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001 (The Guest House)
Jun. 9th, 2015 12:48 am THE GUEST HOUSE
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
-- Jelaluddin Rumi,
translation by Coleman Barks
When you look in the mirror, and the person you see isn't the person you are, there's a sort of pain that you feel. It's kind of deep. I starts in your stomach and then it's everywhere, like a poison. It runs through your veins and then bubbles to the surface. Your skin burns and itches like you're having an allergic reaction, and sometimes it takes a moment to realize that you really are. You're having an allergic reaction to yourself . To the person in the mirror. To the person under your skin begging to be released. The thing is-- They don't really give you any sort of benadryl that can fix this.
I was only four years old when I realized that God wasn't real. Because, if God were real, why would He make this sort of mistake? Why would He put me in this body, when it was so obviously wrong? I remember asking my family about the people in TV who were transitioning to become a different gender. I remember feeling awe for them, and for a moment when I saw them I felt like I wasn't alone. "That's not natural," they said. "God doesn't make mistakes," they said. "They should just love the bodies He gave them." I never asked them about transgender people again, and I came to the conclusion that either He was wrong, or He simply didn't exist.
From that time, I refused to wear dresses. I never shaved my legs. I never learned the proper way to put on makeup. When I was in school, I purposefully avoided the girls in my class because I didn't want to be standing with them when the teachers addressed us as "girls." Every single "she", every single "her," and every single use of the name I was given at my birth was like a stab in the heart. And I knew why, but I could never bring myself to admit it. I could never tell anybody, I could never even tell myself. Because that's one thing they never tell you about being trans-- It eats you alive.
I had a few phases here and there where I would wear the girliest clothes I could muster, and I tried makeup. I did my hair up nice, and I painted my nails. It took a long time for me to be able to do this without wanting to throw myself to the floor and cry. It took me a long time to look at myself and lie, saying "this is fine," when a deeper part of me screamed for release. I was in denial. I thought that if I could look pretty enough, if I could act girly enough, I'd become a girl. I'd be "normal." I'd be able to love myself and make my parents proud of who I was. But in the end, all the lying did was force it down. All it did was make me hate everything about myself. And eventually, all it did was make me forget.
When you become sad, and you don't really know why, it's maddening. It's a mental illness, they say. It's a sickness. It's painful. And for a long, long time I had forgotten the reason that this depression came to stay. Even though I'd look in the mirror and I hated everything about myself, I couldn't figure out why that was. I was a girl. Girls were pretty. Girls were confident and they loved themselves for who they were. That's what I had convinced myself of. But again, and again, none of it rang true for me. The problem with continuously lying and telling yourself that you're a girl and you're amazing is that in reality, you're not. There's a certain kind of madness that comes along with lying, and another that comes with lying to yourself. Eventually, you don't know when to stop. Eventually, you believe every word. And eventually, you don't know what the truth is anymore.
I remember in high school, I had a friend named Matson who would bind their breasts. And I remember how clearly amazed I was that they could be so damn brave. And when they bound, they could wear these amazing shirts, and they were so much happier. I remember being jealous. So jealous that a long dormant beast had been awoken deep within me. And it would be years before I finally let it out. I was so scared. I had finally remembered what it was that had hurt me so deeply when I was a child that I couldn't spend a day without being sad. I remembered the reason that I hated myself with every fiber of my being. I remembered that I wasn't, and never would be a girl. But rather than being relieved, and rather than feeling acceptance for myself, all I could do was panic.
It would take me years to be able to admit that I wanted to bind. Years of watching documentaries on the trans experience, and immersing myself in LGBT culture while masquerading as an "ally". It would take me years to realize that this monster I had inside of me wasn't a monster at all. It was me. It was the me who didn't lie, and didn't pretend to be someone else. It was the man beneath the mask I had been painting for twenty one long years. Years, and years would go by before I looked in the mirror and realized the person inside of it wasn't someone else. It was me. Just me. I wasn't going to lie anymore.
I suppose you're probably wondering what this poem, The Guest House, has to do with all of this. You probably thought I had forgotten, didn't you? Well, I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a little bit off track. You see-- That depression I lived with, the mask I covered myself with, and the dysphoria I still experience today-- I wouldn't be the person I am right now without them. Sure, I'm sad. Sure, I could be doing better if they had never happened but, you know? I'm me. It took me so long to come to terms with myself, and I have so much longer to go. I wouldn't be on this journey without all of that. Those "guests" of mine, some of whom haven't quite left yet, are all very precious. Every sad memory, and every painful lie I told myself shaped the man who lives today. I hated myself, once upon a time. I hated that sadness, and I hated my gender. It seems like a small step to say that you don't hate yourself anymore. But for me, it was the biggest step I've ever taken. Because when you hate yourself as much as I did, you're on a one way road to a dead end. It takes a lot of work to get yourself off of that one way road, but I promise it's worth it.
Nowadays, I look forward to the future pains that tomorrow may bring. My journey is a fun one, I've decided. And I'm not ready for it to have an ending quite yet.
-- Aster
