I need your help to get rid of my double Ds
I’ve changed my life, now I need your help
Grabbing my pink My Little Pony pyjamas, I tiptoed to the bathroom, turned on the shower and threw them under the water.
I giggled as I hauled the soggy PJs back out onto the floor.
‘Muuum!’ I shouted. ‘My pyjamas are wet.’
There’s no way she’ll make me wear these to bed now. Disgusting girly things!
My dad Malcolm, then 33, and my brother Phil, then 6, always wore the same PJs.
Grey top and checked tartan bottoms.
And I wanted to be just like them.
‘Not again, Courteney!’ my mum Nicky, then 30, sighed.
‘Can I wear some of Phil’s?’ I asked.
‘OK,’ Mum said, ruffling my long hair.
I was always sabotaging Mum’s attempts to put me in girls’ clothes, even licking the sleeves of my dresses to make them too wet to wear.
I was just 5, but already knew I was different.
And that Christmas,
I knew what I wanted Santa to bring me.
‘I want a willy,’ I told Mum.
‘Not sure about that,’ Mum laughed. ‘You crack me up!’
Luckily, my parents were different to my pals’, too.
Mum with her own toolbox, tackling any DIY project like a pro.
And Dad with his pinny on, cooking his famous Sunday roasts.
I could be me at home.
But outside, being different was frowned upon, especially at school.
While the girls all sat daintily eating their yogurts in the canteen, I sat with the boys, shovelling in mouthfuls of rice pudding.
‘Yuck!’ one of them said, watching me closely. ‘You’re disgusting.’
So I was surprised when, aged 10, I was invited to a sleepover by a girl in my class.
‘Any trouble, just call me,’ Dad said, dropping me off. ‘It’ll be fine, Dad,’ I said. But as I curled up on the sofa at midnight, I felt a thud to my head.
‘Stop,’ I cried as the group of girls suddenly laid into me. Kicking and punching. ‘Weirdo!’ one spat, as they went back to sleep.
Silent tears rolled down my face as I lay in the dark.
I’m a freak, I told myself.
I deserved it.
And things got worse. By 11, I was 5ft 10in, wore size 10 shoes and my boobs grew to a C cup.
My body became the enemy, my own reflection horrified me.
Turning on the bathroom shower each day, I’d move the dial to its hottest setting.
Waiting until the bathroom mirror was steamed up, blocking my reflection.
Then I’d quickly take off my clothes without catching a glimpse of myself.
At secondary school, I’d squeeze two size-10 sports bras on to squash my breasts, desperate to hide my shape.
They’d cut into my flesh, leaving deep wounds.
By now, Mum was at her wits’ end.
‘Why are you so sad?’ she asked one day as I stomped upstairs after school.
‘I don’t know,’ I screamed at her. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
All I knew was I hated my
I’d squash my breasts, desperate to hide my shape
life and the body I was in.
It was New Year’s Eve 2012, when, aged 14, I finally decided there was one thing I had to tell my parents. I fancied other girls.
I’d known for a while, just hadn’t got the guts to say.
That night, the whole family gathered in the kitchen for the New Year countdown.
‘Five, four, three…’ everyone counted as midnight approached. ‘Two...one…’
‘I’m a lesbian,’ I yelled.
Mum and
Dad stopped in their tracks. ‘Happy New Year?’ I said, feeling nervous.
‘We love you,’ Mum said, giving me a massive hug. ‘Live your own life, not anyone else’s.’
She was right.
Up until now, my life had been about trying to be someone I wasn’t.
It was time to start being me.
In 2016, I was watching TV when a programme about being transgender came on..
‘Oh my God,’ I muttered as something clicked inside me.
I didn’t even know it existed, now literally everything made sense. A couple of weeks later, I sidled into Mum’s bedroom where she was watching EastEnders. ‘Mum,’ I said, perching myself on the edge of her bed.
‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘What is it?’ she said, hitting pause on the remote.
‘I want to be a boy,’ I blurted out.
‘OK,’ she smiled. ‘Can I press Play now!’
I burst out laughing.
‘If you’re happy, I’m happy,’ she said.
Dad struggled at first, but my brother Phil was brilliant about it, too. ‘OK, cool,’ he shrugged when I told him. But it still wasn’t easy. I was back and forward to the GP’s about my depression, always struggling with my self-esteem.
Luckily, Mum was my rock.
Beside me at every doctor’s trip, and she held my hand as I rubbed on my first dose of testosterone gel.
A few weeks later, rubbing the steam from the bathroom mirror, I smiled at my reflection for the first time.
It’d been over 10 years since I’d looked in a mirror! There it was.
Facial hair.
Just a few sprigs, but it felt amazing.
Soon, I easily passed as a man.
‘Off to the football?’ a cabbie asked as I headed into town one day.
‘Nah,’ I said. ‘I’m meeting the girls for coffee.’
I still hated gender stereotypes.
The idea all boys like football and girls like make-up and shopping.
Now, I go by the name of Joey and I’ve built up a big following on TikTok, where I help other people confused about their identities.
My body still bears the marks of my journey so far.
The deep scars from the sports bras I wore are a constant reminder, and my huge boobs still need binding every day.
Surgery to remove them is over £8,000.
Coronavirus means the NHS waiting list is really long, so I’ve set up a GoFundMe page to raise the cash to get rid of these last two reminders of the old me.
Can Chat readers help me replace my DDs with a six-pack?
I’ve already changed my life, now I just need the body to go with it.
To help Joey get his long-awaited surgery, visit gofund. me/81c32aed