Thoughts After Seeing My Face In The Mirror at 2AM
Seeing myself in the mirror is odd in it’s own way, after so many years of not.
I’m used to looking and telling myself I inhabit a beautiful girl and it’s an awful shame that I’m not her. That I’m not the owner of this body, it’s hers. I love her and don’t want to take it away from her. I still don’t know how to talk about these feelings out loud.
But now, I see myself. At least, sometimes. The facial hair helps. A lot of people pay a lot of money to make that happen, and I get it for free. I know it’s a symptom of something else being off, but, I find joy in the fact that my body knows me without even having to ask it to recognize me. It’s odd to even feel like it’s my body. (If I didn’t grow facial hair, it’s much more likely that I’d be pursuing HRT.)
Tonight, I saw myself, a man, wearing a jarringly bright floral nightgown. It felt so strange seeing myself so clearly. I didn’t pick these pajamas. They’re convenient for the physical health situation (possible sciatica flareup, possibly pulled muscle in the glutes or pelvis, not certain, probably both, feels like it). It’s been a rough year thus far health-wise. But there’s a certain calm that comes with pain easing off. That feeling that if I can at least stand up straight, things aren’t so bad.
Huge caveat: I am aware that the political situation is not weighing on me as heavily as it is several of my others. It’s not something I would’ve chosen. It just happened this way. I know I’m being given distance by Cordelia as well. I’m unsure how to feel about it. The news does not feel real to me, to an extent that might be concerning. Simultaneously, I know I’m benefiting from it. I feel for those of me that carry the full weight of it.
Evelyn is so enthusiastic to talk about our history, and I am embarrassed. Not of her, of being seen. Everyone that’s known Evelyn for the past couple of decades associates her with this body, and I am not sure I’m ready for others to associate me with it. I didn’t for a long time, and I am painfully aware that not many will understand what that means. Not a lot of people spend a significant amount of their lives believing they’re a fictional character, or that they’re not real and going to fade away when the “real” owner of the body doesn’t need you anymore, or that they're dead and have been dead for many years when they're actually still living. This face wasn’t mine for so long. I don’t know how to make peace with the idea of someday being seen when others look at us. For now, anonymity is a very comfortable safety blanket. I guess I got used to hiding behind her.
But on the chance that we don’t have much longer to express ourselves or possibly to exist (several of me feel very strongly that this is the case), I want to be able to tell what it’s like to be me. I’ve realized I deserve to speak, even if I’m still grappling with the idea of being heard.
Admittedly, I’m not sure I’d feel like telling you this currently if I wasn’t inebriated for pain relief purposes, but, we’ll see about that later.
-- Ignatius