Dracula
Remember your first time? I don't.
Leaving the house shouldn’t feel like an apocalypse. You’ve done it a thousand times before with no issue. You’re not a gargoyle. Not a monster, put together from dug up corpse parts in a lab - who, if seen by innocent eyes, would cause an uproar - a vicious mob wanting to tear you limb from badly stitched together limb. You’re not a vampire, either, last time you checked. Definitely have a reflection. You can go out in the daytime just fine… so why are you so sure that, if you do dare to step out, you’ll burst into flames?
The first time I ever went out ‘as Jen’ is not a memory I have access to. You’d think that, something so terrifying… so monumental in the early stages of a transition… you’d think something like that would stick with you. And yet, the details are fuzzy at best. Perhaps it was just too traumatic, and my brain has done me the rare kindness of erasing it? But just because I don’t remember the specific day, doesn’t mean I can’t recall how it felt. You can’t forget something like that.
I remember waiting by the front door, hyperventilating, opening it a crack and then closing it again instantly. Rushing back over to the mirror to check my makeup. To scrutinise my foundation. To check my face from whatever angles possible within the limitations of our pathetic four-dimensions. Half an hour ago, I thought I looked alright; relative to how I looked before, anyway. But now I realise my brain is a liar, and my eyes are accomplices, because I actually look like a rotten pig.
I am expecting to be hate crimed immediately. As soon as I step out, people will point and shout. I will be attacked from all sides with wooden planks, and I’ll deserve it too - because I am hideous. A war-crime in humanoid form. A cruel imposition on an even crueler society. The gender clinic said that I had to ‘live in my desired gender role’ for 2 years before I could start hormones, but they didn’t say anything about going outside…
Hermitecism could work. There’s a rich history of female hermits. Tons of nuns. The Anchorites. They’re no lesser women because they chose to reject society, are they? I’ve done it; hacked the system. Found a loophole. I’ll use my time cloistered to perfect my makeup. I could even order black market hormones over the internet and get a good headstart. Then, when I’m acceptable, I’ll go outside then.
Unfortunately though, being ‘perceived’ is important. Without some external feedback, it’s impossible to properly see the wood from the trees; like a first draft of a novel, which you think is good enough, but on a re-read appears to be utter, rambling trash. So you have to do it. You have to face the world, even if you know it means certain debasement. Even if discomfort is guaranteed. Dehumanisation, inescapable.
Many people will never know the hyper scrutiny. The seemingly ‘irrational’ fear of being singled out - becoming the centre of attention - and then having that ‘irrational’ fear completely justified, time and time again. But each indignity; it does something to you. Every snide comment behind your back. Every child on the bus, asking their mum: Is that a boy or a girl? Even the moments that are unforgivable… the terrors. The betrayals. All of them, in their own special way, strengthen you.
You become impervious. Untouchable. Unoffendable. Unflappable. It happens slowly, but it can’t not strengthen you. The people around you have no idea what it takes. They’d utterly crumble in your position - fall to pieces at the first hurdle. Okay, so you’re having a wobble now? Big deal. You’re allowed a wobble. To get here at all, and only be wobbling? That’s monumental. Superhuman, even. So you’re not allowed in sports anymore? Girl, you’re a Social Olympian. Going above and beyond to be you. The haters could never.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself. It’s all well and good, academically, but it does f-all for me now. I’m still frozen stiff by the front door, bracing myself for the apocalypse. Wondering what it’s going to feel like when my vampiric form bursts into flames. So, I have a drink. Vodka. A couple of shots to soften the world around me. To get through the weekly food shop in a lower resolution. The 4K world is too much to take right now, and that’s okay. I’ll work up to it. Take each development as it comes. Everything is VHS right now, soft and grainy, but no less the film. I like VHS.
I close the door behind me, feeling the sun on the top of my head. Remarkably, I don’t combust. Nobody screams, and although I’m not yet entirely convinced, I don’t see anyone with pitchforks or wooden planks yet. Unfortunately, self-service checkouts are still but a mad dream, floating about the ether of the corporate subconscious. I’ll still have to face somebody. Still have to speak to a stranger. Make eye contact with them as they scrutinise me. Hold back their amusement, if I’m lucky.
If only I had a little oestrogen to help me through all this. Just to ease me in a little bit. It seems unnecessarily cruel to put anyone through this. To withhold the one thing that would actually make this all a bit easier. Do they do this with everything? If you break your leg, does the doctor make you run laps around the waiting room to prove it first?
So I take my other medicine. Red label, triple distilled. To get it, you don’t need a prescription. No doctor has to sign you off. There are side effects, sure. But what medication doesn’t have a few?
The only issue is, you have to go outside to get it.
So, off I go…
Every word Jen. 🔥