mourning without sadness

As I write this, the day seems less consequential than usual.  My burdens are lighter, and my actions seemingly less opposed.  I’ve recently placed less emphasis on the future, divested of it.  I am small and I don’t really know how I got here; it doesn’t matter.

It seems that I am moving on from who I was.  I feel disoriented, disembodied.  Even as I am increasingly aware of my skin; my face.  It’s as if I had never been comfortable relaxing into my skin, just for the hell of it.  This is a new experience for me.

 

I feel wedded to my new state of mind, a focus on others; to the extent that my achievements don’t feel like my own but the product of a larger whole.  I would say this isn’t true, that I am responsible for my achievements, but it seems unclear to me.

 

There is resignation as well.  Whatever happened, happened; and it will not happen again.  I will never be who I was a year ago, two years ago.  Mostly for the better, possibly for worse.  It’s a slightly claustrophobic feeling – after the constant fleeting forward motion of gender transformation, stability and stillness seem restrictive.  After years of the infinite possibilities of distant horizons, they aren’t.

 

insomnia express

I can’t remember the last time I had trouble sleeping.  I also can’t remember having writer’s block quite like this; my thoughts are clear but I’m afraid to write them down.

I’m afraid of being discriminated against.

I’m afraid of being alone.

I’m afraid of this.

This, my life condensed to today, tonight.  Right now.  I can’t think about the future, because that just doesn’t make sense.

 

I accept myself, my face is a woman’s face because I am a woman.  My life is a woman’s life.  It is what I think it is, but I underestimated the damage caused by arguing the point, by being told otherwise.  Because anyone can argue this, and for a time I forgot there’s no basis to my identity.

I didn’t realize the nature of discrimination, that it would take forms that cannot be spoken of.  That not being taken seriously would become what I fear the most.

Worst of all, I didn’t think I would believe that I deserve this.  In my contortions to make sense of the situation, it’s the only explanation.

 

Outside, there’s a steady drumbeat of LGBT victories.  I’m told the military is reversing its ban on trans people.  Inside, I’m coming to terms with exile from my own life.  A snowglobe of memories filled with love and artificial snowflakes.  A farcical separation, and so very real.  It doesn’t matter how often I try to return, it’s not mine.

 

the hazard of passing

I’ve never really lived for today.  Every day was a dissociative fugue, a hope for something better, because how could it not be better?  But now I’m present, which is obviously exhilarating and all, but it’s unexpected and unexpected things have been happening.

 

It’s as if I took a cloud of gender dysphoria and condensed it down and made it a physical thing, which can be avoided and assumedly dealt with.

In the meantime, I shower in near darkness and dress with my back to the mirror.

 

When I slam my fist into my bathroom vanity armoire cubby, it doesn’t budge.

I’m physically weaker.

I’m reminded that this is a big deal and it’s absurd to focus on physical, superficial details.

I’m reminded to give it time.

 

shreds

I miss something that I never had.  My body follows me everywhere, but that’s okay.  My thoughts come in shreds.

I’m not eating enough, sleeping enough.  I’m trying to socialize.

I feel tired.  Dissociated.  Strangely optimistic.

 

I think Kurt Cobain was trans.

Word wants me to capitalize ‘trans’ now, how sweet.

Facebook introduced 50 new gender options today, still not on Facebook.

 

don’t look down

“Don’t think about the future.  Don’t think about the past.  Look at what’s in front of you.  Please, just focus.”

I put one foot in front of the other, not thinking of who I am, how I’m coming across, what I’ll ever do about any of it.  It’s numbing.  And I fear the truth, that I can’t.

 

It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything.  I tell myself that it’s over, that the worst is behind me, that it’s not necessary, that I don’t have time and I’m hungry, that I shouldn’t write when I’m tired.

But someone said that I handle the things I write about so gracefully.  This gives me hope; and wrending, vertigo-inducing dissociation.

 

And part of me feels nothing at all – It’s not fair.