Not A Recall

Art by Stanislav Szukalski, Enslavement by the Predators, 1975. No copyright infringement intended.

Author's note: Another quick stream of consciousness written in response to societal "normality" and the unfortunate side effects of dysphoria. Enjoy it for what it is and Merry Christmas to all.

I feel palpable the fantasy which creates my reality. I feel loneliness in a body that only exists in my mind and for no one with eyes to see. I believe in the reality of the neurons firing this unreality upon me and signaling my nervous system to shake and tremor in its light. I believe more the people telling me and affirming in their pronouns that my reality is not real. I believe more in your reality than mine and that makes my days harder to bear.

It makes it harder to bare these layers of skin and especially harder to bear these emotions. The emotions that rack my brain in repulsion to my body. For every smile at the naturalness of the soft curves wrapped in fabric creates a stronger and sharper muscle in my jaw as it sets to clench. For every laugh that spills at the nervousness of my highest shrill, creates a low hum and a quieter whisper that falls from my lips. For every emotion that I know to be true comes an untrust of myself for thinking it. For my brain enraptured by fantasy that becomes unreal as it conforms to your reality. For my identity falling from my lips that creates every widened eye revealing more and more the white of your eyes and the repulsion in the blacks of your irises.

As if every memory I hold is laced with trickery of deceit that I now doubt myself before reciting. As if my truth is warped in some sick siphoning of another’s cells and story. As if the tearing of innocence from my body with the removal of his fingers were a fundamental misunderstanding of this body’s use. As if my perceivable inability to grow of the supposed were some kind of sick joke that the world uses as comedy. As if my defect were direct reflection upon my humanity as a product being pulled from shelves in recall. As if I was to be pulled apart and expunged for my inability to preform as “ordered.”

So now I am forced to reprogram myself for a third time. At once I knew the truth, from birth I had fundamentally understood for that with which there is purpose. At puberty, a string of consciousness shoved down my throat in a sort of programming that I had failed to produce the end result. In adulthood, I rediscover in learning to trust myself once again above and beyond the binary of the human conveyor belts.

So I can tell myself I am at fault for not conforming to societal conclusion. The inevitable that is written in code of my DNA. I am by all expectation at fault but I am no mistake. For some are not produced to share the mold, but some are made in order to shape and form the next model.

Therefore I am not a recall. I am a revelation, poised and embodied in resolution and revolution.