This past week I ventured out of the house sans makeup a few times to mixed results of how people reacted to me. At this point in my transition I’m very tired of people being weird around me when they come to the realization I’m trans. I know because I’ve also become bored of the whole thing via grinding repetition.
It’s the cheerful, friendly, ‘How are you today?’ at the checkstand that snaps to intently punching in a key-code and trying their best to ignore me and my attempts at small talk. By my observation, it happens due to random cosmic rays. Some sort of relativistic mass bounces off a neuronal spark in their head and I transform like magic from a random woman who appeared before their counter to tranny at register 3.
Or it could be my voice, my jaw line, my brow ridge, or any or all of the many other things about me someone else adds up to ‘trans.’ In any event, my experience on this front has been fucking strange and repetitious.
The early trans raptures of being triangulated by a fundamentalist Christian who clocks you as a reincarnated walking pillar of salt, some dude who’s trying to pick you up, and any person or people who is/are completely ignoring you or treating you like they would any other person because you’re just any other person were…dislocating. I felt like a pinball bouncing off of rubbers, kickers, and bumpers in rapid, random succession. Some days I was concussed, unable to wrap my head around how differently people treated me now compared to before.
But I am unequivocally a happier person since I stopped fighting myself to become myself. The massive reduction in gender dysphoria is nothing short of astonishing. The massive increase in the daily friction of my life when interacting with people was a reasonable trade-off now that I have some mental scar tissue where I had none before.
It’s the little decisions and experiences that add up over time. It’s learning to seek help in a store from a woman before a man and if you have to go to a man, find a nice or dumb one, and figuring out how to help yourself if neither are available. It’s the smile needed at that moment for the bath-, dining-, and showrooms I will pass through as a normal course of the traipse of my life. It’s deciding when to play dumb or smart, or instead, whatever it is I’m really wanting to feel like at that moment.
Again three poles to mark the triangle. Everywhere you go, it’s the fucking triangle along for the ride, too. How it devils! At first it pricked me with its pointed tips, causing me to jump in nervous agitation. Then it cut me with the young flaked blades. And it cut me and it cut me and it cut me, each and every time until the wounds healed to scales of dragon-hide.
And over time, those stones of blood and tears hurled at me wore to smooth and I am instead now bruised, not cut, by those stones. Other blows I didn’t dodge wrote in pain my plan to become stronger, muscle by muscle.
Beauty culture is a velociraptor with a hair-trigger reflex reaction for prey detection and will cut you as soon as look at you. The wrong jacket slice. The shitty makeup application stab. The frizzy hair chop. The outfit dissected.
This too was…dislocating.
A scaly hide covers most of my body now and the muscles beneath ripple in claw-clenching anticipation of devouring any fellow traveller who’s not with my program. To discover there are two species of velociraptor and I’m one of them?! No one fucking mentioned that.
And here I am, a terrible lizard, without makeup. Hear me roar.
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