Sometimes, my mind is a mess. It won’t let me sleep. It makes me run up and down stairs till my asthma forces me to lie down. It makes me choose to stay in bed, head under the covers, until noon when I woke up at nine. My mind tells me the best way to deal with the feelings that I’m unloved and inadequate is by refusing to eat for weeks at a time, and it tells me to punish myself in whatever way possible for my mistakes.
Sometimes I believe that this is how I’m always going to be. A tiny little transboy, too scared to leave the safety of his blanket. Afraid of both his mind and the world around him. Sleep in night brings nightmares of my mind, and nightmares of my real world in the morning. Sleep in the day still brings the same disturbing dreams, but saves me from the nightmares I have to face in the real world.
But sometimes I have a good dream. Sometimes there is no one but me home. I can paint , sing, take photos, and twirl around the house without judgement. I can wear my binder and slick back my hair. (Does it matter that I also love to wear tutus and dance on my toes?)
When I get really tired I babble. This morning before I finally crashed I recorded a video of myself talking about everything from garbage day to my philosophical standpoint on the existence of flamingos. (Hint: It’s not very philosophical) My exhaustion becomes my art until I can no longer stand.