thoughts and things written into the void
shaped
[my thoughts and/or interpretation]
Content Notes: sexism, abelism, transphobia, dysphoria, emotional and sexual abuse, sexual violence, gaslighting, intimate partner and domestic violence, pathologization of queer identites
“Girls our age should date, you know that. Or at least hook up with guys. I don't want to stress you, but I've heard the others talking, and they start to get suspicious. Just get a guy who’s nice enough, at least for a few weeks. Don't look at me like that! I’m just worried… And who knows, maybe you’ll finally find the right man for you!” said my best friend. It hurts, but I know she means well, so I don't blame her.
“I thought nursing school would be the right place to meet someone! That’s why I supported you in the first place! Do you know how many strings your dad had to pull to get you in? They would never take someone like you! We invested so much in you already, and so far you did nothing to repay us. We are not paying for this just so you can ruin another chance and end up scrubbing hospital floors! No, I thought you would at least manage to find yourself a doctor to marry!” screamed my mom, trying to hide her fear behind anger.
“Meeting my husband was the best thing that ever happened to me! I know I made it hard for him in the beginning and I’m so grateful he had the patience to help me see my mistakes. It’s so much easier to stay at home, without having to worry about work, and now with the little one on the way, I’m so happy!” lied my sister, but I remember the bruises and marks her husband left.
I see the image of the woman I’m supposed to be so clearly - feminine, submissive, child-bearing, happy. She is everything society wants me to be. I hate, pity and envy her in equal amounts. I wish I could be her, truly, but I can’t. Trying makes me miserable but not-trying is not an option. So I try my best.
When I agreed to go out with him, I was doing my best to pretend to be her, wearing my best costume and I really thought I was lucky for a while. He looked great on paper - psychology student, about to graduate, with a job already in sight - and he wanted to take it slow. I agreed immediately. The thought of having to have sex disgusted me and the longer I could push that away, the better.
We’re on the sofa, our legs are entangled, staring at the TV. The news is full of violence - cops in riot gear are dragging someone from their home. No reason is given. The camera cuts to a burning mosque, then to a red faced politician. I can’t make out what he is saying, because my boyfriend demands my attention and starts kissing me.
We’ve kissed before - quick, soft, with closed lips. That was ok. Sitting next to each other, even cuddling. His arms around me felt like a shield. I didn’t like holding hands but I let him hold mine if he wanted to, I never reached out first. It was fine. I was miserable, but maybe if I tried hard enough, I could learn to ignore that. I told myself I liked him and that I was in love. I don’t know if that was ever true, but the lines blur.
“Stop smiling.” he snaps, so I stop. For a moment, I’m lost in my head, in my confusion. I thought I was supposed to smile? Isn’t that a sign of contentment? Am I not supposed to enjoy this and display that? Better not to show any emotion - real or not - just to be safe. I hold my face neutral and close my eyes. Even when he slips his hands under my shirt. Scorching, leaving behind a trail of burned flesh, he explores my back. My face stays blank.
I was never great at figuring out the right facial expressions. When I showed emotions, like disgust over my food or pain because of the noise, I was told to stop. “It’s not that bad. Stop being dramatic.” When I remained calm in the face of birthday presents or even tragedy, I was called a selfish brat or an unfeeling monster.
He opens his lips and I feel his tongue against mine. It feels slimy. Like a slug. I don't react, having to concentrate so hard on holding on to my outward neutrality, while my insides coil and twist and beg me to run. The pressure increases. I don’t want to- His hands, still on me, still burning, clamp around my waist, hard, and I gasp in pain. He uses the opening and slams his tongue into my mouth. I don’t know what to do, it feels so wet and disgusting. How does it work, what am I supposed to do?
One time we had seafood for dinner, it must have been a special occasion, and my dad wanted me to try oysters. The way their meat wobbled in a bed of water and jelly was physically revolting and I wanted them nowhere near me. I could barely tolerate their smell but my dad insisted and I obeyed. When the salty water touched my lips, I tried to back off, but he tipped it and the content slipped in my mouth. I immediately started gagging, trying to spit it out, but he grabbed my chin, forcing it shut. I fought and cried and swallowed. When he let me go, with the words “ungrateful girl”, I collapsed on the floor.
It’s too much, I can’t breathe, my eyes are wide open and stare into his. Were his eyes open the whole time? The TV still blares in the background, colors flash in the corner of my sights, I think I hear shots. His tongue is circling mine, reaching down my throat. His hands are now playing with my sports bra, trying to get under the fabric. Alarm bells in my head start ringing, loud, all consuming, drowning out his breath and the sounds of televised mayhem.
The bottle was spinning and I followed the movement anxiously. I prayed it wouldn’t point to me. It did. The boy who spun it looked at me and shrugged, then he stood up, gesturing for me to follow. I hesitated but I remembered my lessons: “If another child invites you to play, you accept”, “Play nice and do what the other children do.” and most important “Never draw attention and resentment.”. So I joined the boy to where he opened the doors of a large wardrobe. We got in. Someone locked it from the outside.
I’m rocking back and forth. Head on my knees. Rolled up in a ball. The outside world doesn’t exist. Only my head. Only my panic. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. My chest is tight, my breath too fast, my ear ringing, my eyes unfocused and unseeing. He needs to stop. He needs to stop this. Don’t touch me. STOP TOUCHING ME. I want to scream, but my voice is gone, my throat too tight. I need air. I need space. I want to leave but I can’t move. Just rock. I don't have any control over my body. I’m going to die. This is how I die. I want to die. I’m dying.
I got a bad grade in school, or what I thought was bad. It wasn’t really, but it sent me over the edge. I had too much bottled up. My brain was spiraling, I didn't know what to do, I couldn’t make it stop. I needed to make it stop. I started hitting my temples with my fist, trying to get the thoughts out by force. It didn’t work. Teachers tried to talk to me, tried to calm me down, but no words reached me. I was too full of emotions, I was bursting with them, they had to get out somehow. This wasn’t enough. I slammed my head on the table before me. Again and again until I blacked out.
I’m trying to explain myself - clumsy, still struggling for words - but he just keeps looking at me with a mix of emotions I can't decipher. I was afraid of this, of him seeing me like this, seeing how fucked up I am. What if he leaves me? Or tells someone? It would destroy everything, so I need him to understand. I just have to keep talking until he does.
I was sitting on a chair, dangling my legs. It was after school. “You probably don’t want to hear this, but you need to know. Your daughter… I highly suspect she has autism.” I had no idea what my teacher was talking about, but my parents reacted strongly. My mom started crying, my dad tried to talk to the teacher, loudly. It hurt my ears. The teacher went on, raising her hands: “I didn’t tell anyone, don’t worry. She’s a smart kid, I’m sure she can learn to blend in, with the right teachings and discipline.”
He interrupts me, telling me to shut up, so I shut up. I don't know what I expect him to do - hit me maybe? Yell that I betrayed him? Lied to him? - but not that he starts smiling. “I understand.”, he says but how can he if I don't understand it myself? “Try to breathe.” He comes closer, slowly, hands in a placatory way, like he's trying to calm a caged animal. We wait together until I feel steadier. Then he begins asking questions, voice full of curiosity and concern. I answer as best as I can, I'm too exhausted to lie, but I'm not used to this transparency and vulnerability.
"You're sick. I never want to see you again.”, the person I thought was my friend said. And left. All I did was be honest. Maybe she’s right.
“The symptoms you're reporting sound like what we used to call gender dysphoria. Have you ever heard of that?” I shake my head and he keeps talking, now he's the one explaining and things are clicking into place. Dysphoria. Gender. Transsexual. The more he describes, the clearer it gets. It sounds so wrong and yet so right. I don't want it to, it feels dangerous. And apparently it is. “It's a form of psychosis and I would normally have to report you.” He pauses. “I won't do that though. Because it's you. We will figure it out together.”
The outside world got harder and harder to deal with. As soon as I knew what I was, everything seemed sharper and more painful. Words that were merely annoying before, cut me. Expectations, roles, clothes, glances, pronouns, names. Everything hurt. So I fled to the only safe place and person I had left. He became the center of my life. I needed him and his support, and I trusted him and I told myself that it’s the same as love.
We make a plan. Validation therapy, he calls it, playing along with my delusions to try to find the cause. So he lets me try out different names. I find one I resonate with, but he doesn’t like it, so I choose a different one he approves of. He will be the one to call me that after all, he has to adapt. I don’t want to put more stress and work on him. He lets me wear his shirts and brings me a medical compression vest. It reduces my chest, the tightness feels grounding, and when I look in the mirror I start crying. I will never take this off.
I did everything to make him happy. I felt like I owed him that, but I also grew more and more aware that I was dependent on his good will. He held all the cards, and he wasn’t afraid to show them. I lost weight because he said it would make me look more masculine, that he liked it more and I needed him to like me. So when he was feeling low, I told him I loved him. Reassured him. I let him take out his aggressions on me if that was what he wanted. I got used to bruises, bloody bed sheets and bite marks.
My arms are tied behind my back. I'm only wearing boxers and my vest. He looms over me, shirtless, sweating. The rope is rough and pulled tight and chafes my wrists. He looks down, and takes in all the parts I’m uncomfortable with. His gaze burns. I wriggle, trying to get out of the spotlight and in a position that is less revealing, but he stops me by pushing down on my shoulders. It hurts and I wince, but that only makes him smile. I glance to where his knees frame my hips and can’t help but register the bulge where his erection already starts to strain against his pants. He leans down to kiss me. I close my eyes and open my lips to let his tongue in - I learned he doesn’t need me to do anything, he just wants to stick it down my throat. It repulses me every time.
I was bouncing on my feet, trying to find the right words. I‘ve been trying for a while now and he started to look frustrated. So I just blurted it out: “I don’t want to have sex. Ever." He started laughing and then explained how that’s a common symptom for my kind of mental disorder. “We will just add that to your therapy. Besides”, he added with a smile I couldn’t place, “it’s no fun without a little fight.”
Whenever his lips touch my neck, I tense. I don't know what to expect. Sometimes he merely kisses me. Sometimes I feel his tongue leaving a trail of saliva, coating me with its sticky residue and sickly sweet smell. Sometimes he bites me hard enough to break my skin, smiling at me with bloodied teeth. He enjoys humiliating me.
I never noticed the exact moments he overstepped my boundaries. He just always pushed a bit further. Eroded them a bit more. Made another (loop)hole. Until there was nothing left. I would have let him kill me and in a way, he did.
He's eating me alive. I'm just an object, something to consume and use. When he's done, he throws me to the side - discarded like an unwanted toy.
I layed there for hours. Stuck in place, stuck in my head, stuck with the terror and pain and confusion and shame. It was a long night, where I drifted in and out of consciousness. When he finally woke up, he behaved normally, sweet even. He untied me, got me into the shower and cared for my wounds. He made breakfast. He said I did well. That the first time is always the most painful. That therapy hurts sometimes and so does treatment but that it’s still the right thing to do. And I believed him, because it was easier than admitting how fucked up everything was.
His mood swings come and go. One day he calls me beautiful and the best thing that ever happened to him, another I’m nothing but filth, not worthy of his time and attention. He kisses me, he hits me. He tells me I’m sick and that he is the only solution. I’m his doll, his experiment, his lover, his patient.
It happened again and again. I never got quite used to it, but I learned to pretend to him and myself. I convinced myself I enjoyed it. He said I was lucky that I had him. That no one else would support me. Would keep my secret. Would love and desire and fuck me. I owed him so much.
I’m running. I only carry a bag with some of his clothes, some money and a fake ID. On it is the name I always wanted. No compromises this time. I don't know how convincing the document is, or how convincing I am, but I have to try. I stand in front of the train. The conductor looks at me, the paper, the ticket. With a grunt he hands everything back and lets me pass.
The first time he left, I was terrified. I wasn’t sure how I would get through two weeks without him. But I didn’t just get by, I was less tense, less stressed and slept better. I wasn’t happy when he came back and I felt so guilty about it.
I pretend to be mute because my voice would give me away. Plus speaking is sometimes hard for me, so it's a win-win. My new boss seems fine with it. You don’t need to talk to clean up in a movie theater. I barely get paid and I’m not in the books but I’m allowed to sleep in a maintenance room. As long as I don’t draw attention, I’m just another one of the thousand young guys hiding from military duty, doing semi-legal work. It’s an open secret. No one cares. It’s perfect.
I don’t know when I made up my mind to leave. The idea just appeared full formed and with pressing intensity. It still took a while. I felt obliged to stay, a weird sense of loyalty, of belonging. I learned so much about myself, who I was, what I liked and what I didn’t. All thanks to him. I don’t know if I would have found out without him. If he was the reason. If he influenced me, made me into something he wanted me to be instead of who I really was. The not-knowing haunted me.
It still does. Everytime I look in the mirror I see his influence.
But I had to try. So I left.
They don’t even have to break down my door, my boss simply uses his key and lets the police in, spitting in my face when they drag me out. I’m still in my pajamas, my body shape all too visible to the men surrounding me. I don't scream. I haven’t since that day, I'm not sure if I still can. Besides, it never did anything. They put me in the backseat of a van, I feel a prick and a wave of dizziness comes over me. Then unconsciousness.
“I love you.” He whispered, voice heavy with post-orgasm exhaustion. “I love you too”, I answered out of reflex, empty words, just the pavlovian response of a trained dog.
Everything is a blur, ever since they locked me in here. It’s a small room, with soft walls and fizzing lights. They tried to give me food, but it was revolting and I couldn’t eat it. So they switched to intravenous - total parenteral nutrition they call it - there is probably some medication in there as well. Nothing feels real. Sometimes there are people talking to me, trying to force my identity out of me by analyzing it to death. They say everything I do and feel is a symptom of some underlying mental disease. That all of it is fake, that I don't know any better, that I'm just sick.
The same thing my teacher said. And my parents. And my friend. And him.
How long does it take for a lie to become real?
I couldn’t sleep and the sounds of my mom crying drifted up the stairs towards my room. I snuck out of bed, my tiny feet barely made a sound as I tiptoed towards the noise. I started to make out words between her sobs. “What did we do to deserve such a child?” More sobs, then my dad: “This is all your fault.” I went back to bed.
“There is someone here to visit you”, the shrink says, I hear steps behind me and even though I’m unable to turn around - the straps keep me on the chair - I know who it is. He comes into my field of sight, more of a beard, new glasses, same smile. The meds numb me, but I still feel the anger, fear, hatred and the unwelcome bittersweet sting of longing. I despise myself for it. “He is the new doctor on staff and from now on you’re his patient. I'm sure you will be well taken care of.” He leans in closer, his smell is so familiar, it makes me choke. His voice is soft. “Don't worry, you're in the best hands.”