lucky

I sobbed silently over a scone wrapper on Leia’s kitchen table, the day after her dinner party.  Her sister found me that way.

“How are you doing?”

“…Okay…  I was just getting ready to leave.”

I excused myself.  She wished me luck.  I set out on a walk of shame so epic that I had to buy sunglasses and froyo.  I have got to stop traveling without makeup.

 

I guess a lot of girl scientists cry about their research.

I’m still not used to it.

 

I’m not used to a lot of things – women are so easygoing around one another, it’s absurd.  Form-fitting clothes break my stride.  Shaving reveals scars on my legs from 20 years ago, and a nasty varicose vein from that time I played The Sims 2 for 27 hours straight.

I want to get upset about that.  Transition is making me look younger, but I don’t feel younger.  I worry about every blemish, all of my virilized features.

 

I remind myself that I’m lucky to even be a woman.

 

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more than sum

I’m spending time alone, hoping that meaning is one of those things you find when you’re not looking.

 

I’m catching up with work.  I’m thinking about reading books.  I’ve reached level 21 in my seventh-ish attempt at dead-is-dead Skyrim.

Exciting stuff.  Really.

 

In this quiet, when I’m not paying attention, I can almost hear myself railing, “you are more than the sum of your parts”

 

pretty boys make ugly girls

My body feels like clothing, like a heavy, gaudy outfit that I’m sick of looking at.  And I don’t want to know what’s underneath.

I almost forgot about all of this.  I’m absorbed in my work and playing dead-is-dead Skyrim until my trigger fingers hurt and I can’t really hold the controller properly.  I’m happy this way.

A reflection in the mirror catches my eye, “oh, it’s you.”  At least my hair looks nice.

 

I imagine that cis women get a lot more out of the time that they put into their appearance.  They blow out their hair, put on their makeup, and look ten times better.  I wish I looked ten times better.

This, like most things in my life, is new.  I used to think that I was a good looking guy, that I could date anyone I wanted if I just stepped up my game.  It turns out that I just needed to act like a guy.

 

I touched my first kiss too lightly.  I was a sophomore and she was a senior and she assumed I wasn’t ready.  It turns out that she was nicer than she looked.

And girls assume that you’re coming on too strong if they think you’re a man and you think you’re a man but you’re actually female and deluded.  This is starkly clear to me now.

Me:  “I like you and think you’re great!”
Girl:  “What.”

 

All of this is a memory.  I spend a lot of time now just learning new words for new things, like eisoptrophobia (fear of one’s reflection).  But I’m not sure if it applies because I’m not afraid of my reflection, it just startles me if I’m not paying attention.  I thought of taking down the mirrors in my apartment, but it makes the place look so much smaller.

 

faith and irony

I used to be free.

I was a child who read science books.  My two best friends were girls.  We would wait for our parents after school and talk about life as we knew it then.  They were my secret friends.  It had to be that way because they didn’t want anyone to know they were friends with a boy, but it didn’t matter after school when everyone was gone.

Puberty was the most traumatic event of my life.  I began to see my two friends differently and was not at ease around them, I couldn’t relate.  Five years passed before I had another close friend.

 

I was beset by night terrors during my first year of puberty.  Shearing, crystal-vivid dreams of stretching across infinite space – into death itself.  I became obsessed with death, the fact that I would die.  I had panic attacks, crying fits of sheer terror.  They increased in frequency until they happened every morning at eleven for two weeks.  I had panic attacks about the panic attacks, knowing their terrible regularity.  My hands are unsteady as I write this and cold sweat drips down the sides of my body.  I remember these days like yesterday.

My mother was a single mother and she did the best that she could, but she could not foot the psychiatry bills.  She was at work most of the time that summer and I was on my own.

I looked to science and found no relevant information about death.  I looked to God and the clergy asked me to have faith.  In the meantime, I lost myself in digital worlds, Mario, Zelda, Baldur’s Gate.  This made things worse as I lost touch with reality.

I did find God eventually and the terror subsided.  But I was like a windup toy, just happy to be moving forward.

 

My stumbling journey into manhood was a forgotten chapter in my life.  I would occasionally have one of those dreams, drink a glass of water, and carry on.  But I never gave much thought to that period of time, until recently.

Now I am afraid that I lost a part of myself when my mind was soaked in testosterone and that she will never return to me – that my dreams and waking fears of death were singularly real.  I am all but forced to question the wisdom of this world’s design.

 

The irony of this is lost on me, and I hope that the past can be undone.  I don’t know how or when or why, but maybe someday.