When the Debate is Neither Honest Nor Engaging

There’s a point where arguing stops feeling sharp and starts feeling cheap. It usually comes just after you realise the person opposite you isn't arguing in good faith. They’re not curious. They’re not even interested in being right. They’re there to keep you in your place.

I’ve spent time in those places. Spaces where debate is treated like a blood sport, where the reward is not understanding but applause from the sidelines. Until recently, I spoke that language fluently. I knew the rhythms. I could strike back, shut down, keep score. And yes, I won, sometimes.

But the subject matter has changed. Or rather, I’ve stopped pretending it hasn't always been personal.

It’s not a theory, or a culture war, or someone else’s ideology. It’s me. I’m the one being dissected. My life, my identity, my validity. Turned into a punchline, a provocation, or a test of rhetorical precision.

Once upon a time, I played along. Kept my tone just sharp enough, just dry enough. Leaned into the persona. Took satisfaction in giving as good as I got.

But now? Now it costs more.

It costs more to stand in places where my existence is treated like an opinion. Where people compare being trans to a pathology, then pat themselves on the back for cutting through the noise. Where they laugh at the very idea of someone like me being taken seriously.

This isn't about being offended. It’s not about losing an argument. It’s about the slow erosion of dignity that comes from being forced to justify your presence while others treat it like sport.

It comes at a cost. The cost of losing the voice you now have by being judged on your past compliance with the culture of confrontation and division. The act of recognising this and beginning the slow climb to represent yourself truly, honestly, isn’t one I particularly relish. Is this just self-flagellation? Getting my excuses in?

Honestly, I’m struggling to reconcile my current trans reality with my less-than-virtuous past self. I’m struggling to respect my femininity because of what I was.

But I’m not despondent. Recognising those flaws as a pathway to travel from, not along, feels like progress and a life that is changing every day. I have to focus that change on making myself the person I have always deserved to be.

But, fuck me, it’s difficult right now.

AI note:

And if you're wondering whether this post was written with the help of AI, yes, it was. I use AI as a tool, the same way someone might use a vehicle instead of walking. It does not live my life. It does not feel what I feel. It helps me say it, to articulate it more clearly and more calmly than I sometimes can on my own.

Trust me, my raw opinions, while authentic, biting and incisive, do not always make for good reading.

I understand the ethical objections. I respect them to the point where they do not require me to conform to your perfectly valid view. Because it isn’t mine, and it wouldn’t be honest to pretend otherwise. Which is, really, the point of me writing.

Go ahead. Judge me, but don’t expect me to conform as a result.

Author bio:

Sil Vexen is the name I write under when the stakes are personal. I’m a trans woman in her seventies, a feminist, a former systems architect, and an occasional bruised veteran of public discourse. I use AI as a tool, to refine rather than replace. These words are mine, but I don't have time to make my own Brasso.