29 January 2012

FTM Chronicles: Dysphoria pt1

I close my eyes as I lean my head forward under the shower head. Feeling the water sting against my skin as it travels down my body, I run my hands through my hair. It is one of the only moments of freedom, freedom from reality. One of the only moments when everything else disappears and the body I was wrongfully born into is gone from mind and, momentarily, memory. Sighing deeply as my hands reach out to turn back to reality with a push of a knob. Sliding the glass door slightly to reach out for the towel hanging in wait for my touch. Pressing it firmly against my face and as I lift my head, my eyes blink open.

After I allow the fabric soak up the drops still wet against my skin, I wrap the towel around my waistline, step out of the shower, and walk to the sink. Brushing my teeth in silence, I leave the fog on the mirror to avoid any eye contact to any unwanted parts. Normally, I trace certain superhero diamond shaped shield on the glass to allow a little vision to finish my personal hygiene, but today is a harder day. Quickly pulling on my boxer briefs, I put in a newly cleaned piece between the fabric and my skin to feel a little more comfortable in my appearance before pulling on my jeans.

I reach over to grab what I consider my second layer of skin and pull it over my head with a tight tug. I take a moment to straighten out the uncomfortable rolling against my ribs and making my skin comfortable underneath before pulling on a beater as well as an undershirt. Buckling up my jeans and belt after tucking in each of the two layers. The final layer then coming on over, the shirt for the day. Running my hands down my chest starting from my collarbones and ending at my beltline. Wiping down the mirror finally once fully clothed, I stare at my reflection. My hair, my facial expression, my facial hair, my clothing, the structure of body after proper placement of extra items, all of a masculine nature.

A low beeping sound guides my eyes to my wrist to note the time. One last glance in the mirror, then I gather my belongings and exit the bathroom. Opening the bedroom door, I see her look up from what she is doing and smile my way. I smile at her, pushing down my dysphoric thoughts for another time, and place my things where they belong. As I stand back up, I feel her hands on my waist so I turn. In one swift movement, my hands are at her waist as one of her hands is on my neck as the other is in the center of my chest with her palm flat against me. We whisper small romantic notions to each other and I see a look in her eyes.

She looks at me with adoration and love. Each a genderless emotion, though I know how she sees me. She sees me as the man for which she fell. She sees me as the man who wraps his strong arms around her at night. She sees me as the man who she enjoys spending time with when away from work. She sees me as the man she runs to, no matter the reason, good or bad. She sees me as the man... a man, her man, and that is all she sees me as.


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