*This commentary by Matt Keeley was originally published by LGBTNation.

Some cisgender people think the recent Republican fad of banning of transgender people from sports and bathrooms won’t affect them, and that if people just conform closely to gender stereotypes, they won’t have trouble. But these don’t realize that random nuts have confronted cis women in the ladies’ room just for wearing pants and having short hair.

Gender policing goes from controlling how we look to controlling how we behave. And cis people who have never been misgendered may not realize just how much it can hurt… but as a cis man who has been misgendered, I do.

As a kid, I had gynecomastia, a condition where prominent breasts develop on a boy or man. And my breasts were indeed prominent — probably a C- or D-cup in bra size. It started around when I was 10 or so. While we never figured out the reason, it doesn’t really matter when you’re in middle school and kids confront you in the bathroom, calling you “titty boy.” 

Even friends would make the occasional crack to my chagrin. I remember once talking about how my uncle’s internal organs were backwards; one of my friends immediately joked, “And you’ve got two hearts: here and here,” gesturing at each breast. It didn’t feel great!

I hated my breasts. I often fantasized about chopping them off. It was never gory or gross in my mind — it usually was more like picking off a scab — a little bit of pain at first, but then perfectly fine with a normal chest just like every other boy.

The teasing changed my relationship with my body. My nipples usually inverted into my areolas by nature. But whenever they weren’t, I’d push them back in because, in my weird kid mind, women’s breasts had outward-facing nipples for babies to feed. If mine pointed inward, then that meant they weren’t breasts like what women had, and were…. something different.

I didn’t know the word “dysmorphia” at the time, but looking back, it seems like a manifestation of that. Most of all, I wanted to ignore that my breasts even existed. I hated even using the word “breast” in any context. While taking swimming lessons, I’d refer to the breaststroke as the “whip-kick stroke” based on the leg movements. When I wore collared shirts, they had chest pockets — men had chests, women had breasts.

While the teasing and bullying was bad, unintentional cruelty was somehow even worse. One expects bullies to be mean and to focus on one’s flaws. But if someone unintentionally misgendered me, it felt like they couldn’t help but hurt me, based solely on my appearance, infringing on my misguided attempts to ignore and feel indifferent to my own body.

One moment that’s seared in my brain (and will be for the rest of my life) happened around age 11 one afternoon at an office supply store. I needed a new graphing calculator for math class. I approached a worker kneeling on the floor, re-stocking the bottom shelf. 

“Pardon me, do you know where the graphing calculators are?” I asked.

“Oh, sure, sir,” he said, turning and seeing my shoes. 

His eyes raised to my chest and said, “…ma’am…”

His eyes then hit my face and he quickly went back to “sir,” before telling me where they were located.

I could tell he wasn’t being mean, he was just processing the visual stimuli in the order presented. I could tell he was embarrassed and neither of us wanted to call attention to his error, so I thanked him, and went to pick up the TI-85 calculator I needed. 

I have no idea if he remembers that day at all. Probably not. But it’s a moment I relive over and over. I was wearing my standard uniform of jeans and a loose-fitting green/yellow Hypercolor T-shirt — it was the early ‘90s after all.

It’s hard to explain why it hurt so much to be mistaken for a woman. It wasn’t merely that it proved I was “different” from other boys. It wasn’t shame at being seen as a woman or less than “manly” — in fact, I don’t think real-or-perceived misogyny played a part in what happened or how I felt. I’ve always had various “feminine”-coded interests even as a kid: In first grade, I loved The Baby-Sitter’s Club book series (which features mostly girl characters) and I’d often pretend to be the magical Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle from the classic children’s novels.

The misgendering bothered me more so because it just wasn’t me — I wasn’t being perceived correctly. I couldn’t put it into words; I wasn’t necessarily “manly” and had no real desire to be seen as such, but I was a man (or at least, I would be one day when I grew up).

I was lucky; I was able to get a breast reduction — top surgery in trans masc parlance — the summer I turned 13. My surgeon, Dr. Kropp — whose name somewhat matched his surgical specialty — was excellent, and confirmed that I had excess breast tissue, not just fat. 

That fall, I came into a new school as a high school freshman, and no one ever commented on my chest again; I was thankfully average. Friends even seemingly forgot about it, and no one asked about the change.

It took me a very long time to get over it — my chest was the one thing I was sensitive about. I’m pushing 45 now; it’s been 30 years, and the wounds have finally scabbed over. (The figurative ones, I mean. As for the actual surgical scars, those healed very nicely and relatively quickly after the procedure.)

But it took decades for me to get over the misgendering. And I immediately “passed as male” otherwise, if you wanted to call it that. It was just: one day boobs, one day none. So I can only imagine the pain that accumulates over when a trans person gets misidentified for so long, sometimes even after transitioning. 

Misgendering can lead to depression and psychological distress. (It certainly did for me.) It can also create a sense of emotional exhaustion. I know that when I came home from a particularly bad day at school, I just wanted to shove everything out of my mind, and just veg in front of the TV. But the teasing made me think about self-obliteration. I never attempted suicide — but the idea of just not existing for a while definitely appealed to me.

Truthfully, these days, when I start feeling very anxious, stressed, or depressed, the idea of not existing for a while still appeals to me. And I can’t help but think that this desire to disappear first began when people mocked and mistook me for having “female” body parts.

I have just a glimpse of how cruel Trump and his transphobic followers have been in their constant crusade to demonize and misgender trans people. I can’t imagine feeling the full force from a lifetime of this meanness — the years I endured it was enough for me.