A Life in Three Parts

The world is fuzzy. You think you’ve been here before, or maybe this isn’t the first time you’ve woken up. There’s beeping. Voices in the distance—hushed. You don’t think you’re allowed to know what they’re saying. You don’t care.

Your family comes in and out, but you had never planned on seeing them again. It’s a hit to your heart every time. You can barely look at them. The concern is sweet but unproductive.

You realize you’re in a gown. Someone must have taken your clothes off. That sucks.

People ask you questions you don’t know the answers to.

You try to sit up but give up fairly quickly. There are soft handcuffs on either side of you. You’re angry. No matter how soft they are, they still rub at the burn on your arm. The chains attaching them to the bed are not soft. You think about the burn on your arm, and glance at it. The bandage you had neatly tied the night before is soiled and ragged. How did that happen? You can’t remember. There are unbandaged wounds as well—you remember those. Vaguely. They were yours too. The most effective distraction and destruction method.

People still ask you questions you don’t know the answers to.

You’re not even sure who you are.

You think one of the wounds doesn’t look great. Part of your hand is numb. You vaguely think they should have stitched it. You wonder if it will be numb forever. It will be. You wonder why they put you in chains but didn’t stitch your hand. You know you won’t die today, so you’d rather not be in pain. You can’t guarantee you’ll still be around in a week, but for now, you don’t want the physical pain on top of the psychological.

They notice you’re in the world again. They hand you a black drink. You look at it, waiting for instruction. You think they want you to drink it—why else would it be in a cup? You can’t really make out what they’re saying. You just want to go back to sleep. You drink the black drink. It’s sweet and burnt. The word charcoal comes to mind.

That means they found you. That means you’re going downstairs.

You know, somewhere deep down, that you were trying to avoid this part. But you’re too hazy to put up even a little fight. You don’t have any fight left. You go back to sleep.

You are being unceremoniously moved. They won’t let you walk yet, though the continued gaps in your memory tell whatever logical part of your brain that it’s probably for the best. You don’t fight what they tell you to do. You don’t talk at all. You might never talk again.

They mistake listlessness for cooperation anyway. And all you have to do is get out.

You’re in a room now. People come in and ask questions you’ll never know the answers to. They might as well be speaking in tongues. At one point, a young woman—probably a patient—comes into your room and takes a pair of your pants out of the drawer. You don’t move. If she’s stealing them, she needs them more than you do. You see her wearing them the next day. At least they fit her.

Maybe you’ll make a phone call today. Maybe you won’t.

You’re prodded awake before dawn by a woman who calls you by a name that has never been yours. You’re sensitive about names. She wonders out loud if she could just hold you for a bit. You scream. You are already the youngest in an adult ward. You make friends with the addicts for protection.

You’ve already been stripped of identity. You do not care what brought this woman here. You are not safe with her. Your name has not and never will be Erin. You do not sleep for a minute the rest of your time there.

One day—though the days are all a blur—you wander into the dining area. The decals on the walls used to be flowers. Maybe they were meant to brighten the place up a bit. Now they’re tattered and half torn down. You laugh. This weird irony, this liminal space, gives you the first smile you’ve had in weeks. Something about the bleakness makes you happy.

Maybe if you survive this storm, it will be food for your work.

You shut that thought down.

That’s not the plan.

You go back to your room. There is a man there. He tells you he is a doctor. He is wearing the coat. The other doctors have come in and out. You also know that compliance means you can leave.

He tells you to take your top off so he can do an exam.

He is not a doctor.

The door should never have been closed.

You file that away under “things to deal with later.”

You are surprised to have the thought of doing anything later.

You’re still not sure if there will be a later.

It’s been at least three days. You look under the bandages that haven’t been changed or looked at by anyone. Well. That can’t be good. Your whole arm hurts now. It’s swollen and red. You don’t tell the nurses. You don’t think they’d do anything if you did. They spend a lot of time on Facebook at the nurses station.

There’s going to be music. You like music, so you drag yourself to the recreation room only to realize it’s a cheerful man doing renditions of children’s songs on his guitar.

All you can think, really, is that all the windows have bars on them, and you appear to be more underground than above it. You wonder how many suicidal people have been pushed over the edge after hearing Old MacDonald and Down by the Seashore.

You think: we are like feral animals right now. Approach us with soft words, no sudden movements, and no fucking children’s songs.

You wonder where this burst of energy came from.

You pace up and down the hallway with a contractor and a heroin addict. They’ve become your bodyguards since a man in psychosis has set his eyes on you. There is a sign that says 100 laps is one mile. You could walk past the nurses’ station 200 times and still not be the mile away that you’re actually trying to be.

They will not let you outside. Even just to breathe non-stale air.

But there will be chair yoga in twenty minutes.

Before you leave, people ask you questions you don’t know the answers to.

But you know the ones they want to hear.

You step out into the blinding light.

You are not well.

But you will never be going back.

some years later

the first time i bound my breasts

i couldn’t breathe

the tight fabric

on my sensitive skin

was too much

then i looked in a mirror

and cried

this is what i’m supposed to look like

this is who i’m supposed to be

it is still uncomfortable

to this day

straps cutting into my skin

even with the safest ones

squishing the comically large breasts

for someone with such dysphoria

into almost oblivion

but never enough

sore spots under my arms

awkward movements to prevent pain

but it didn’t

because holy shit

that person in the mirror is River

they are me

so when i sat down last week

in a bright white office

that was way too fancy

for the likes of me

and my surgeon sits down

and asks

what does your ideal chest look like?

i was silenced

you were there

with me waiting for the answer

who knew such a simple question

could make me feel so human

of course the words I could get out

were no chest at all

but he knew what I meant

and when it came time to take pictures

they covered the mirror

such small detail

such a huge deal

an understanding of

nonbinary and trans folks

that is largely absent in the medical world

so now, in a few months

there will be no more pain

no more spots rubbed raw

so i have to take a break

and wander into the world

not feeling like me

there will be no more

squishing these comically large boobs

into binders that that never quite work

i will walk out after healing

me

River

no different from who i was before

but comfortable

and without pain

i imagine the gender euphoria will be more than it was

when i looked in the mirror

the first time

and decided i would trade my comfort

for looking like myself

six months later

the first time i looked into the mirror after surgery

soothed my brain in a way

i didn’t realize was possible

holy shit

i am me

or rather

i look like me

now i am not the me

that wrote with rose colored glasses

what the pain of transition would be

i would not trade it for the world

i am now in the in between body

the neither nor body

i’ve started to love my softness

turns out I love a dress

just didn’t like that they emphasized my chest

because now i am me

and this me, this changed me

is at home in their skin

at home with you

and when you stepped off that plane into my arms

and i was transformed

we rose to the challenge

and started to believe in fate

everything after that was a bonus

the euphoria when i looked

down at my chest

in my favorite tank top

could only shine brighter

by knowing you

were there to witness

to love

and now i look in the mirror

knowing i was both naive about the pain

and i underestimated the joy

it would be to feel comfort

in my own skin

because i never have

to be able to move in confidence

around the world

the scar is a heartbeat

the before

the after

when your fingers paint it

on my skin i can feel

every ounce of love

pulsating

lost in space

trading

short intense pain

for

this joy

i am me

River

i built this me

we built this me

in a creepy hotel room

with an hourly rate

each gasp of pain

met with gentle hands and soothing words

we meet gore with patience

and secret paranoia

while we watch the moon

from the balcony

not romantic

survival

i needed to

feel you close

and now

with the world burning

we find euphoria where we can

in our cats

in each other

in the story of our love

in the heartbeat scar on my chest

that we’d rather not fade to nothing

scars are beautiful

i am me

you are you.

this is not gender euphoria

this is gender enlightenment