Once that pit in my stomach came, it never really left. Sure, at times it felt lighter, but it was always still there. A reminder that I was never sure of who I was, only of the pit. When the days got longer and harder, it became more difficult to see me as anything more than the empty hole. Maybe it was just using my body as a disguise.
Sometimes the pit was on fire. The fire was like the engine of the train, and the pit was the conductor. I was just the train, taking the fire and the pit where it needed to go. When the pit was a roaring blaze, it kept me warm, but it burned me. The burning sensation was all I could feel, but when it went out, I couldn't feel anything at all, and I'd rather be on fire than feel nothing at all. When the pit shot out flames like the bullet in a gun, it melted all those who tried to come close and kept others away, because I was afraid of what would happen if they came close. How would people feel if they saw that I was nothing more than a pit. A shell of a person who didn't know who they were. I knew that one day the pit would ignite with such a large blaze that it would burn all of me entirely, and no one would be warm. But, for right now, I wasn't afraid, I was empty. Maybe one day I will open my eyes and see that I'm being eaten alive from the inside out, but the smoke keeps blinding my sight. At the end of the day, there will be no one to care for me when I am nothing but ash.
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I never liked to shave. As I stood in the tiny shower, trying to cramp my body in ways so I could lean down, I questioned why I needed to do this. Yes, I didn't want to be made fun of, but I didn't understand why this was important. I felt so uncomfortable I started to cry as I shook off the hairs I had taken from my legs in the running stream of water. My entire body was in pain from trying to make this happen, just so someone else could be happy. But, my grandma had told my sister that she thought I wanted to be a boy because I didn't like to shave, but I wasn't ready for that conversation yet. I wasn't ready to think about why I couldn't stop staring when the pretty girl was on the TV, so I couldn't bring my thoughts to those comments. And so, the razor continued its path up my body, bringing the physical sting of metal against my skin without shaving cream and the emotional sting of changing what felt right for someone else.
I never felt like I fit. I always felt like a goat among sheep. Like weeds among wheat. So close to everyone else, and yet so different, and everyone knew. But, I didn't have time to question my identity. At least, that's what I said to myself as the work piled up around me. Once the most recent essay was done, there was always another. There was always something to be done. Maybe I was giving myself more and more work so I wouldn't have to think about who I was. So I wouldn't have to face the empty pit in my stomach that masqueraded as my identity. I was pretending that I was comfortable as a woman because that's what everyone else seemed to be. I was putting on a facade, trying to tell the world that I didn't shake when I thought about identity. How could I tell the world that I felt masculine and feminine, and sometimes neither. Yet, nothing felt right. Being non-binary still didn't hit the nose, but then again, neither did man or woman. So, I put the topic back on its shelf, being so many other boxes, so that maybe I didn't need to think about it ever again. Maybe I could ignore it forever.
As the quarantine went on and on, I spent a lot of time by myself. Distracting myself from the thoughts I had shoved away for a long time became more and more difficult as the days passed by. Though I shaved a limited amount before, removing my body hair from its roots was starting to feel like taking away all I had ever loved. I didn't have to worry about what other people would think about anymore. The social pressures faded and the idea of presenting myself in the way others had expected was as important anymore. I was thinking a lot about how much I used to enjoy shopping in the men's section before my family made me stop. I was thinking about what truly made me happy, and I was wondering who I was, and who I wanted to be.
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I walked across the smooth floor of my apartment, pacing back and forth. After 12 hours in the hospital, I just wanted to shower and sleep but my thoughts wouldn't stop nagging me. I had borderline personality disorder. I was stealing the personalities of the people I came across and the tv show characters I connected with. I thought about the personalities I had taken on as my own as my feet flopped in my too-large slippers: Jay Halstead, Aaron Hotchner, Arthur Morgan, Luther Hargreeves, Ser Jorah Mormont. I had even named myself after one of these people, and I had no idea that it was because I stole their personalities and made it my own. Maybe this was why I could only wear large sweaters for months because my chest felt unfamiliar and uncertain. Maybe this was why showering in the dark was easier because I didn't have to see my body. Was my constant unease in my skin because I had a penchant for latching on to the personality of men in the media I consumed? I had been filling the constant pit in my stomach with these people and when the fire started, it burned away the last one and made space for the new one. I stopped in my tracks, in the middle of my kitchen. My breathing was heavy and I didn't even notice. After everything that just happened, I wasn't ready to think about this. I wasn't ready to look at myself in the mirror and stare back at my own face, let alone my own body. So, the shower was in the dark again, and the sweaters were large still.
Maybe I'll never figure out my gender. Maybe it'll change as the fire burns brighter and as it fades away, leaving just the pit. For right now, she/they feels right. Sir and son sound pretty nice too, but I'm still not ready for that conversation. There's still time to find out who I am. I know now that my identity will never really be stable, and there's just how it'll always be, and that makes thinking about this all a little bit easier. Gender is a construct, and physical constructs change as they need to be for updates and improvements, so why can't my gender be the same? Nothing needs to be set in stone right now, and the fire will burn that stone anyways so there's no point in attempting to start carving.
Fire Fire: A Poem
All I have is my fire
It's the only thing that keeps me warm
And it burns
Oh, it burns
But, I'd rather be on fire
Then feel nothing at all
All I have is my fire
And the gasoline at my heels
To keep the fire burning,
Burning all around me
All I have is my fire
It takes away the pain
And there's so much to be burned
So much to be burned away
All I have is my fire
And only I can love the flames
No one can love me
Or they'll melt in the blaze
All I have is my fire
It's stolen all of me
And all of you
Now it is just fire
Burning in red
It consumed everything in its wake
Swallowing me whole
Taking away the pain
Now it is just fire
And no one is warm