I’m really not as strong as I may come off as.
I’m sorry if I hurt you.
Today was my sixth time spent as myself, not counting anime cons. Open and in public. In nice casual, tight-fitted clothing looking as peachy as keen. I
was am me. I write this entry still clad in my casual outfit bought back in April for what was meant to be my first time out alone with a guy.
Why? Because I didn’t yet want to wash away what I am feeling right now. What I carried with me out the movie theatre tonight. Alone. I didn’t want to let go.
Not only did I see a movie, but I went shopping again with my “blue-eyed beauty” friend turned “brown-haired cutie.” We browsed Victoria’s Secret – I had a lovely black-lace demi-bra that needed exchanging. For the first time, I attempted to try on a bra within the confines of dim, girlishly adorned decor. I thought nothing of it. In fact, it was a more like a rite of passage as I had never laid eyes on such cute and subtlety sexy dressing rooms before. It was just like when I was some 6 or 7 years old, recalling myself wanting to enter the Women’s bathroom at church. And the one time I did…what amazement it was to me, and yet it seemed perfectly natural for me to be there. That one time I did.
I bought a pure white bra and Angel perfume. Nothing extravagant. While the attempt to snap my own bra failed, I know my bra size now. And the ladies who I declined when they gladly offered to measure me, do not. Another skill needing my attention.
Over Chinese-ish mall dinner, we chatted about our hair and how we care for ours individually. Divulged my desire for longer, more flowing hair. Straight, preferably, but perhaps some curly bounce would look well-suited on me. I never had the chance to grow out my own natural curly hair. Forced, as a child by my father, to cut it off every other week. I recall crying at first about such an event occurring. Then, like everything else this life of mine has been, I simply relented to the fact that I would never have long hair and this was just how it should be. Those days of my youth, blankly sitting in a barber shop, bored to tears, for hours upon hours until my turn came to have the deed done.
The hair I wear at this moment, is a part of me. Anything that winds up in my mouth in the middle of dinner is most truthfully proper to call my own. And I adore it as much as the foundation stains that magically appear on my shirt; I’m getting better.
The sound of my friend calling a pair of shoes “hideous” as she continued schooling me on what was right and proper for girls to wear in different seasons was so very pleasant. Another younger girl calling a pair of shoes “hideous” entered my ear, making me realize two things. One: My sensibilities about shoes needs improvement, even though I am aware of my general preferences. And Two: Girls have a language that I have known of for ages, yet never learned myself.
No shoes were harmed in the making of this female. Nor were any bought this time around.
We had hoped to do more extensive clothes shopping at the local Mandees, but they were closed at our arrival. Upon driving back to her place, we have planned another actual clothing outing – the initial monthly purpose to increase my wardrobe gradually – for next week. I thanked her again for being so willing to listen to me, teach me, shop with me, and understand the trials I have faced just to be capable of being the person I’ve known in my heart and soul I have been for so long.
Fear is both a deterrent and a motivator. Frustration is a catalyst for both stagnation and action. The only reason why I sit here, embracing my person – my self – is because both those elements nearly made me not go anywhere today. My mum took a day from work. Unexpectedly. Systematically putting fear and frustration into my heart for the entire day. Fear of her seeing me and questioning me. Frustration at myself for tip-toeing about just to have a few hours in the identity that brings me the most comfort and joy.
In the end, strategy, along with desire, moved me. My mum did see me as I came down the stairs, all prim and cute, my decent-sized chest covered by holding a Victoria’s Secret bag I cursed myself for not putting in the car earlier and a pocketbook with my essentials. She asked a basic question which I already prepped for, and I gave my readied response:
“A dress-up party.”
“It’s not Halloween,” she said.
“Well I have crazy friends,” I expertly pulled out of my ass.
“Oh so you’re wearing those pink shoes, huh?”
“Yup! Like I said ‘you never know!’
…All in a matter of seconds as I parried my way out the door.
Tonight, I walked out of “The Avengers” alone. Entertaining. Satisfying. Nothing that I was particularly confused about. A solid action flick with all the essentials, dynamics, and simplistic climax-solving end. The problem here was not with the film, but with me. When left alone, I have time to think and revisit.
The conclusion was simple: I’m sick of this.
I’m sick of stuffing my identity in a bag after a few hours of true living.
I’m sick of wearing the disguise society regards me as.
I’m sick of not knowing if cashiers take me seriously when I hand them a driver’s license with a face I have simply tolerated for years upon years.
I’m sick of worrying about if anyone is awake when I get home so they don’t see the real me.
I’m sick of washing away the face I love, and not being able to see those happy, desperate female eyes the next day.
…Okay; well the washing of the face part is kind of mandatory daily, but you get the idea.
Tomorrow, I’ll be out with my mum, having dinner with her somewhere for an early Mother’s Day outing. These are the times when we get to catch up and hear about each other’s lives as we both lead very schedule-centric lives. My mum told me a secret over brunch that she never wanted me to share with anyone, not even my brother.
Tomorrow, over dinner and a few drinks, might be the moment I finally attempt to confess my deepest, most conflicted secret to her.
I’m glad I could write this while still being on the outside who I am on the inside. What a pleasure…