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The Subtle Horror of Growing Up Trans in Suburbia
Overdosing on fantasy as stagnation creeps up like a dripping faucet
Under the blue light, my eyes grew weary, desperate for relief in a basement lit only by a screen. I’m loath to admit it, but I’m a little unnerved by the dark, the clock ticking into the early morning hours. So, I trudge over to the other side of the long room to flick on a lamp before returning to my computer and recliner. Then, bundled in blankets and beating back sleep, I lose myself in a show on Netflix.
And for one brief heartbeat, I feel warm inside.
Is this what contentment feels like? Ignoring your body and life as you drift into fantasy at one in the morning, pretending tomorrow will never come — despite the fact that you’ll soon be fighting up two flights of stairs to shuffle into bed?
In high school, foolish and young, I decided it must be. Where else could contentment lie, if not in escape? After all, it was in front of this computer where I first heard the word transgender and learned I wasn’t the only one dissatisfied with their sex. And is there any fantasy more absurd than wishing for the impossibility of waking up in an entirely different body?
