Back Pain & Dream State
I woke up with back pain this morning. The sensation seeped into my dream world, creating a moment in panic (both within and outside the dream) that my legs had given out. That they no longer worked for me. That sometime in the night, my spine had snapped and cut me off from my lower half of my body. As the waking world struggled to make sense of the information fed to me, creating a false memory – could almost remember the incident (accident?) that led to this sudden paralysis – the dream me accepted the news. Processed it. Understood it.
This is nothing new, though. You often speak of your condition. You have told stories of sleep paralysis since your childhood. Waking up while dreaming.
Identity
A couple of years ago, a coworker asked me for my pronouns. It was the first time I ever gave it any thought. In the time since, I have decided that being a “man” never truly suited me – long ago, I found comfort in my femininity, though I never longed to be a girl. I have an idea of how my masculinity should present itself. How I want to be addressed. How every time someone addresses me as sir, I reply – under my breath (or in my head) – “Don’t call me sir.”
“Are you trans?” a new coworker asks me.
Maladaptive Daydream
And do you often refer to yourself as a woman?
[I don’t often refer to myself as anyone, actually.]
But you’ve used a female moniker in the past.
[I have gone by many names in the past. A couple were female, yes.]
So you’re finally putting it together?
Hush now. It’s time to sleep.
It’s not that it’s a loaded question. Being an old queer, the word trans carries so much weight and history that it almost feels like appropriating the term. To my aging generation, to be trans means to transition from man to woman or woman to man. In the current climate, you are either cisgender or transgender, with the latter being an umbrella term for anyone who did not fit the role thrusted upon them or sees themselves outside of the binary.
But you can only be male or female. There are only two genders.
There aren’t even just two sexes.
Desert Highway
Mackie and Evelin sit on the hood of their car. The engine still running. Her rusty auburn hair catches the breeze. His scalp sweats.