushed manhood on their faces.

By adolescence it was clear I had to stop the cascade of masculine traits that were pummeling, protruding from and poisoning my body. The worst was the facial hair, which was like having an armpit on my face. It felt like a steel brush and bled every time I shaved, even with an electric shaver. Next to that was the hair on my arms and legs, and the small amount of hair on my chest – a stain that only I knew was there. I shaved it all off and kept that up for a while, no-one knowing but me that under my clothes I felt less masculine, yet not quite like a woman, which was about right. But it dawned on me that if I kept shaving it was only going to grow thicker if I ever had to let it grow back one day. The horror of turning into Burt Reynolds made me want to just dismember myself. So I bought a Ladyshave that plucked the hair out. I did that to my arms, legs and chest, and it was a disaster. I could see it wasn’t working – the roots made bleeding holes and red bumps – but I kept going and did the lot. It didn’t heal well, I looked horrendous. I finally had to accept that this Cro-Magnon pelt was going to be there no matter what I tried. It’s like being stuck in a clown suit, every day.

This was England, and you could get a sex change on the National Health for free. So although I knew I didn’t want to become a woman, I had to do something to stop the macho mask that grew on my face every day, and the drives that made me feel too male for my own body. In the 1980’s I went to a sex change clinic to see if they could give me medication that would reduce my testosterone, and make me a ‘neuter’ as I called it then, since the word nonbinary did not yet exist in that context. If I could just tame the relentless masculinity that pushed through every attempt I made to be neither male nor female, this would allow me to embark on a way of living that I could live with. The waiting room was like some kind of secret underground for initiates only – people in transition, on whatever journeys they were on to become themselves outside as well as in. These were my people, it thrilled me to be with them, even though no-one paid any attention to me.

The doctor turned me down. He said I didn’t show evidence of having wanted to be a woman as a child, and I was too young to make changes to my body that could have long term repercussions. I think at that time, or in that particular practice, the business was man to woman, or woman to man – there wasn’t a procedure for making a neither. I didn’t qualify as a hermaphrodite either, although I envied them immensely for having a physical trait that would force people to accept that they were both male and female.

I begged him, literally begged him, for something to tame the testosterone. I didn’t understand then that this wasn’t entirely the problem, it was identity that was unmoored – my gender not my sexuality.

But no was the answer from the sex change clinic – you don’t fit, not even here. Go home and watch the game, like a man.

I started wearing make-up, in secret at first on visits to London, then all the time once I lived there. Full makeup – foundation, powder, blusher, lipstick, eye shadow, eyeliner. I painted my nails, had thick black, curly hair down to my waist and dressed like a gothic dandy. I was finally androgynous, or as close to that as I could get. Things were good for a while, but over time, navigating life, I let the winner be the one that everyone else could see. I don’t know how it happened, I just let life dilute me. I had no problem with my male side, it just wasn’t the only side. For a very long time, it became the outside, once again.

As a teenager I was the victim of a lot of violence because I looked too feminine. I’d hear “Faggot!” and I’d say something like “Better a faggot than a bigot,” and get the shit kicked out of me. I mean fist fights. I learned to fight fast and dirty. In time I learned that I don’t need to be afraid of my male side, that it can help me and protect me. I lived on Greyhound buses for a year writing my first novel, sleeping in the stations, which are all downtown. I met a lot of runaways, hookers, junkies and ex-cons – some good people. But it was a dangerous adventure that I couldn’t have pulled off without fully inhabiting my six foot male body and giving off a serious ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe. And yet my female side is like an invisible force moving within me, that I can call upon at any time.

Many incarnations later, I find myself happily married to someone who fully understands me. Romy’s always thought I look good in ‘guyliner’, and she gets me the way I am. I’m a fierce feminist and never miss a chance to ridicule a misogynist or toxic masculinity. Sexuality doesn’t have anything to do with my gender journey, I’m comfortably heterosexual. One understanding doesn’t imply another. You have to understand yourself on your own terms, always. Romy is the love of my life, and she makes it all worth it. Life can be rocky, but it can also be Rocky Horror.

With her support, I had laser surgery to remove my facial hair permanently. It was deeper than electrolysis, which can’t kill the roots that are driven by testosterone and will keep coming back. Excruciatingly painful, it took a couple of sessions a week over several weeks and was worth every “Aaaargh!” No more shaving. No more Homer Simpson five o’clock shadow.

We live in times where the term ‘nonbinary’ is accepted and more or less understood. I was nonbinary in the ‘80’s before there was a word for me. Now people use pronouns like ‘they’ and ‘Mx’ – which is wonderful. I prefer the term ‘it’ for myself. I don’t see it as derogatory, I see it as precise and singular. I used ‘it’ with one of my characters in my new novel and it works very well. But it’s too much of a leap for most people. The last thing I want is anyone thinking “Are you taking the piss?” I want to be accepted as I am, and at this liminal point in our evolution, that means using whatever term makes people comfortable with me. Until the day comes where I can be accepted as ‘it’, I guess ‘he’ will have to do. It’s just the squeaky horn that goes with the clown shoes.

I always wake up like a light bulb, full of energy, my mind abuzz. It’s pissed off everyone I’ve ever lived with. I’ve always woken up happy too, like the night reset the clock of yesterday’s disappointments and I’m ready for anything, capable of anything. But recently there’s been a slow hum of sadness already there as I wake up, and the day is gray before the sun even comes up. It’s an awareness that I let go of my identity when I was younger, when you can get away with androgyny because youth is so easily mistaken for beauty. There’s that line in Nic Roeg’s incredible gender identity film Performance, “You’re gonna look funny when you’re fifty.” I may not have pulled off androgyny, ever, and I may have let go of my identity for a while, but out of the sadness a realization is surfacing. I’ve found something I never had back then: I know myself. Pleased to meetchoo.

I’m comfortable with both sides of myself, in this mix that is me. Both are present, equal, balanced. Sometimes I feel both male and female, or more one than the other, but the knowing that courses through my very existence, is that this mix that is me adds up to neither. I’ve learned there are comforts in the little things, that would mean nothing to anyone else. Using my full name has given me male and female first names, and every time I see it, I see that double shadow self that is me. I’m realizing how long I’ve been focussed on existence, unaware that all along I was learning how to be – by compromising, crashing myself, failing. I wrote in one of my books “Choices are the difference between existence and being”, and it’s true. It’s taken a journey to both ends of the spectrum to find a balance that connects my inner reality with the world I confront every day. “Become who you are,” like Nietzsche said.

So here’s a simple message, learned from a complicated life. If you feel you need to become something only you can see, do it. Do it now. Crash and burn a few times and keep on getting up, until you don’t even have to think about it any more, and you have an identity that is yours, whatever flavor of the rainbow that turns out to be. Don’t let society and family pull you in directions that are not your own. They will come round, or they won’t. But if you bend to their identities you may never have one of your own. If your outside matches your inside, the world you meet each day must meet you on your terms not theirs, and it will be you they will meet. The real you.