Standing Still
TW: Sexually Explicit Content, Gender Transition and Depression
Everything feels scary when your body doesn’t feel like home. I think I spend more time now getting dressed than I ever have in my life. My mind sways me towards one presentation while my body often shuts me into a different box altogether. This time consuming struggle has occupied the forefront of my mind for the past year, but recently I had a startling realization. Transitioning isn’t just how I present myself through my appearance. No, there is another layer to this; one that has left me rattled like a good jump scare in a horror movie I didn’t see coming.
I feel the need to press rewind and take a skip back to a time when my tinder account was set to show me women only, and I found myself flipping through the photos of a profile that belonged to a man.
This man was unexpected, and truly changed my life.
The first time I met him in person I knew I was safe with him and we spent many hours allowing our minds to connect in intimate ways. I shared with him that I recently discovered that I could leave my shirt on during sexual interactions. Sadly, this had never occurred to me as an option, and had caused introspection about the types of sex I had engaged in over the years. Had I always been performing rather than actually enjoying?
He held this information with a pensive look on his face and then posed a question:
“What is sex?”
I froze. Every answer I tried to pick up fell apart in my mouth. My date didn’t miss a beat, and before I knew it we were elbow deep in dissecting a life time of socialization and assumptive experiences. Is sex always penetrative? No. Is there always release? No. Is there always nudity? As mentioned, I recently had discovered that the answer to that one was definitely no. So if nudity doesn’t make sex, then can you have sex with your clothes on? Yes. Which quickly led to the question: can you have sex without touching someone? I was dumbfounded.
When the night had come to an end, he walked me to my car and kissed me goodnight. As he walked away he turned back and asked,
“Did we just have sex?”
This was almost two years ago now and my life looks very different, but that conversation always comes back to me when I need it most. And recently it hit me in the face like a ton of bricks. What is sex? Although my sexual horizons had become infinitely more free on that misty October night, what sex was to me two years ago was still through the lens of a woman. What I know now is that I am, in fact, not a woman at all. This internal dialogue violently shook me at a fundamental level. Being socialized as female is not only engrained into how I look, it is also a big part of how I carry my body. It bleeds into the way I walk, the body language I use, and yes, the way I have sex, clothed or not.
There have been a few separate instances during my transition where I have had fully clothed sexual experiences. Each time I was with a relatively fresh connection and each time has felt respectful, safe, and exciting; each time was also been followed by “the big sads.” This is how I label deep, sorrowful despair, and this emotion is very hard to drag myself out of. They tend to come with one single demand: witness. So, when the sads come I do my best hold my own space and witness them.
I’m lucky to have found my counsellor.
I have connected some of the dots and I see that “the big sads” following these sexual expressions are rooted in the automatically feminine dance my body does during these types of interactions. I am practicing self-compassion for my complete lack of knowledge around what types of interactions will feel more authentic for me, and I am also aware of the childhood shame and imposter syndrome that often shows up for me with gender work. Each time I have attempted to step into new sexual exploration since my transition started I have ended up in these dark places. So what is the answer then? If being sexual leaves me feeling despair, then is it best to put sex aside until I feel capable of holding myself through this level of vulnerability?
At this moment in time the answer is yes.
And now we are right back to where this post started; everything feels scary when your body does not feel like home. I own that I am carrying shame from my past. I own that I am carrying fear of the unknown. I know that I am transitional and that I deserve peace, so I am actively deciding to allow myself just that. Exhale sexual intention. Exhale sexualized touch. Exhale performing for other’s arousal and sexual approval.
Exhale fear, inhale intentional conversation with romantic connections. Exhale uncertainty, inhale clarity and boundaries. Exhale expectations, inhale safety.
My body, my rules, my timeline. My growth, my discovery, my comfort.
Exhale anxiety, inhale time to figure it out.