Our Revisionist History
We first bonded over music. We shared our bodies before our words, and filled the gaps with songs until we learned each other's language. “What are you listening to?” Was shorthand for “I'm ready now”. Give me another tiny piece of yourself to lay into your outline in my head.
The melodies were the only way I could understand over my own noise, the only way to know you without hearing your voice.
Eventually we learned to talk - Learned to feed each other crumbs of truth when we were both starving. I could always tell when what you were saying was real, the way your eyes begged me to understand; Please just understand. You use fewer words when you're being honest.
If I'm being honest, the words fall out of me in a jumbled rush. I talk like I type, constantly revising, rewriting, reworking. You never had much patience for this. You could never trust my intentions long enough for me to get the words right.
I wish I had been your friend. I wish we had learned to trust before we were at each other’s mercy.
I sometimes wish we had met five years later, once I had time to burn my life to the ground, and slowly, slowly grow back. But you were the spark, and I am still a sapling, all tender skin and fresh scars, just starting to see my own face in the mirror.
If I think about it for too long, my chest collapses in the fear of our distance. My mind has long since known better, but my body still reacts when I forget. I so strongly feel the urge to protect you, from anything, everything, that I am torn between my nice guy savior complex and my absolute disgust at the entitlement that presumes. I am every creepy, shitty ex-boyfriend that’s ever stalked you when I look at your old twitter profile to see that same picture I fell in love with, from the Instagram you deleted.
The last time I listened to that voicemail you left me, I answered your voice out loud before I remembered you weren’t listening. It felt the same as the night I was so lonely, I said goodnight to Alexa. At least she responded.
I tell myself it’s ok, because you never blocked me from the new account you opened the next day. I saved all the messages you sent from that account, and I read them when I need to remember why we are better in each other’s past.
I wish you could run your fingertips across my scratchy jaw. I know that you, of everyone I left, would recognize me in this new face.
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Today, I tried on every shirt in my closet and stared at them, one by one, in the mirrored closet doors. It was oddly organized for me; I carefully stretched up, pulled the next shirt from its hanger, slowly worked it on, turned around, slid the closet closed, then stared at myself in the dusty mirror. My right hand always migrates up to my chest, fingers splayed out, pressing, holding, protecting.
The pearl-clutching sternum press is a mannerism I’ve had for years, a soothing gesture that my wife has used on me in times of panic - but that’s not what’s happening now. Now, after years of side-eyeing my body, for the first time I am looking critically in the mirror and seeing…. A totally different body. Radically altered from just days previous. I can almost feel the layers of shame falling off, like a foggy windshield clearing.
I make plans in spurts of productiveness, big, life altering plans, and then follow them for months as if pre-ordained by someone other than me. It helps me get through hard things when I pretend that I never had a choice. It’s foolish, of course, but there it is. In a flurry of activity at the end of last year, I got a new job (my third in 2 years), spent a week making 65 separate phone calls to find one therapist who would see me, and scheduled a consultation with a plastic surgeon.
Now it’s mid-September, and I’m seven days post-op, staring at myself, gently pressing my splayed fingers across my chest, trying to force my brain to process its sudden flatness. I’ve worn a binder for years, and navigated the world fully male for the last two, but right this moment I can’t fully comprehend how different this is. I can feel my long-practiced brain shutting down, turning away from further scrutiny, so I force it to pay attention by changing into each individual shirt. Each time I feel my chest with a small burst of delight, confirming with my fingertips that my funhouse mirror brain is lagging behind my eyes.
I pull on the one I wore in this year’s Pride parade, with the lime green logo for my wife’s roller derby league huge across the chest. She took a picture of us right before the parade; my sleeves were rolled up in the heat and I comically scowled, flexing every muscle in my body as hard as I could. We looked awesome, and it’s been my Instagram profile pic ever since. I secretly hope that you’ve seen it. It hurts too much to flex right now, but I can already tell it looks better.
The last of the black shirts is a new one, a v neck, size small, that I bought the previous week for exactly this moment. I slip it on painfully. It’s smaller than my other shirts, and harder to maneuver with my limited range of motion. When I slide the closet shut and see myself, my hand again jumps to my sternum, almost magnetically. It looks fantastic, even with the surgical vest showing from the collar.
Maybe especially with the vest showing. It feels good to have taken such a drastic action. Irreversible. Of course from inside my head, this is the logical conclusion of many, many irreversible steps, but this is the first that is public. It feels good the way that getting married felt good - I haven’t changed, but everyone sees me differently.
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I love making grand gestures - I live for the melodrama of an 8 hour drive for a midnight kiss. When I moved to California, I told you that I was doing it for us. That I would start to build a life for us like you had never imagined could be yours. You asked me if I really thought it would all work out. I didn’t, but in that moment I couldn’t bear to be parted from you, even in the future. I lied and told you I believed it with all my heart.
I held you to my chest while you cried harder than I thought anyone could ever cry over me, and I tried to believe.
The first time I drove home to see you, I was torn between testing how fast my truck could fly across the pavement, and stretching the time on the road to savor the feeling of flying to you. The discomfort of the journey made me love it even more. I galloped into Phoenix at ninety miles an hour (a unit that had flipped from a measure of speed to a measure of time, as in “I am now 5.42 hours from you”) long past midnight, too late to do anything but hold you while we fell asleep.
The next day we danced around each other, afraid. I could feel the pressure behind the dams we were both holding. We played chess in a coffee shop - I was impressed to learn you could play, but felt guilty about winning. I still wonder if I should have lost on purpose, but it would have felt like another lie. My therapist tells me that I need to stop trying to control the outcome and just say what I mean, so I guess for once I did the right thing.
That night, we floated naked in the pool under the stars, making small talk. In every moment, I was afraid of you, afraid any request would be felt as demand. When you suddenly reached for me, closing the space between us in an instant, pressing your body against me… For those hours, I did believe we would find a way to forever. Sometimes, I remind myself that in an alternate universe, we are still pressed together, spinning weightless through the velvet desert sky.
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You were the first person to use my chosen name. The first time I heard another person say my name out loud, and it was the most beautiful gift. We had been on a walk, late at night. It was fall, just starting to get really cold, and we stopped on the sidewalk a block away from where my truck was parked. I was wearing a ballcap, backwards, something I couldn’t really pull off but it made me feel more myself.
You grabbed my hands, pulled me closer until our foreheads touched. “I love you, JR.” Something inside me collapsed. It felt like a first kiss, first fuck, first high-dive all at the same time.
I still have that hat hanging by my door. I think of you every time I wear it, even though it makes me sad. Each time the air starts to cool in the fall, I remember the warmth of your forehead pressed to mine.
I don’t remember if it was still cold the night we finally said goodbye. I only remember feeling so aware that it would be the last time I would feel your body, your hands, your breath. I barely remember what we said - I know you asked if I wanted my St. Michael medal back, or if you should keep it. I told you to either keep it or throw it away, because it was only one more piece of myself that I hated. I had wanted so badly to give you a piece of my past, but I wasn’t able to tie it to the future. I kissed you softly, and walked back to the Uhaul.
I’ve been thinking a lot about shame, and how we’re so trained in our unworthiness that we accept much less than we deserve. When is it better to close your eyes, swallow the pain and keep walking? When should you burn down the sky to fight for your own happiness?
Which of those did I do?