dranklead

[dranklead]

“It is clear that I must find my other half. But is it a he or a she? What does this person look like? Identical to me? Or somehow complimentary? Does my other half have what I don’t? Did he get the looks? The luck? The love? Were we really separated forcibly, or did he just run off with the good stuff? Or did I? Will this person embarrass me? What about sex? Is that how we put ourselves back together again? Or can two people actually become one again?”

— Hedwig and the Angry Inch

The film Hedwig and the Angry Inch was my first introduction to a self-loving queer experience. I grew up without a loving family, both narcissistic parents, both alcoholics. I was taught that my feelings didn’t matter, and I was put into this world to regulate theirs. In my early 20s, I started understanding the true meaning of this film and began my journey to fulfilment; to feel whole is to love myself. 

Cut to five years later. I’m nowhere near that goal, but one thing I never stopped doing is showing up for myself every single day. Unfortunately, this journey has developed a bad habit of hyper-independence, and as a consequence, I’ve become increasingly lonely. I’ve cultivated great friendships, but as someone who’s never been touched lovingly, being 25 years old can feel like an eternity. 

Being in the early stages of my transition makes this whole existence quite challenging to navigate. In the past, I relied on limerence and daydreaming to get me through my deep longing and yearning, but now even my imagination feels stunned, a writer’s block, you might say. 

Imagine this.

Ginger hair, well groomed, a hoop earring on the left ear. Over 6-foot and with the body composition of someone in their late 20s/early 30s, you are into that now; you recognise your own age. An immediate annoyance is brewing in your chest as you glance towards him.

You immediately think: “Oh well, he isn’t meant for me. Some people have been put here to be pretty and be looked at”.

You have obligations that put you in his sphere. He’s unavoidable now, and your gaze keeps wanting to turn to him like an unwanted magnet. When in a group, you throw glances in his direction. You do it because he’s attractive, but you’re not too sure what you gain from this constant game with yourself. There is no prize.

Then, the two of you are left on your own. Crap. You gravitate towards his attractiveness once again, so you engage in awkward conversation— oh wait. He gravitates towards you and asks you a question.

“I’m so sorry. Do you mind if I ask where your accent is from?” Comes out with an Aussie twang as he looks down at me.

I am 5’3, by the way.

“Guess” I say.

It seems like he was expecting a straight-on answer, and he rummages through his mind for a sensible reply: “I honestly have no idea.”

You give in and tell him. Usually, that question bothers you, but you are both foreigners to this country, so his curiosity feels genuine. 

Back and forth, the conversation keeps going. He is so upsettingly sweet— God, this is not fair.

You are now in your bed, days later, still thinking about that interaction. See, you have been on many dates, talked to plenty of strangers, and are used to the rules. 

My rules:

This just happened today — To avoid the initial silence, you start the conversation by sharing something interesting about your day connected to something you most likely will have in common: work, studies, the city you live in or if you don’t know much of the person — the weather.

And what about you? — Introducing the previous topics allows you to ask the person if they ever had an experience similar to yours, and it sets up an easy-to-navigate dynamic that will only fuel your loneliness. It is their turn to talk. You are engaged, so you ask them another question. They ask the same question back. You are now the Questioner. You are welcome. 

You are now in Control.

As previously said, you are now in bed. Alone, of course.

Describe the fantasy .

Does he… bend over? To kiss you? Frowning, you try to picture your hands around his waist, but it doesn’t feel right. What height is his waist? Do I look/feel stupid holding him? Why do I look/feel so small? My proportionate broad shoulders look/feel so tiny compared to his physique. Even in this fantasy… would he find me hot? Or cute? Is that cuteness the same you’d feel when petting a dog? 

5’3. Skinny fat. A plump chest. Feminine looking. High-pitched voice. No dick.

And what about sex? How can someone like me put themselves back together with their other half if all I can aspire for is a piece of silicone to hold us together?

And once again I start writing about self-love and fall back into my yearning for connection. This one is about being a trans f*ggot.

[dranklead]

I am untouchable and unsalvageable.

Most of my life has been spent without the touch of another—no hugs, if not when others wanted to. My needs were ignored while my body was used as a teddy bear, squeezed when needed — no, squeezed when wanted. Turned a young teen, I immediately realised something wasn’t quite right with the way I viewed touch. I have never been in love, never been loved, yet I had this deep sense of dread at the mere thought of it. Not that I didn’t yearn for it.

More time passed, each person I touched... I’ve regretted it, and this feeling of physical loneliness has been with me for the last 3 years. Passive loneliness that worsens every day a little more and has the same feeling on my skin as the passage of time. It is awakened from time to time whenever I come in contact with others, and then I don’t like who I am. A massage causes tears, and a hug from a coworker causes my entire body to feel like I am falling from a height. 

My friends don’t hug me other than for goodbyes. Is my inability to connect so palpable? Am I somewhat repellent to them? The people I am the closest to emotionally are the ones I keep further away from my skin. Why is that?

I want someone to try to break this barrier I walk around with. I want someone else to be the one trying, for once. No person my age would want to deal with this, and this time, I can’t help myself.

I need someone.

Got told by my therapist to put my writing out there. I don’t really know if I want to but maybe if you’re queer and lonely and a little bit gross like me, you’ll relate to my words.