My body is not like home, but is the only
place of residency I have ever known. There lies no warm, soft bed within my
walls, nor is there a dog bounding to the door upon my return. A sloped,
sideways grin does not stretch upon my face upon the thought of my body. No
ball of joy warms my stomach to sit night after night in my body, nor do I ever
sit comfortably in my own skin. I do not wish it to remain as such, forever to
be remembered in this way. My body is not the safe comfort zone I can retreat
to in times of pain, misery, or despair, nor is it a place I can look to when
in need of reassurance. You see, it is the source of my pain and misery, my
torment and despair. It is the source from which I can never run or hide; it is
everlasting in its presence.
This body – my body - is a man’s body. The two handfuls of heavy flesh on my chest are a man’s
breasts. The miniature hands, tiny feet, and delicate features of my face are the hands, feet, and
features of a man. The plump, ample
curves outlining my figure are the
contours of a man’s physique. The
hooded clitoris between my legs and
the folds of skin within which it resides are the genitalia of a man. Every knob of bone, patch of skin,
and mound of flesh on this body – on my
body belongs to a man. This whole,
entire body - my whole, entire body -
belongs to a man, and that man is me. This is the mantra I
repeat in my mind all day. It is this mantra that reminds me how I wish to
think and feel about this- my
body one day and not second-guess
myself.
Today, this place
I inhabit weaves the hollow tones of lament rather than the radiant melodies of
the ballad I hope it becomes. I have this deep and echoing carnal ache for my
body to be congruent with who I am in my own mind. I yearn to wake one morning
able to breathe a sigh of relief and not of despair- for it would mean I would
no longer feel the acceleration of my heartbeat as my cheeks burn with the heat
of the agonizing humiliation of the ever-present discord between my body and my
mind.
Waking
up everyday in my body is like waking up in a place you don’t recognize. You’re
groggy and sleep is heavily fogging your mind (vision?), and when your eyes
open, your surroundings slowly come into a blurry focus. You don’t recognize
this place you find yourself in and in an instant you are wide-awake with a
panicked jolt of electricity flowing through your veins.
For
me, that moment of panic is replaced with a deep, dark dread; dreading that
moment of clarity after the fog clears from my groggy mind (vision-?), dreading
the jolt of angry electricity shoot through my veins. I dread waking up, only
to come to the realization that my surroundings- my body, is one I recognize.
The panic only comes after the same realization hits every single morning that
my body is the same as it was the day before. The panic comes in arriving to
the same agonizing conclusion that my body will continue to be the same every
morning after this one. The agony in my inability to change my body- though
I’ve tried in the past, it refuses to shed the curves of a woman. It refuses to
gain the toned muscles of the man that I am. It refuses to allow these breasts
of a woman to flatten out, and it refuses the clitoris of a woman to grow into
the penis of the man that I am. In the half hour that follows, I drag my heavy
carcass out of bed and gather a shirt, shorts, deodorant and my binder, I
shuffle to the bathroom, dragging my unwilling feet along, forcing them to take
me into the bathroom. My tiny, delicate, callused hands shut the door, as it
echoes and locks me inside like a tomb. If logic didn’t remind me that I am
18-years-old and should not be afraid of the light, I would never flip that
daunting switch on. I close my eyes as I feel the lights click on with a
constant low buzz in my ears.
Finally,
with a defeated sigh, I open my eyes and quickly avert my gaze from the
reflection I see before me. Though this happens, quick as lightning, the damage
has been done, the image seared into my brain as if branded there by hot iron. I
shove away all potential thoughts as I pull down my pants and stare at the
toilet as if waging a battle. As a new wave of thought and emotion is about to
wash over me, I pushback with energy I didn’t know I possessed, smacking the
wave back behind ever-weakening walls in my mind. I continue through my morning
routine- though it is hardly routine for anyone else, with a zombie-like blank
stare. Carefully avoiding that reflective glass, I gather my school things and
walk out the door, far from ready to face myself- let alone other people, hard
classes, or even the day itself.
I
lose myself in the hustle and bustle of people getting to class and worrying
about tests or what they can’t remember from the party the night before, as I
make my way to class. As soon as my first class begins, I throw my mind fully
into whatever we are studying, focusing and honing in on each little detail,
writing it, reading it, speaking it and doing it so that I am fully engaged,
with no room for any other thought or worry to cross my mind.
So
the day goes, with me only living a half life- seemingly present in all that is
happening, but really hiding in being so “fully” present. It isn’t until I
return to my room, exhausted from my mental efforts of pushing away that it all
comes flooding back- back to the place I awoke in that very morning- back to
the panic and dread and agony of feeling trapped- and back to the place I am
forever uneasy in- treading so carefully I could be tiptoeing in the place I am
so familiar with, yet is so damn unknown to me.
Anguish.
That’s the word; if ever one existed, to describe these feelings about my body.
Sometimes, I feel nothing, nothing at all. Just kind of numb, I guess. It’s about plans, I think. Plans not
carried out the way they were planned leaves room for uncertainty and the
potential need to actually think about something. I can’t just go about my day
in my normal state of faux-presence; I actually have to think in the moment at
the times plans don’t work out the way I intend them to.
Then
there are those random, unexpected times that thwack me in the back of the
head, knocking the wind out of me until I lay broken in pieces on the floor.
Times I don’t know will happen- like hitting traffic on a long bus ride. The
ride goes from four to five hours long. Four hours I expect. Four hours I can
handle. But the additional hour out of the blue pops out of nowhere and all of
a sudden I’m faced with an entire hour I don’t know how to fill…an entire hour
without internet or food or things happening; an entire hour with nothing to
distract me from my own thoughts.
As
the music on my ipod flips to a song that reminds me of home, my mind wanders
to thoughts of what I miss most- the ocean, the water, the beach; swimming,
laughing, moving through the water. My thoughts shift to scenes of swimming and
water polo. I vaguely make plans to go swimming the next week, thinking I can
handle wearing a girls’ suit as long as I can be in the water again. I imagine
moving through the water. Before taking a single stroke, I feel the water on my
skin.
Warning
bells go off in my head; these are the thoughts I barricade my mind so
carefully from. But the cogs are already turning and I can’t stop the flow of
images. I imagine the water engulfing my body and washing over every inch of my
skin. As I realize I won’t feel the water rush through my legs, over my testes,
or around my penis, a sinister swell of the most profound anguish imaginable
crashes over me. The desolate, numbing emptiness that floods my mind is so damn
loud in its utter silence- akin to the grief-stricken howl of a new mother
finding out that she will outlive her child.
The
anguish envelops me in its intertwined tangles gushing through my head,
wrapping itself around every limb of my body, flooding my throat and stomach
with angry bile, choking me. I am frozen in the water, as if someone pressed
pause on a movie. As the initial wave of anguish subsides ever so slightly, the
searing image shatters, immediately replaced with the black, blank pane of
nothing; the wall, the barrier I so rigidly maintain. With a cringe of bleak
hopelessness, another wave of anguish sucks the air from my lungs, and I am
bitterly reminded why I must so rigorously maintain the internal façade of
blank, black nothing.
