Page 2 of Yours to Break
Anytime I went out of town, I couldn’t help but miss him.
“Hey, Oliver! How’ve you been?” A voice jolted me out of my thoughts. When I raised my head, I found Tim, one of the other regular vendors. We’d met a few years back when I was new to the business. There was a small group of us regulars in the Pacific Northwest.
“Hi, Tim. I’ve been good. It’s been a few months, hasn’t it? How are you?” I responded, a smile on my face.
“I’m good, I’m good. Hm… It’s been since… September–No, October!” Tim snapped his fingers.
“The Halloween event in Medford, right?” Tim nodded enthusiastically. “Do you want to sit?” I motioned to the fold-up chair by my side. He took my invitation and joined me behind my booth’s table.
“Got anything good with ya?”
“More or less. What about you? Seen anything good around?”
Tim shook his head. “Eh, I saw some bearer bonds over near Millie’s booth, but nothing I’ve got to have. I’ve made a good deal of money, though, so it’s not a total wash. I was just making some final rounds before packing up and calling it a night. Are you staying in the area or heading back home?”
“I’ll start the drive back before lunch tomorrow. Who all is here? I know I passed by Angela earlier, but I’ve mostly just sat here. Maybe we could get breakfast as a group tomorrow?”
“Let’s see… There’s me, you, Millie, Morton, Reggie, and Angela. I heard that Kiesha couldn’t come–something about her kids, but I forget what. My memory’s all over the place these days,” Tim chuckled, stroking his scraggly grey beard. “Sorry you’re stuck with a bunch of oldies like us, boy. To be fair, antiquing isn’t usually the scene for young people. I hope you hang out with friends your own age at home! You’re only young once, you know!” Tim clapped me on my shoulder and stood from the chair.
“I know,” I laughed, rolling my eyes. “So, breakfast?”
“If you’re good with the hotel’s continental, then yes.” I nodded. “Alright, well, I’ll spread the word! Let’s see… eight a.m. should work. Well, I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow, son. Have a good one,” he crowed, sauntering off into the crowd.
* * *
Breakfast was over before I even knew it. It’d been nice to catch up with the group. Sure, most of their “catching-up” was about new grandchildren, their friends dying, or any other life event I’d not yet experienced, but it always reminded me of simpler times when Grammy was still alive.
My drive home from the convention wasn’t too far—just a little under three hours—but it was long enough to put on some music and contemplate every single decision I’d made thus far in life. Mostly kidding; I was pretty content in the quiet little life I’d made for myself. I wasn’t a fan of drama, adventure, or really anything that could disrupt the peacefulness or dredge up unwanted anxieties from the depths of my brain. I had a best friend, a business that served as my full-time job and hobby, and a home.
Lane would immediately point out that a romantic relationship was missing from my list, but I really wasn’t upset by the lack of one, not like he was, anyway. I loved Lane, I did, but he was honestly a littletoofocused on dating sometimes.
I wasn’t against dating or hooking up, it just wasn’t something I often thought about. I was perfectly capable of being happy by myself.
I guess I was also a bit concerned about the sexual part of a relationship. I wasn’t sure how comfortable I’d be with someone sticking anything in me down there. What if it caused dysphoria? What if it hurt? They weren’t questions I particularly wanted to answer anytime soon. I mean, evenIhadn’t stuck anything in there. Rubbing the outside or humping pillows were perfectly acceptable forms of masturbation; I saw no reason for me to go out of my comfort zone just to hurt myself or make myself want to hurt myself potentially. Sometimes I wanted to try, but then I’d get all in my head, and it just wasn’t worth it.
I was able to have top surgery done the year after Grammy died, so at least there was that. I could probably write several essays on how much relief I felt waking up after the procedure to a flat chest. It felt like I’d been shot in the chest or trampled by elephants for a few days, but it had been entirely worth it. Thankfully, I had been able to close the shop and have Lane act as my nurse during the first stage of recovery. And yes, he did purchase and wear a sexy nurse costume for the occasion, because of course he did.
I was envious of how freely he expressed himself outwardly. Not that I’d want to wear a sexy nurse costume, but I’d die to have the confidence to.
Confidence was certainly not a trait I’d claim ever to have. Even after years of being on Testosterone and having top surgery done, there was still a good forty percent chance I’d be misgendered when meeting someone new. My height was not a normal height for adult men, at least in the court of public opinion. My face was still relatively soft, and my eyelashes were so dark and long that it looked like I had permanent mascara on. I had no facial hair and hardly any body hair. I didn’t have big muscles or a bulge.
Some days, it was like my skin didn’t quite fit. I would look in the bathroom mirror and catch glimpses of the man I knew myself to be, but it was like he was hidden behind layers of skin and bone that didn’t belong to him. There was always this low anxiety, buzzing like a bee trapped underneath my ribs—would they see me the way I saw myself? Or would they stare too long, trying to piece together the puzzle of what waswrongwith me? Before my surgery, I would painstakingly bind my chest, trying desperately to make it disappear, just for a few precious hours of feeling just a bit morerightin my reflection.
There was a distinct loneliness to it, too. Not because I didn’t have people who cared about me, but because there was always this invisible line between my experience and theirs. Most people wouldn’t understand what it was like to grieve a voice you never got the chance to have, or what it felt like always to have been the topic of whispered discussions. Every interaction felt like a test I hadn’t studied for, and every time I was misgendered, it felt like a cut that I had to pretend didn’t hurt.
Everyone always preached that you needed to love your body; treat it like a temple. But it was fucking hard to love it when it’d been a battleground for so long. Transitioning brought me closer to feeling like my true self in ways I’d never thought possible, but sometimes it also felt like trudging up the side of a mountain in a rainstorm. Sometimes it felt like I was mourning the life I should have had; the body that I should have been born into. Some mornings I woke up hopeful, and some mornings I woke up exhausted, wondering if it would ever get easier.
I tried my best to ignore my insecurities, to push them aside and focus on being grateful that I had access to gender-confirming surgeries and hormone replacement therapy. Sometimes I felt guilty for being upset. So many others would never have the chance to transition. My mind felt like a tug-of-war.
Having Lane around helped. Not only was he incredibly supportive of me, but he was a man who was feminine and proud of it. Next to him, especially when he had makeup on and was wearing a dress or skirt, I looked manly–or at least like a boy.
Smiling, I followed my GPS’s directions to an off-ramp of the highway I’d been driving on for miles.
All things considered, I loved my life.
It was messy, painful, and at times hopeless. But it was also beautiful, sometimes fun, and always all mine. Alongside the hardships, there had been a steady buildup of small, incredible victories: the first time someone called me by male pronouns, the first time I bought clothing out of the menswear section without feeling judged, the first time a gay man flirted with me.
Those moments were what I lived for.
