Walking Alone At Night In Your Jacket With Myself

I wrote this a few months ago and then completely forgot about it, like with the other millions of things I write. Right now I’m procrastinating doing actual work and I’m scrolling through random stuff I’ve written, and it caught my eye again.

I wanted to write something down for trans visibility day, but I never did, at least not about myself (I did some cool interview articles, though, maybe I’ll try to translate them into English one day). As I read I felt like this may be good content to throw on here.

tl;dr: an overly personal account of reflecting on relationship/sex and how they relate to gender identity and dysphoria. Revelations after a really good hookup/shortlived romance.

Note: this is completely fictional.

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A melody that attempts to shift left and right

Against a rigid baseline

A structure imprisons us

My story is stuck with the letter “a” and a bunch of inanimate objects

I cut up the joy of creation and put it in a jar

So it stops distracting me

Like a fly humming so happily, so free

Every line comes back and strangles me

Had I just let go of my ego and insecurity I could lay down and enjoy this

But I don’t trust myself

Not as much as I trust you

I don’t like to tell people they are wrong. When they are wrong about me, I play along. Sometimes they make me wonder if I am wrong about myself.

Last night I dreamt that my host sister came out as a lesbian. I accepted her and was happy for her. Looking back there were traces everywhere. In reality she really isn’t gay at all, I guess.

Sometimes I keep going back to that particular year and the choices I made back then. Basically, I decided to stay even though I wasn’t always happy there. I wouldn’t have known how much better things would’ve been if I never met the other family. But it was too late. I didn’t feel like I had a choice, it was towards the end of the year, and the other family wasn’t exactly taking anyone in. Would I have been happier were I to end up with them? I will never know now. That’s 8 years ago now. Gosh, I feel so old.

I bought a pack of cigs and a light, then I remembered this jacket still smells of you and I don’t want to ruin it. Or should I?

I won’t. For me, you are too valuable a memory.

It always feels like my personal life and my public life have run parallel to each other. Perhaps this hasn’t always been the case, but it also definitely has been the case for a very long time. There is some version of me on paper, mostly the things I have done and have been recognized for by some other people or institution. Then there is me, alive, being, there, here.

I don’t always feel like me. Sometimes I do. Like now. It’s past midnight, and I’m walking alone on a street, slowly, under the yellow-orange lights. This is Guangzhou, but this could be any city. This could even be some towns. There are cars on my right; they pass me by.

On nights like this, I feel alone. All the noise condenses. All the people grow insignificant and flat and they move back until I’m the only one left on the stage. There are some waves of emotion, I feel them inside my abdomen, jittery and unsettled, ready to pounce. At what? I don’t know. They wash over me as if I were lying down on the beach where the water just about covers my cheeks when they come up. One second they make me feel so alive and comfortable, adding meaning to every sensation, and the next second I feel so much fear, like I’m drowning, not because the water is too powerful or in any way malicious, but because I am incapable of lifting my head up at the right moment, because I’m paralyzed, or perhaps just have very bad coordination. I’m scared that if it does happen, it’s because it’s just meant to be, and that I’d maybe really believe it. (I should read The Five People You Meet In Heaven again, shouldn’t I?)

Sometimes, under the risk of seeming too desperate and lacking a civil sense of boundaries, I want someone to talk to. Not just someone who will listen, but rather someone who will get it; if they don’t get it, it’ll just make me feel worse. When I was younger, whenever I met people who I could see would get it, I always wanted to tell them about this thing. I didn’t know what it was, but I just wanted to say to them, this thing. I felt the need to tell them so badly it sometimes drove me insane. A piece of information — that something is not as it seems. That something is not right, not that it’s worth any alarms, not that it will lead to any horrible consequences per se, but it’s just not right. That I feel like I have done something horrible, even though I don’t think I’m wrong and I was eager to hear from someone that I’m not wrong. I think when I did this to people, they tended to think that I was trying to say that I was in love with them or something in the like, and they got scared away. And it made me feel awful, because that really wasn’t what I was meaning to tell them, most of the time I didn’t even think that was a possible interpretation in the first place (not to sound like a prick, but maybe saying this already make me one?).

Tonight this popped back up in my head. This feeling. And as much as I try to make it something big and profound and existential, maybe it was much simpler than that. Maybe it was as simple as: I’m not who you think I am because I am A BOY. I don’t know everything I mean by saying this, but this is something I’ve known for a while, and it means something to me, but I don’t know what to do with it, so I never did. And to some extend maybe I already knew this back then, but I just never knew the right words to express it. I just wished people would understand that I wasn’t a straight girl (or a bisexual girl, or a girl in general). But in that framework, there was overwhelming evidence that I was, and I felt like there wasn’t really anything I could have said or done to convince them otherwise.

Eventually I just never really did much. I didn’t fight. I chose to co-exist and see all sides. That’s just who I am. I’m a pacifist.

These days when I think about how I was feeling in relationships, about the feelings I had for people, for things that happened to me, for decisions I chose to make, they start to make more sense to me. More meanings are laid on top of each other, and it’s hard for them not to tarnish the original sentiment.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that it stripes down to the story of a trans bisexual boy who starts out more gay and then experiments with women. This is certainly a drastically different experience than that of a cis bisexual boy. But that doesn’t mean that isn’t my experience. My experience is not the same as a cis straight or bisexual woman’s experience, even though it might be quite similar to theirs. I have sometimes tried to deny these similarities, but deep down I know I embrace those parts of my experience because they are MY experience. And they mean something to me. These meanings may or may not be the same as what a cisgender woman would take from these experiences, but that does not make them “a woman’s experiences” even if back then I also thought that they were a woman’s experiences. I MISTOOK them for a woman’s experiences. And now I realize they are not.

I think I’ve always kind of struggled in finding intimacy and love. I wanted people to love me because it made me feel safe — because if they loved me they wouldn’t have an incentive to hurt me. But it doesn’t mean they didn’t hurt me by accident. Sometimes, maybe, I think, I lied by omission and then expected things I didn’t really ask for. Like being seen and being treated for who I really am. And when I didn’t get it, I was sad.

I remember all the times when boys told me the things I wanted and needed to hear. That they liked me, loved me, that I was cool, the coolest, that they would protect me, that I was safe. If I were exactly like Lana del Rey I think I would’ve been happy with that. But I never was. I thought I was greedy for wanting more. Radical acceptance, and for my needs to be filled. I wanted sex, I wanted our skins to touch, I wanted all of my writings to be read, all of my songs listened. I wanted to be wanted, and I wanted to want someone badly, I wanted to feel that fire in my loins.

But they often didn’t really want me; they wanted a woman. C didn’t want me to begin with, though he didn’t always say no to my body. Even if I were a girl, he probably wouldn’t have seen me for me. Z wanted a high school girl who loved music. That was perhaps fair, I don’t think I loved everything about him either, I just took my shot at a pretty face. X wanted a woman with a mind with whom he could really connect with, I think. I had that kind of a mind, I guess, and in our relationship, I felt like we were equals. That was nice, but eventually, it just wasn’t enough. He would’ve much preferred that I wore that dress every day, maybe.

JS wanted a girl, for sure. He liked me because I was a cool girl, I think. And I was a cool girl for him. I really tried to be one, even in bed, and for a while, it felt like it was working, like nothing was wrong. Until it didn’t.

S also wanted a woman, I think, or at least a still somewhat woman-shaped person. But maybe, more importantly, he was looking for validation and real connection. He made me feel quite comfortable with myself, and I really can’t complain. And he was very patient with me when I started to deal with my identity. His personality is somewhat queer, and I liked our dynamics. But at the end of the day, it was still based on a heterosexual model, and I wasn’t always very comfortable with it.

With JC, I always felt a little apologetic. I really appreciated all the kindness she offered me, and I think she saw me for who I was, but the whole thing felt too much like a lesbian relationship and I think I just felt like I was backed into a corner. I felt guilty that I wanted to feel ok being the “man” in that relationship. I felt guilty when she confided in me how uncomfortable she was with (certain) men and I couldn’t or didn’t want to relate to that because I was so preoccupied with the thought that I was one of them and if she knew she’d be disappointed with me. I felt guilty that I didn’t always take her emotions seriously because I wasn’t used to being in touch with my own. And I felt guilty that some ways I treated her as an experiment because I too desperately wanted clues and answers about what I could do, how I could feel, who I could be. And I think I did get some answers. But it also just felt wrong, and I don’t really know how to explain to anyone why it was so wrong. She wanted to make me feel ok but she didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t either. I just felt really confused by who I was when I was with her and my entire giant lie of a life just started crumbling.

The other people who liked me saw different things in me. Some of them just wanted a vagina, some of them wanted to be seen. Some of them mistook me for something else and I didn’t always know what that was. When I had crushes on people, it was usually when I saw some often illusory potential for being seen, too. I want to be seen by boys as a boy. And I like cute girls who make me feel safe and warm; maybe I like girls who seem like they could use my protection. Maybe I am kind of heteronormative in that sense. Whenever a boy looks at me and tells me I’m handsome, I fall into the trap of his eyes. The sad thing is, oftentimes they were just joking. Oftentimes they were straight and liked femme girls and the irony was that it was BECAUSE he knew he probably wouldn’t be into me that he saw me like a bro. It’s the same pattern, all the way from middle school to college, that my invisible tail wiggled when boys shared their boyish things with me. I wanted to be one of them. And if they were hot, I wanted to fuck them, too.

You were not like anyone else I’ve seen. You saw me as a boy from the get-go, and that surprised me, even scared me. I thought you were mocking me. How could anyone see me as I am now and not see that I’m not “really a boy”? You slipped a few times, but you immediately switched back as if you just said something ridiculous. What was your intention?

But you made me feel so comfortable. I don’t want to look into a mirror and be reminded of what I look like, because if I allow myself to think of myself as a boy, and only if, then I’d start feeling sorry for myself.

You liked me nonetheless. You were seeing me through your own lens, not the society’s, whatever that is. And you found me desirable. As a boy, you said. You made me feel like I’m a boy just like you, and that is a feeling I never dreamt of having. I froze. I didn’t really know how to react, and I was scared to make a move, I was scared to fuck it up and that you’d realize that I was “not a boy after all”, that I was not boy enough.

But so far, whatever I did, you have not made me feel that way. You made me feel like I’m in a gay movie that I perhaps have modeled most of my relationships after. I have seen call me by your name three or four times and then I felt like I wasn’t really allowed to watch it that way. Like I couldn’t possibly see myself in it, because I’m not a boy, right? But you talk about that movie in front of me as if you knew I have seen myself in it. You made me realize that maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to censor myself like that, maybe I could just be a boy without needing to obtain a license from anyone. And if I did, maybe I’ve just gotten it from you.

[Some paragraphs omitted here due to inappropriate amount of thirst]

I am not ashamed of my genitals, they are what I have to work with. But things do get confusing, even for me. Sometimes I avoid it to avoid confusion, and the least confusing way is for me to be on top. [Some sentences omitted here]

I don’t want to be fucked as a woman again, even though it may still feel good, I just know I’d feel so ashamed of myself for lying. I don’t want sex that badly. I think men use the numbers they’ve cum into someone’s vagina or other body parts as part of the metrics of their self-esteem, and when I was living as a woman, somehow I subscribed to that mentality and kept count. For a while, they felt like trophies, but gradually the trophies became mostly just worthless. It was really stupid what I was doing and how I was doing it. I was rarely really being myself and sometimes I didn’t like the characters I played.

But one thing didn’t change, and that is: I want experiences. I want to be able to learn more about myself, what I like, what I don’t like, what I’m ok with and what I’m not. In those numbers games, I did pick up a lot of things that turned me on or off [some content omitted here]. It took me a long time to confront the possibility that maybe it wasn’t because I haven’t found the right role to play in this game, but that I’ve been playing a wrong game completely.

But I didn’t know how to play the right game. I don’t know if “the other game” would be the “right game” and I don’t know if I have an entry ticket. Until you showed up. Now I am confident that at least one thing that would make me happy and content would be a gay relationship with you, or perhaps if not you, someone like you. Someone who wants me to put something in them. Someone who can communicate with me in music and movies and books. Someone who sees me for who I am, someone who makes an empathy face when I talk and don’t make me feel bad for running on for too long, someone whose eyes look like the ocean. Someone who makes me feel safe and protected but also allows me to protect them and make them feel the same. Someone to whom I feel like an equal. Someone who also hates their parents, who thinks good lyrics don’t have to rhyme and that sex workers’ rights and people’s rights in general need to be protected. And I want it to be gay, but maybe it’s just because now I am thinking of you. Of the face you make, the noises you made, the substances your body creates. Sometimes I get these shutters of insecurity and I wonder how much more would I have enjoyed it if I were a “real boy.” The truth is I don’t know how much would change if I were. I imagine that what I have could feel what it feels like when I’m inside someone, and I’m sure that would be nice, but I think I get off much more on the sense of power knowing that I am pleasing someone, that I can make someone feel good. You are kinda similar, aren’t you? Maybe you’d understand what I mean. And I wish I can do this with women too, but I am a hopeless novice and horribly out of practice. I guess I could practice on myself, as I assume there are a lot of similarities between VJ-having folks, but sometimes I don’t know how much it generalizes, sometimes I feel like it doesn’t very much, and sometimes I forget that I have the same tools as them. Everyone is different, right? Maybe the key is to see people as people, an individual as that individual and no one else.

We did so many things that have conditioned me, that when I think about it I get flipped on like a switch. Do you feel the same? Does it matter? Whether you do or not, this is already me. A part of me you have taken with you forever and I think I have a part of you, too, maybe. If you never come and get it, it is mine. Maybe all substance has been thrown out in the trash but that moment, within that short moment, you were mine. Shouldn’t I be grateful enough, shouldn’t I be satisfied? Maybe I shall surrender, maybe I already did. I’m so afraid I’d lose. But maybe I haven’t, and maybe that’s why I’m still talking to you.

Maybe in your eyes, I’m just some token trans kid, but somehow you managed to see much more than they did, even if they seemed to know much more than you did.

I’ve said enough for tonight. There’s a lot of things on my mind, and I’m afraid I’ll get a stroke. Like whether I want to go through puberty again as an adult. Like when would I do it. Like where would I go after this? Like what am I going to do with my life? A lot of things didn’t make sense to me and I felt like even though I was still doing things I was just trying to grab onto whatever was in front of me and not drown. And now, although a lot of things still didn’t make sense, I feel like I’m on a boat, one with a shitty wheel that I don’t know how to steer but a boat nonetheless. I know who I am now, a little more than before. And perhaps it’s not something I’ll ever put on my resume, but it’s more important than anything else that I’ve ever come to know. You were the witness and you were the catalyst, and so I won’t forget you. I hope you have a nice life, albeit without me in it, at least for a long long time.