Do Not Look at Me (Anonymous)

Do not look at me. That is how I feel every time people look too close. No, I’m not ashamed of my face or physique any more than the average American, but there's an additional curse I am bound with. It is a lifelong medical condition people still believe is made up. I am transgender.

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Even after being outed to people for years, it still feels like a titanic admission. No doubt I will spiral over this, wondering if it changes how I’m seen, thinking about how people throughout my school life have badmouthed my mental illness without knowing that I am undercover, hanging on to every word like a death sentence. I hear these comments, absorb these sentiments, take them to heart no matter how hard I tell myself “this is not about them”. Do not look at me. I cannot stand when people look at my short hair, my baggy clothing, my attempts to hide what I have been saddled with from birth, all to call me “she”. How can I blame them? They have no idea the countless hours I’ve spent hating myself, pushing it down so that I can function day-to-day. I can feel my body smothering my soul and I hate it. I despise the medical anomaly that created me, and I renounce any God that maimed me into this form. I cannot blame other people for not understanding this foreign part of myself. That doesn’t mean the violent thoughts of self-harm and urge to retort their image of me doesn’t exist. I feel ready to erupt at all times, anxiety settling just below my skin. Do not look at me, or I will break.
      The fight is never-ending. I am trapped in a body that does not feel like mine. I am dissociated, a spectator to my own life, waiting for the surgery so I can turn my quiet confidence into something more substantial. My thoughts are consumed by all the time I’ve wasted, all the friends I haven’t made, all the chances I haven’t taken because I was too ashamed of my features. My body is a roadmap of disappointment, every curving path another source of wrenching pain that cannot be outrun. It is amazing to me how people can look at me and not see what I do. On one hand, I am very proud to be a vault on lock-down—an impenetrable wall that no one can see past. On the other, I know that I am one question away from crumbling into dust and blowing away with the wind. Any innocent inquiry, something curious and non-threatening will leave me running for my life. Even the most well-meaning individual can leave my breath ragged as if I were pursued by a pack of wolves, side-stitched from the effort it takes to escape. I am impossibly fragile, tinted glass keeping my secret safe. Telling someone about my secret sets off alarm bells; I’ve only ever been met with confusion that leaves my mouth dry. How am I supposed to explain to someone else why I deserve to exist when I can’t answer that question myself?
      Do not look at me. Every time you do, I am reminded of the burden I will carry forever. Time is my most precious resource, but I am no stranger to wasting it. We only have one life and I feel useless when I picture how I’ll act in one month, one year. Still trapped, growing only as far as I am allowed. If any sun manages through the tinted glass, I will eagerly grow into it, malnourished leaves stretching for an adventure. Every other facet of my life is affected. I am too disgusted with myself to make more than acquaintances, too worthlessly inconsolable to interview in-person for a job. My ribs act as cage bars trapping my heart in place, never conceding and keeping me staring through to the other side. My only reprieve is distraction, but other people have eyes. Other people look at me. My skin crawls and my heart shies away from the bars as I plug myself into a place where no one has to look at me. On the internet, there are other people like me who are happy. They feel the same way I do, but they keep going. They have lives and careers and families. I am waiting listlessly for the surgery.
      Do not look at me. Even kindness cannot wane this horrible distaste in my mouth. People who call me by my preferred name, my correct pronouns that have been validated by my therapist and yearned for by my mind still confuse me. I am not used to having my mental illness respected in any capacity, so being accepted the way my mind screams for just makes me feel like a faker. I feel unworthy of being called the name I dream about only in my happiest moments. I feel guilty for making people call me “he” when I look like this. I know what I look like. It is why I hate the eyes that look at me and want to rip them out so they can no longer see my body that tells the wrong story. Do not look at my features that read as female, that betray everything I imagine my future self to be. Do not look at me until the surgery in who-knows-how-long. Do not look at me until my voice gets deeper. Do not press your face against the tinted glass and see the unthinkable. Do not look at me.