1838826

[1838826]

A physical boundary sits between my room and the rest of the world. A single wooden door. Kept locked at all times. There is nothing special about this door. It has no interesting cracks or grooves in its finish. It is just like every room door in my flat. The only change is on the side where one enters. A plaque, marking it as room 12. Room 12 is my room. My space. In this space I can be whoever I want to be. In my room there is no one to see me. There is no way that I am supposed to act. No decorum or manner. And all I have to do to access this space is cross the boundary. The door locks itself. I just need to carry the key. Because of this, no one else can enter. Not without me. I have control over this space. Only those who I choose to let in can really see it. Can really experience it. Feel it. And only for as long as I want them to.

Upon leaving my room I relinquish my complete control. I leave my space, become just another person. To be seen, to be heard, to be witnessed; Validated and understood, or judged and scorned. This door therefore, is the entrance and exit to my refuge. Where I do not have to be anything. But I can be what ever I wish.

Everyone has their own space to prepare themselves, to be the person others expect them to be. This door is the entrance to mine. So I shall virtually invite you in. Not physically, never physically. But for as long as you are visiting this blog you are welcome to share in the moments of my room.

And then,

when you are ready.

Leave.

[1838826]

Beside my door

are my shoes.

Which to wear now?

Male/Female?

A decision

Revision,

I need to go.

But which are right for me?

These are my shoes. They range from flats to 3” heels, I’m not brave enough to go any higher.

These are my shoes. They are filthy because I do not take enough care of them.

These are my shoes. They are the last thing I put on before leaving my room.

These are my shoes. They help me pass as a woman.

These are my shoes. They complete my look.

These are my shoes

These are my

These are

These

I never used to pay attention to other peoples shoes. But now I do. Does a person prefer style over comfort? Are they looking to add some height? Masc or Femm? All of this can be seen in our shoes. My shoes help me pass as a woman. When I add 3” people look at me different. Treat me different. Those who don’t clock me are kinder. Those who do, are not. But, regardless, by adding just a few extra inches, people’s perception of me changes. It is something so small. But it makes a world of difference. Clothing is an ensemble, every piece adding to the narrative we are building about ourselves. So when I am choosing what to wear, I ask. How do I want people to perceive me?

[1838826]

In the day I slip between being read as a woman or as a man. My friends see me as the woman I know myself to be, strangers disagree. But when I am not conscious. When there is no one to see or hear me. What am I? If my gender can change based on how high or low my voice is, or what type of shoes I am wearing, then what is my gender when even I cannot perceive myself?

This is my bed.

I do not let people see me sleep. Much like the rest of my room, it is not for others to partake in. But I wonder, when I am asleep, what am I? Is there a female way to sleep? Or does the fact that I am a woman mean that however I sleep is how a woman would sleep? If my womanhood is decided upon by how others perceive me, then it would suggest that there is a ‘correct’ way for a woman to sleep! If I am read as a woman one day, and a man the next, then it seems like it is the reader that gets to decide. But if that is the case then what am I if there is no-one to do the prescribing?

Am I then empty?

Hollow,

and waiting to be filled?

So I find myself asking. This question repeats over and over. What I want to ask is, when I go to sleep, is this how a woman would sleep? Because if it isn’t, then what is? If femininity is rigid, if there are laws on how a woman must be seen, then is every woman at risk of losing her womanhood? My gender fluctuates every day as each person sees me and decides for themselves what I am, so perhaps it is better to not think in such broad strokes.

Maybe womanhood isn’t so ridged. Not for everyone. But for me.

Is this because the jury of popular opinion is out on whether myself and my sisters are women? Or perhaps because some cannot yet see me as a woman. When I am seen as a woman by every stranger on the street will it be then, and only then, that I can sleep as a woman? And when this happens will I be complicit? Will I be aiding in the constructing a sorority that excludes those that will come after, and those that have come before but never made it this far?

Or is this all wrong? When I go to bed, when I am seen, does it not matter how I am read? If instead I take the power away from this stranger. Accept that they are wrong, know that my friends see me as I am. Am I free if I accept that because I am a woman then however I sleep is the ‘correct’ way to sleep?

Or is this delusion?

Fantasy?

Trickery?

Is it denial that causes me not to find the answer?

A misinterpretation.

Mistake.

A blunder that leaves me spinning.

Spiralling.

Sparking.

Looking for something,

anything,

that might be an acceptable answer.

I never find it.

And I stop searching.

Because it’s late,

and it shouldn’t be that big of a deal.

And because I realise:

That I just,

I just want to go to bed.

[1838826]

This chair is where my outfits go to rest for, seemingly, ever. If the clothes are too dirty for my wardrobe, but too clean to be washed, they go here. There is no order to the pile. Just clothes heaped upon one another. Male/female both blend together. There is never any rhyme or reason to the pile. It just sits there. An amalgamation of the androgyny that is my wardrobe. Skirts lie next to sweaters. And when I am looking to emphasise my gender I turn to this pile. Be it a hoodie that looks baggy on me, or a skirt that shows my legs. This confused blend can help. Or when I don’t want people to see me as any particular gender. When I need clothes that cover my body, so that only my eyes peek out behind my mask. In this sense my gender is what ever I wish it to be. The clothes this chair offers allows me to style myself. To be perceived exactly as I wish to be. In a way, I become a woman through the clothes I wear and the way I accessorise myself. This chair helps me to realise myself. And helps others see the me that I see. I try and clean out the chair every now and again. Just throw everything into the wash. Return them to the wardrobe. But more often than not the clothes simply sit there. Waiting for me to need them again.

[1838826]

Estrogel/Synarel:

Oestrogen/Puberty Blockers

It took me: 2 private assessments by psychologists, the answering of multiple strange and invasive questions about my personal and sexual history, providing a detailed explanation of my gender and how this identity has influenced me from as early an age as 5, and nearly £300 in one time fees, to get my prescription.

In addition I require regular check ups with doctors regarding blood tests and monitoring. I have entered into a shared care agreement (an agreement allowing a third party to guide their hand) with my current GP as they confess to not having much knowledge regarding my medication. Regardless, my GP reserves the right to refuse changes to my prescription at any time.

Mirtazapine:

Antidepressants

It took me: 3 years of suicidal ideation, 2 attempts, innumerable nights miserable and several visits to my GP, to find the right prescription.

Differin/Lymecycline:

Skin Care

It took me: One phone call to my GP complaining about a bad outbreak of acne. A wasted trip to a beauty salon to find out that they cannot perform hair removal while I am on Differin. And then a further phone call complaining about this to get prescribed Lymecycline.

GI Collection Lingerie Tape:

Tucking Tape

It took me: One internet search, £10 in expenses and a lot of bravery.

These are now a piece of my life. Each tablet, Gel, spray and tape has its role in keeping my body healthy. They each assist in allowing me, as a complete person, to occupy space. To partake in life. It is in my room that I store and take this medication. Some of which I have had to fight for every step of the way. And, some, that was handed to me with no complaint.

However, getting these medications has cost me. Money, time, stress. Countless doctor's visits and complaints. Reading up on my rights, asserting myself, standing up for me. I think about those who couldn’t do this. Either because they didn’t know they could, or because the same doctors that I fought with fought with them. Or because they didn’t think they were worth it. Worth the time to be seen, helped, prescribed. Beyond the financial cost, there is so much we as individuals have to pay to be ourselves.

If this section of my room reminds me of anything, it reminds me to keep fighting for me. It is in this room that the taking of these tinctures takes place. Here, in my own world, I can control who I am. I can decide for myself who wish to be. I can take steps on my own path. If gender is represented by how we are seen, then it is in this little land where I can decide upon the how and the why. Oestrogen to change my body, Adapalene to soften the skin, tape to smooth that which cannot be removed. Each piece works together to subvert my sex and realise my gender. If it sounds dramatic that is because it is. What I once thought impossible is now probable. Within reach. But at what cost? Money? Time? Stress. Lots of stress.

But I keep going. Because, even though I feel my body changing in ways I do not quite understand, it is changing in the ways I want it to. For the first time in my life, it feels as though I am not being led by my body. This medication gives me an almost chaotic freedom. Freedom to express myself, to exist, to be seen. It is in this space that I realised who I am, and this connects me to other people. I wonder, how do other people realise themselves? What things do we do for ourselves that no-one else sees? Be it skin care routines, or diet plans, or make up? What sort of things do other people do for themselves, to become the person that everyone else knows so well? I suppose I will never really see. Because these routines aren’t meant for me. And that’s ok. I think it’s enough to know that we are all fighting for ourselves, to become who we want to be. And that is beautiful.

[1838826]

Before anyone else can see me, I have to see myself. No matter how judgmental other people can be, no-one can be as harsh as I am about myself. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m trying to protect myself, and pointing out my flaws will take the sting away when others do the same. Or maybe I hate myself, and picking over perceived imperfections is how I justify myself. If my medication puts me together, this mirror pulls me apart. But perhaps it isn’t as bleak as that. This mirror is the first time each day that I see myself. I have to walk past it to get to my wardrobe. Before I can get dressed, I have to see myself. In a way, it gives me purpose. I can see my dry skin, the bags under my eyes, the stubble. I can see what about me I want to change before the day begins. I could just ignore it. Tell myself I’m beautiful regardless, and just radically accept the parts of me that I don’t like. Throw on whatever and simply exist as a woman - I don’t think there is a specific way to be a woman after-all. But if I do this, surrender and accept, I feel like I am loosing control of my body.

There is beauty in the ugly, things about ourselves that we try to erase, through makeup, clothing or perfume. And there is power in doing this. Performing our own gender, our own personhood with intent. Choosing who we wish to become. In front of this mirror I am fluid. I see myself. I see what I could be. And there is the power. Power, not because I am accepting the parts of myself that I do not like. But power because I am willing to make the change. I am moving from the masculine into the feminine. If we take masculinity as a source of strength, what does it say about an individual that willingly gives it up? I wonder, is that person weak for wanting, or strong for doing?

So I stand in-front of my mirror. Everyday. Every morning. Forever.

And I try to regain control, by picking myself apart. The part of me that hates how I look finds its root in the transgression that is my body. Corse stubble on soft skin marks me as ‘other’. Neither male nor female. A mix of all genders. And there is the seed. If I can change this. Each morning becoming the woman I know myself to be. Then I am in control and not my body. In-front of this mirror I have the opportunity to become myself. I will never be able to escape the part of my mind that says I should be more… something. More womanly, more feminine, more real. So rather than try to out run this part of me, I take the rigid thinking and apply the parts I want. When I am done I do not look into the mirror and ask, ‘do I look like a woman?’. Rather I ask ‘does it work?’, because I can’t serve the elegant and classy woman in my minds eye all of the time. And I shouldn’t have to. Some days are going to be harder than others. And some days no matter how hard I try I just can’t be the ultimate woman. But so long as I try, so long as I wrestle for control, so long as I can stand in front of the mirror and say “hey, it works”. Then I have regained my power, and can make it through the day. If it passes my scrutiny, then everyone else’s doesn’t matter.

[1838826]

When I get dressed I have a decision to make.

‘Boy mode’ or ‘Girl mode?’

Do I dress as the woman I know myself to be? Or do I make it through the day pretending to be something I’m not?

If I choose to dress as a woman then I’m making myself vulnerable. Between the risk of being clocked, wearing clothes that won’t keep me warm and heels that I can’t run in, it seems like dressing as a woman is universally a bad idea for someone such as myself. Everything about it puts me at risk. Maybe that’s what it means to be a woman. To open oneself up to vulnerability.

So, the alternative.

Dress like the man I was born as. Shirts and chinos, so as to convince others, but not to draw attention to myself. It is a performance in and of itself. The right mix of blue and bland to be boring enough to fade into the background. It’s safer, in a way. As safe as I can be. But this isn’t me.

So, the alternative.

Me is a woman. Me is me in a dress. Me is wearing whatever makes me happy. Me is not caring what others think. Me is wearing all white in winter just to draw those questioning looks. But it isn’t always safe to be me. So I have to ask myself what other women would do. How do they navigate their wardrobe? How does this woman know what to wear? How does she know what an appropriate amount of skin is? How does she know which dress cut’s leave her responsible for another’s actions? Or whether this outfit might give someone the wrong idea? Or is not appropriate for the occasion? Or doesn’t really match the season? And is she wrong for wanting to wear it anyway? And would it be so bad if she did? And does it really matter?

The thing is. No one really taught me.

So, the alternative.

Wearing clothing as a costume. Pretending to be male to protect myself. But I’m not male. I’m not even a ‘good’ man. I’m just more convincing as a man than I am as a woman. Going through the motions, repeating what I was taught. In doing so I become a version of me that others expect. That others want. It’s not what I want, but it is what I know - as well as I know anything.

So. I’m stuck.

Each morning, when I ask myself what I should wear, I find myself stuck. And all of this is filtered through my identity. If I find the answer, if I know what a ‘real’ woman would do, it still wouldn’t be the answer for me. Because as I get dressed I am reminded of what I am, and the next question that I have to grapple with is, ‘Do I look like a freak?’. A faggot, tranny, he-she? And if I do, ‘is that so bad’?

Ever since I was a child I have been plagued by images of non passing trans woman. The ultimate monsters. Teachers taught me, ‘don't be like these freaks!’. Men who cross the boundary and become women. Dangerous, perverse and unwell. Well, I am a non passing trans woman. And I know I am neither dangerous nor perverse. So I have to ask. Is this so bad? Is this state of being really all that terrible? I have been told it is. I think I am so invested in the answer being ‘yes’ for this very reason. Because if the answer is ‘no’ then I have spent so long policing myself, and my body, for no reason at all. How does anyone even begin to work through that?

So again I ask myself, ‘Boy mode’ or ‘Girl mode’?

[1838826]

This is a corner. It is sad to admit, but I came out to my parents while sat in this corner. There isn’t enough money in the world to make me relive that moment.

The uncertainty,

undoing,

unbecoming,

unraveling,

and, eventually, understanding.

It was fear like I’ve never known, and relief like I’ve never experienced. And I never have to go through it again. It was the moment where my masculinity finally died. Where I didn’t have to perform any longer. I could just be. Be me.

But that isn’t how things end. We keep going. Lows give way to highs, and sooner or later we all have to come back down and continue. I have found that to be the hard part, carrying on. Being me in everything I do. From eating to sleeping. I came out and got to live authentically. And now I have to be that. Real. Valid. I have to be the woman I told others I was.

We are told not to take our time. To transition as quickly as possible, and then go stealth. Become invisible. I don’t really know of any older queers. Of lesbians living together into their 90’s. Of gay men who grew old. Of elder trannies who announce themselves proudly or unapologetically. Maybe that says more about me. Or maybe it’s because their lives, their experiences and their loses were never held up. Their highs never celebrated publicly and the lows only whispered about. So somewhere along the road they dropped off. Disappeared. Gone. No longer considered, no longer a problem.

I don’t have any elder queers to look up to. So instead, when the going gets tough, I sit in that corner, and I relive that moment. I remind myself that I am real enough, and valid, because no one else is going to do that for me.

[1838826]

The most notable thing about my bathroom is the mirror. This is because I have never really looked at myself in it. I walk in, and the first thing I do is turn the shower on. I’ll admit that it’s a waste of water. But the steam settles on the mirror, and I don’t have to see myself. Instead all I see is the distorted image it reflects. Not quite me. Not quite anything. This reflection has no defined shape. No prominent features that might signal it belongs to anyone. It is me, obviously. It moves as I move, but while my movements are precise its are formless - clunky.

This reflection is so far divorced from my own sense of self that I find it easy not to think of it as me. Mirrors bring me such pain, but the condensation here distorts even that. I cannot pick over my features like I do other mirrors. There is little about me that remains beyond the human shaped shadow. It has no gender, no name, no state of being. It doesn’t need these things. When I leave the bathroom, when the steam disappears, so to will it.

I shower in the dark so i don’t have to see myself. Touch guides me. But when the time comes to turn the light on, to brush my teeth, floss, moisturise, this shapeless thing returns. In this room things like gender don’t matter. I am a child again imagining monsters in mirrors. Peering to see what is on the other side. If it moves and I don’t would I scream? Would I feel fear? Or would I understand? This other thing, this amorphous me, is still a reflection. A reflection of me. A me with everything stripped away. Nude. I am so much more than this likeness. I am whole and human. It is trapped in a mirror, forced to copy my actions, while I am free to step away at any point.

But this interests me, because I spend so much of my time trying to fit the category of a ‘woman’ for others. Yet within this room, in front of this mirror. Nothing is enough. Subtle movements are lost amongst the mist and bold exaggerations come across as aggressively unrefined. There is no way to be masculine or feminine here. In front of this mirror I am content to just be.