Dressing Room
Were all those nights of escaping into a world created entirely in the space
of my mind the foreshadow of the world I find myself calling Reality?
I am taking on characteristics of him. But He has always been Me. These traits
of his, these quirks in persona, have been lying in wait for me to try on, or,
waiting for me to discover already in the fabric of my Self.
I’ve walked in and out of the dressing room - men, women, it doesn’t
matter. The clothes hang on the hook behind the door, requiring an enclosed
commitment to get to them.
Opening the door I am always greeted with the ugly truth in the mirror. You
aren’t who you want to be. I shut the door. Those traits hanging there,
on the back of the door, are now the reflection in the dressing room mirror,
only my presence, my awareness, is missing from that space.
Who I am hangs there.
Bouncing off these pillars of influence, these people; gathering confidence
when I don’t shatter. Rising fear threatens my ability to swallow, squeezing
in a skin-caressing choke around my neck. But I propel myself forward, with
eyes open, into her into him into me.
That dressing room door appears again. It’s never locked, though the stare
from the reflection is starting to lock, lock in a straight line. I find myself
pausing and engaging the stare. Locked in eye contact with myself. In that look
courses knowledge, and I am too broke-down to stop it, too strong to avoid it.
Surrender, that which I know nothing of. Nothing has captivated me enough to
require the handing over of my entire being. Yes, that fire burns, but to get
burned is to die trying to fill my soul with life, and I'm just not sure I'm
worth that.
What do I deserve?
Those clothes on that hook behind that door in that dressing room, promising
me that pain. I deserve that pain. I am that pain.
My hand is on the handle and I'm turning it. I'm staring at myself in the mirror
and I see the reflection start to cry. Why are you crying? You are finding yourself.
I am finding myself. Why am I crying? You hate your life. Your life is shit.
But I am finding a life I love, a burning life, and I'm stuck staring at yesterday
in some dressing room mirror knowing that some truth lies on the other side
of the door.
The clothes are ambiguous.
I am ambiguous.
* * * * *
Walking around downtown this afternoon I felt this walk, this confidence, bounding up from my feet and into my chest, my breasts - my femininity. These curves rounding out a body that moves from shoulders, like a man, instead of from hips, like a woman. But this center of gravity does not define me. These breasts do not define me.
This body defies me, defies instructions and commands from my mind; not my
brain - an organ in my body, but my mind - elusive thought slipping through
bloody, clinging hands.
The handprint I leave on the handle will be in blood. You will have followed
the zigging and zagging, dripping and dropping. I am leaving a trail, have always
left a trail, because I want to be found. When you lay your eyes on me it will
be a struggle for me to meet them. I may not even hear you. I definitely won't
see you peeking around the dressing room door. I will be cowering in a corner,
knees to chest, knees to breasts, head on knees, not crying because I am too
numb.
I went searching for quiet and found myself locked in this square. I didn't
know the dressing room had no handle on the inside. Once in I'm locked in, trapped
with these thoughts and this body. And those clothes on that hook behind the
door.
* * * * *
The light just outside the closed dressing room door is moving, adjusting to
fit your shadow. You aren't pacing, you are looking. I hear the sound of your
hand touch the handle. Hesitation. Decision. Hesitation.
You don't know how trapped I am.
I imagine your shadow slowly disappearing, your hand releasing the handle, curved
and hoping, lingering inches away, then sliding into your pocket as your final
hesitation turns to final decision. You feel rejected.
In that space my eyes hide creeps the glow from the light outside the dressing
room. You turned the handle. You pushed the door open. You lifted your foot
and placed it in front of you. You shifted your body weight and leaned forward.
You‘re leaning forward.
There is no time to see the silhouette of your shadow on the wall. No time to
figure out what I will say, to anticipate your words, your face, your reaction
to this mess in the corner.
If I raise my head I can see the bottom of the trousers. I see you seeing me
see these pants, the cuffs neatly pressed, the gentlest crease along the hem.
My eyes return to me, looking down into that space between my knees and my chest
- me, it’s just me in here. I know you don't see the person residing in
the clothes behind the door you've just pushed open.
(You are seeping into this writing. How did you get here? What answer are you
providing me? I’m not sure I want you here. You can’t see me like
this. But you’re here. I must have let you in. Some door somewhere was
left open. I wasn’t paying attention. I was paying attention to ignoring
you - paying attention to NOT paying attention. You are fluid and you are rising
through the pores of my skin; you are radiating from the inside-out. Inside
out. You are the shape this change is bending to.)
Your first instinct is not the reflection in the mirror. Maybe if I close my
eyes tight enough, long enough, you will disappear. These next few moments will
be me pretending I am uninterested in your attention; in thinking I can wait
out your silence, your stare. Humiliation functions as fear. Fear exists as
a real belief of imminent death.
I am being found out in the safety, the protection, of your golden gaze. It
isn’t you that is finding me. I am the explorer, the archeologist of this
loose rock face. You’re the one I hold up each new discovery for. You
don’t care what I find, just that I am in the process of digging myself
up; digging myself up, unearthing my perception of structure, of integrity at
my base.
It’s you and me in here, with him today her tomorrow waiting outside in
the car. I’m going to slip into these pants now. Is that ok? It’s
getting cold and I need something to wear. The clothes I came in here with aren’t
warm anymore, they aren't protecting me from the cold, from the fear, from my
own eyes.
This body sliding into these pants is female, but these pants square my figure
out. This is how we met. I was walking down the hallway and I saw you seeing
me. You had me figured out before I did. I was moving like a woman that day
in the squared out figure of a man. We shook hands and I hid nothing. For the
first time I was saying, "Hey, this is who I am." And still, you held
your hand out and touched me that first day.
And
I still
move
like a woman in these pants.
You see
I am
a woman
therefore
THIS
is how a woman moves.
Is it ok to move like a woman and dress like a man?
To identify as Woman and be confused as Man?
* * * * *
Let's get out of here, out of this dressing room, out of this closet. We've got some minds to bend, some queering to queer, some love to express, some eyes to open. Let's hit the road and preach OUR gospel.
I confuse you, don't I? I confuse you because I cross my gender with an "X"
across my chest. Female down to male. Male down to female. Always diagonal lines
meeting at some point along the way. There is no absolute zero, no concise center.
Fingers mark these lines; fingers of my male yesterday, my female today, and
my fluid continuum tomorrow.