Oof. Today is apparently a day of big non-binary feels.Ā
Most of the time, I present myself to the world as a religiously observant woman. I wear long skirts, sleeves to the elbow, some kind of head covering now that Iām married (in most places.) This is not a lie. But it is also not the truth, either.
Itās a mode ā an option. A choice. Itās one shitty choice in the series of shitty choices that is being non-binary. See the thing about being non-binary is that right now there really just arenāt good options for functioning in society. You can fight it out, insisting on being called after your correct name and pronouns and presenting in a readably non-binary way if your dysphoria around presentation and authenticity is more painful than the inevitable deluge of ignorant comments, misgendering, and generalized binary assumptions and obstructions.
But a lot of us canāt do that, or canāt sustain that. The mental energy required to live like that is immense. So many of us make a trade ā we pick one. We pick one because we have to shop in one clothing section or another and our bodies are too large or too small or otherwise not shaped to fit into the specialized androgynous clothing that is made for slim twenty-somethings. We pick one because gender neutral bathrooms are nowhere near as ubiquitous as gendered bathrooms and we choose being in public and not damaging our bladders over identity. We pick one because we have to get jobs and interact with the public in settings outside of queer theory classes. We pick one. We pick one.Ā
We pick one.
And which one we pick may be the opposite one assigned to us at birth ā we may show the world a binary trans face or we may (if we even have the option) be stealth, but regardless, we pick one. Or, we may choose the one that aligns with the one assigned to us at birth ā we may access physical transition, or not, but regardless, we pick one.
We pick one, because years of misgendering snowball into anger, into depression, into apathy. We pick one because we feel wrung out, like blood drenched sheets holding nothing but memories and stains. We pick one because hell, if people are going to constantly pigeon-hole us into one or the other anyway, we may as well have some say in which one it is. Maybe if we present so clearly as one thing or the other, then we can excuse the āshesā and the āhersā or āhesā and the āhims,ā because how would they even know we could possibly be using anything else, anyway? We pick one, because some control is better than a constant lack of control. Of feeling like your body and your identity and your experiences are public property, powerlessly accepting judgment and comment.
We pick one, because of the well-meaning people who can never quite get it right, or do get it right but emphasize it inadvertently, or seem to get it effortlessly, but still want to correct other people and thereby draw attention to it, or talk about it ā but we donāt. Because it hurts. Because itās been so long. Because we know that even if that one person gets it right, all that will do is throw into relief the constant stream of people who donāt know and donāt care. Better to just keep it consistently wrong, right? At this point, the pronouns that once called me into myself and brought me home now hurt like hot water on nearly frostbitten hands.
And thatās just it ā we pick one, and we pick one, and we pick one ā until one day we wake up and we donāt remember who we are anymore. Canāt articulate who we are even to ourselves anymore, the words foreign and stale. We start to lose that piece of our consciousness, but not our reality; it would be better if it would just disappear, but it doesnāt. So it just gets buried, wordless, this hard, bitter lump of a fuller self that made so much sense at the time and burned too brightly for its wattage.
We trade social functioning and paychecks and safety in bathrooms for an authenticity in our sense of self until we lose the words, and the only thing left is this general sense of unease and silence and a sadness that lingers in the back of our minds, until it comes welling up, unbidden, when we try to fall asleep at night, or in our intimacy, or in moments of prayer.
But whatās the alternative? Iām honestly not sure. Iāve lived the first choice. A third choice? A fourth? The sick part is that at this point, the cumulative effect of all of this is that Iām not even sure I could function in a space that was actually designed for people like me. The trauma of this years-long atrophy of self feels unsolvable, unhealed and unhealable.
If I had the option of caring without it consuming me, would I have the courage to revive the feeling from this numbness? Would I even know how? I honestly donāt know anymore.
The only answer I have, the only one Iāve ever been able to find, is that thereĀ isnātĀ an answer. There isnāt an actual truth or an authentic form of self, because the self isnāt a noun ā itās a verb. You have to live your life, not define it. We are all made in the image of G-d, but that āimageā isnāt what we look like, or how we present ourselves ā itās our whole lives. So then what matters isnāt the minutia of our presentations, but to enjoy being ourselves. I donāt have to figure out some existential truth of who I really am, which is good, because itās not possible. I just have to likeĀ beingĀ who I am.
