choosing to forget

Yesterday I wrote a lot.  I erased it.  I wrote again, erased again.  Erased, erased.  I deleted the whole file eventually…  made some checklists.  Walked to the store for some groceries; I think pop tarts look good on me.

I walked and chose to forget, almost everything, except some things I enjoy.  Convinced myself that seriousness is for losers.  I wish I could depend on this feeling.

Because I woke up this morning with tears in my eyes.  I hate that.

So I showered and cleaned myself and chose to forget, again.  Apparently it’s an iterative thing.

 

I wish I could have slept, but it seems worthwhile in my crisp shirt and comfy thrift store skirt.

 

Also, the hardware on my face draws my attention away from my facial hair, because I’m the only one who cares about my facial hair.

I told the piercer I’ve had worse.

 

love in the time of hoverboards

I wish I had some time to myself.  After fast-tracking my transition, I just want a week to look in the mirror or visit my family.  I need to get a clear idea of who I am, because my appearance changes every week.  Important stuff like facial features, torso measurements, my outlook on life, different.  Every week.  I just blink into space.

What the hell happened?

 

People talk to me all the time.  It’s unexpected, I want to think it’s weird.  But judging from their body language, it’s normal.

I don’t need to hide who I am anymore out of fear of them finding out whatever it used to be that would put them off, my nascent femininity.  I say some of the most unfiltered and inane shit, and people listen, kind of.  They seem to find it pleasant.

 

Meanwhile, I’m rebuilding my important relationships.  Recasting them and making them whole.  I didn’t realize I was doing this, and maybe it isn’t me.  Maybe they’re ready to accept me for who I am.

Maybe they realize they don’t have a choice, the counterparties of my important relationships.

Maybe I just need help and it’s obvious.

Maybe I’m human and this is just what happens.  I feel a loss of will as I realize the idea of my father accepting me as his eighth daughter, or the idea of speaking to Leia again.  I realize that my friends are assholes, who love me, and there’s nothing I can do to change that, not now.

Not now, as I depend on these people to recognize me when I can barely recognize myself.

 

They know me.  They always kind of knew me, and didn’t tell me.  That’s love.

 

red dress

Leia asked me to try on her ballroom dress the other day.  I’m sure it’s expensive, it feels expensive, and I kind of dive into it.

“Don’t stretch it!”

After figuring out how to maneuver the lining and where to put my arms, I heard myself ask her to zip up the side.  And we kind of stood there in front of the mirror.  Actually, we definitely stood there.

Me:  “Interesting.”

Leia:  “That’s amazing…”

I realized then, in that moment, in a red dress, that I could totally pass.

 

Shit.

 

Days ensued, joy and panic interspersed between hours and minutes.  Fear and longing and the stark, stark realization of how much this is going to hurt.

Then I seem to have wrestled this rushing sense of inevitability to the ground.  I can’t do this.

But the dress fit perfectly.  It was beautiful, I was beautiful, and now?  Now I’m completely lost in this undefined social space.  I know I’m a woman, but what does that mean?  I ask myself, “Can I pull this off?”  And I do, I have to, it just is.

 

reflections pt. 2

I flare out my hair and strike a pose in the mirror, “maybe I’m just a really ugly girl.”  This makes me laugh.  And it feels like I take myself way too seriously.

 

Who’s to say what gender I should have been or if I would have been happier in one life or another?  No one should have to answer these questions.  No one should have to choose the gender they have to be, the gender they are, it’s wrong.  It should just be, without drama, without fear.

And that’s how I feel.  There’s not much there.  After I’ve stopped feeling sorry for myself, after I’ve stopped laughing and crying and asking why.

 

The next person I meet, I’ll say ‘hi.’  And leave it at that.

 

is it really a transition

I want to be a certain kind of female scientist.  My world can’t stand this.  I can’t be what I am and it’s tearing me apart.  My life is so hopelessly fragmented and compartmentalized, I wouldn’t know where to begin.  I can say things to people at work that no one else will care about.  I can say things to friends who know I’m a woman and others who think I’m a man.  My story is shattered like so much glass, the mirrors I would break if I wasn’t superstitious.

I’m writing and emptying my mind of my emotions, my memories, my work.  If you could see inside it’d look like I’m moving, and outside it’s a yard sale – free manuscripts, a box of knickknacks filled with awkward memories.  And will someone please take these physics theories off of my hands, I’ll deliver them anywhere.  Just someone please take them.

 

 

There are unruly mobs of children on field trips outside of my office space, squeaking the floors, banging on the walls, making all kinds of noise – and the chaperones constantly shushing them.  The scenes of rioting schoolchildren from Sid and Nancy come to mind.  I want to go out there and tell them all to shut up, but I never do.  I’m just reminded of when I was bullied in school, every day, constantly.  So I turn up my headphones and wait for them to pass.

I was bullied because I was a misgendered girl in the anarchic world of public school children.  The bullying stopped in high school but I continued to feel that I was working against something, running away from something, that I needed to justify my own existence.

I’m slowly realizing how my female gender has permeated my life.  I’ve always been female and it is what it is, whether I like it or not.  Even though I embodied the male gender, people could tell.  They definitely didn’t think, “Oh, he’s a female in a male’s body.”  But they knew I was an outsider.

 

There’s an upside to this.  I can become more or less feminine but it doesn’t make me any more or less female.  Maybe this is the key to this whole thing.  I could take hormones to become more comfortable in my body and I could change my appearance so that social cues match my gender, but these things won’t make me any more or less of a woman.  Nothing will.  I was born female and will die female.  Nothing can change that.

 

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.

 

waiting

I am a girl.  I think like a girl.  I act like a girl.  Sometimes I even look like a girl.

Am.  Am not.  Why is this so important?  Because you need to relate to people.  We are always interacting and gender is the primary category.  There are fundamental differences of behavior between men and men; and men and women; and women and women.  If you are not in a category, then social interaction is irregular.  You will be assigned a category anyway because…  well, just because.  That’s the way we work.  That’s the way things are.

 

I want to be seen as a girl.  I need to be.  I really, really need to be seen as a woman.  Men make me anxious and I try to avoid them.  I try to avoid myself.  I look in the mirror and try to look past myself.  I try to make the best of a hopeless situation.  I try everything.  Everything.  And nothing works.  My GF doesn’t want to know who I am.  My parents don’t know.  My counselors seem to think that I’m not who I am yet, which makes no sense at all.  The more I mess with this Rubik’s cube from hell, the more I’m convinced that I am royally fucked.

And I’ve always been royally fucked, except I thought I was making headway until now.  Now I just don’t know what to do.  I’ve always known what to do, but not today.  Not tomorrow.  Probably not ever.  So I wait.  I wait around my kitchen, my study.  I lie awake in bed.  I muse to myself and wait.  I have no idea what I’m waiting for.  This makes me smile an ironic pointless smile.  This isn’t like waiting for a bus or a train.  Nothing is coming.

 

This isn’t logical, it just is.  I wait because there is absolutely nothing else I can do.  I’ve spoken to everyone I could find until I’m blue in the face and no one even gets it, let alone has a solution for me.  I’m afraid to talk to other trans people because I don’t want to be convinced to get surgery or other medical procedures because it is tempting and, I feel, utterly inadvisable.  Maybe this is what I’m waiting for.  Maybe this is what I’m doing wrong.

 

So I’m waiting.  I’m waiting right now.  I don’t know what the fuck I’m waiting for and there’s no way to stop because I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT I WOULD NEED TO STOP DOING!!!  OMG, this is…  not that bad really.  I’m just used to knowing things at this point in my life and suddenly, without warning, I don’t.

 

june 3rd, 2013 (on a monday)

From my journal:

“I think often of what to write about in the blog, of when it will be indexed, of what people will think, what it will do, whether to pull the plug.  I feel healed by it though.  I feel like it just doesn’t matter when I look in the mirror.  I looked myself in the eye this morning, pointed to my eyes, and pointed at the eyes in the mirror, whatever this means.  Literally, it means, “I see you” in an aggressive sort of way, but this was playful.  In place of nail polish (I had an allergic reaction to the feed me basecoat last night I think) and feminine hair (there’s really no getting around my hairline or the fact that my hair just wants to be left alone for the most part), I feel like just knowing who I am and putting myself out there is enough.  As I wrote yesterday, it has to be…  at least now, in the moment.  Things may or may not get better, but I need to realize myself right now.  I see you.”