Other days, all I can do is see the flaws in myself, the things (in that moment, in my mind) that are beyond salvation. My hips. My narrow, narrow hips. Fuck. My shoulders, creating a wide frame. My jaw, large and angular. My face, so impossibly male.
It’s not that the flaws are particularly drastic, but rather that from time to time I feel so broken on the inside that I can’t help but see myself that way on the outside.
I decided to share an extremely personal story online the other day, and honestly, I don’t know if I should have. Maybe that one should have stayed with me, stayed hidden away in my head. There are some things the whole world doesn’t need to know.
Comments on these types of stories are predictably awful, with someone criticizing me for the method of suicide I used when I attempted it (this was the subject of my story) nearly a decade ago. More comments, on another story that had nothing to do with the fact that I’m transgender, were of the generic, “you look like a dude” variety.
I think on some level I agree with the comments, and that’s why my heart aches after reading them. You’re right, internet user, I should have used a razor, and sure, I do look like a dude.