Glass Cherry

Pixabay

I have to pee. I always have to pee. Growing up, we were a very busy family. After school in my primary years, I would get all dolled up. Underwear, then tights, then my leotard, then my ballet slippers, then my skirt or too-too, then my coat. Or whatever. Then a long car ride. Do I have to pee? No, it does not matter, just hold it in. Lots of parents and other kids, stress, embarrassment, follow the instructions, do your best, try to defy that I am naturally stocky in my physical nature. Finally, class is over, it’s a shuffle and a hustle to find our coats, and shoes and parents, and get in the car and get buckled up. A car ride home. Do I have to pee? I don’t remember. It must have gone away.

Then waking up at 4am to catch a flight out of Seattle to San Fran, then a lay over, and finally a twelve hour flight to Tokyo. The seat belt light goes off. I know I have to pee now. It has been several hours since I first felt the sensation. Damn. Here comes the cart. Slowly the flight attendant waits graciously on the three seats by the window, then two or three in the middle section. Row, by row. I can’t wait, I take off my seat belt and squish my way by the big man on the aisle. I am alone. My family sits separately on full flights because my mother works for the airline, and we fly standby; we take what we can get. I turn, and I walk what feels like a mile past adult faces; staring at me, ignoring me, asleep. I feel lost, but I make it to the back of the plane. Both stalls say occupied. I stand there, a shy eight year-old in my “dressed up” clothes. We are made to look as nice and respectable as possible, because we are representatives of the Airline. Finally a pretty woman opens the small door, and then squeezes by me. I go in the stall and take off all my awkward clothes so I can pee. I do pee. Do I breathe? I am not certain that I do.

On and on my childhood is an endless cycle of laying out and putting on outfits. Soccer uniforms, cleats, shinguards, socks, jerseys and shorts, sweat suits over top. Ski outfits, laid out in the night to put on in the wee hours of the morning; awkward snow pants, sweaters, long-johns, equipment; expensive and difficult to carry. Girl Choir Christmas concerts; jumpers, ribbons, tights, and blouses, that come along with bleacher assignments, lyrics to memorize, form and posture of both voice and body.

Years, later, today, I awaken to some of the most traumatic memories that I can face. They are not there yet in completion. They involve getting lost, kidnapped and mutilated, drugged and gang raped. After twenty-five years, I am finally asking myself: “Maybe you are not making this up this time?” I’ve had bits and pieces of these stories come to me in my [Schizoaffective/Bipolar] psychosis, before. This time, it is an existential crises, brought on by the throws of grieving the dead, recalling a familiar feeling of who I once was. Gifted. Misunderstood. Rejected. Discounted. Existential depression is what they call it. Common in gifted young people. Coupled with irritable man syndrome because I am TRANS. 

It is just that all of this time, in and through all of these outfits, and all of these limitations on one of the most basic needs of a young human; the need and ability to pee, I became sculpted. No, I don’t need to pee. Of course, I feel comfortable in these leotards, or my hand sewn Easter and Christmas dresses. Nobody is paying attention to my existential and bright ideas it seems like, so the further I push myself into these little shoes, the more perfect I can brush my hair into a pony tail before I tie it with my ribbon, maybe they will listen to and accept me then. If I do these things better. 

Thus, I pushed and sculpted my gift and my intelligence harder into the mold that was presented for me, that did not fit naturally.

I got it wrong you see, for so long. It wasn’t the pushing and the cramming of my “silly putty” self into the little plastic egg/shell that was going to fix me. It was something even more difficult. It was easy. What is easy, I asked? Well it starts with making an attempt to honor all of our spiritual, emotional, and mental urges and sensations, and also honoring our physical ones. I have never made verbal noises (other than talking) when having intercourse. I never taught myself to masturbate, until recently. I am still learning these simple things at 41, while coming out as Trans. It is hard. And the most basic practices of relieving myself both with urination and defecation, still are where I need to focus, in order learn to listen to my self. I need to listen to my body first. It is paramount that I learn to do this, if I am going to listen to my spirit or discover the language that my soul truly yearns to express. To realize my gifts inherently. To transform my flaws into beautiful butterflies. Yes, I must transform myself, by learning to exist, learning to feel, see, and know me. And yet, the mold remains. The cherry which is glass, must never be broken.