what would transtrenders, genderspecials, anti-truscum do if they had to experience dysphoria for a day?

would they understand?

i stand in the bathroom, fingers locked around the counter’s edges, forcing myself to stare straight into my reflection. every feature stands out like pastel colors on a chalkboard. freckles, scars, the shadows under my eyes, the sad look about my face i didn’t even know was there.

over crooked teeth are pink lips, too vivid for a man my age; beneath the freckles is soft skin, a round face, a jawline only pronounced when i jut it out. 

the heat has forced me into a tank top and shorts, only inside, only in safety, but i feel anything but safe under my own gaze. my chest is smaller than anticipated, but still too big, too there. i’m a healthy weight, my ribcage just prominent enough but not stretching my skin, and beneath that is a tiny waist and then wide hips for things i have never wanted and will never need. the hair that does grow on my face, my arms, my legs, it’s fine and soft and nothing next to my stepfather or my boyfriend. everything about me is soft and curving. and though so many say i pass…

…to myself, i don’t.

the tears come, not all at once, just a few at a time. i bare my teeth in frustration, lips pulled taunt, still too pink. on any other boy i would love this hair but on me i feel it’s too feminine, too swoopy, too long. 

real men don’t do this, real men don’t do that, real men aren’t me.

and i live with it every day.

the after-sex smugness of walking around naked is always quickly dampened when i come back down to reality and realize this is still the body i’m in. my self esteem is so low that i want to hang my head, but i turn it instead to avoid looking at what i’m attached to. i see reflections of myself in the television, in my laptop, in people’s eyes, and nothing is right. i’m constantly disconnected with what i see, like staring down a stranger, yet all too aware that what i see is me.

this is me.

it’s a beautiful body. it is. and i wish someone who needed it more than i do could have it. i can’t handle it. i don’t want it. i’ve already done so much harm to it simply because i am trapped in it. i would trade it if i could, trade it for something with less curves, more angles, a flat chest, different organs. i would trade it if i could.

i can’t.

and the surgeries and the hormones always seem farther and farther away, slipping through my fingers like sand as the accepting community around me fills with the hopeful voices of those who have found the right doctors and the right clinics and the right help. i feel like i should have found something by now but every search ends in nothing or in prices i can’t even fathom. my bank account has a hundred dollars in it. a hundred! and that’s saving. my other illnesses make it too hard to work.

i feel lost, mentally, physically, metaphorically. i find more comfort in sonas and characters that don’t even necessarily have the features i want, but are just…

…male.

and i continue to suffer, day in, day out, on a roller coaster of being too depressed to remember who i am or remembering who i am and being depressed about it. i am in pain and with each passing day i fear i am losing precious time in which to live the life i want to have, simple pleasures like swimming shirtless or going into the men’s restroom or just being one of the guys. not here, but out there, where i can shake people’s hands and tell them my name is -

well. you get the idea.

and if the disbelievers could feel it for just one day… could they understand?