Feminal Effigy

Hell Hath No Fury like Late Stage Queer Trauma

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Fire perpetually scorches my heart, building deep within my soul. I search to find its source. At first, I thought it grew from fear. Fear from that early, rooted question in adolescence that I could not define for so long. I try to think of jock straps and six-packs, but feel nothing but numb. I remember being young, sitting on a stage in drama club. The way the spotlight shined through her hair. How it glistened against her skin, casting an ethereal glow. She seemed to cast a spell over me as I stared, mesmerized by her smile and the squint of her eye as she laughed. A tremor ran through me. It was a feeling seeking freedom that I could not name. But what was this?

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Later, much later, years later... I asked myself, Am I queer? The answer was no, but also yes. Fear settled in for the hardships we would face. Fear of my own intentions and attraction. Fear of an unknown identity. What does this mean? What does it look like? Okay, yes, I am queer—but what kind? What label must I now wear? Am I Lesbian? Pan? Bi? Demi? Or just scared?

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I fear that I feel no attraction at all. At times, I feel unwillingly asexual, yet I still dream of sensual companionship. I dream of running my fingers down their silhouette. Fear fuels my tears as I worry that this lack of urge is due to a health issue, impairing my functionality. The overstimulation of nerve endings from fibromyalgia strips away any fun to be had. Tickling, painful sensations overwhelm me from the halo of my scalp, down my spine, into my toes. The lightest touch reveals bruising pressure. I yearn to touch another and be touched, anywhere but these areas of dysfunction.

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A glimmer of hope appears as new medicine courses through my bloodstream. My body quiets down for a moment, whispering back—no, yelling—"think more about sapphic knights." The fear fades away as pleasure floods in. New feelings overwhelm my system. Yes, I am queer. And yet, I find that fire is still burning. Perhaps there is another fear I must address, beyond sexual urges.

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Who am I? Am I yearning to be these things I seek? Confident, androgynous, and beautiful, as I perceive others to be? Startlingly at first, I wonder: am I someone without gender? Was I a woman dripping with femininity? Or am I a vessel in which I express myself freely? If I still dress in a feminine way, are the flowers I wear symbolic of the ovaries I carry? I fear the gaze that settles on my chest, of men seeing a short skirt and the curve of a bra. Am I safer beyond gender? Is there any way to exist outside their gaze? What does it even mean to be without gender? It feels correct as an expression, yet I am unsure how to phrase an accurate summation of this experience.

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What labels can fit together to describe the un-unified stasis of my being? Will I ever be joined in space and time, completely and wholly, as a singular being? Is there even a uniform answer to discover? Perhaps then I will know who I wish to court and what label to wear - so sure of my own being that I can then take on the dutiful sharing of another. And what if this day is to never come? Should I sit and wait until I am whole before attempting love? 

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In this panic I realize beyond this fear and uncertainty lies something deeper forged by those with pitchforks harbored within cathedral walls. Their toxic vitriol aimed at me. But which part of me do they hate? Which part must I fear? Which part must I serve to the world on a platter as I search for totality? Shall I now turn from the world for sharing this folly, this deep horror within myself? An angst that might crumble away my very existence? 

 

I know for certain now, that this fire must be for me. It sears away at my insides, burning away my person for such cringeworthy existence, for such feelings of shame and uncertainty - thoughts of turning to dust rather than be perceived as so broken and unsure at this adult age. Because those benchmarks of youth, first kisses, a brush of someone’s fingertips, are still foreign to me. These disconnected feelings, those first moments of love, that others have already experienced, knowing themselves much younger than I. These will forever be lost to time. 

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My years of youth were marked by abuse and cages. Boxes I had to fit within. Pain I was forced to carry. Dresses, skirts, frilly things. Coatings of makeup and hair rollers. Standing in the kitchen, shorter than the linoleum countertop, helping the women of the family prepare a meal. All to subconsciously ensure I was known “correctly.” But before all this, I played in the mud with Hot Wheels, water hose in hand, laughing on a summer day, still frolicking with flowers. Still liking some of the pinks and sparkle, but yearning to be more. I remember standing backstage without makeup, being told I looked like a boy. My uncovered skin and unadorned eyes stripped of womanhood. I was overwhelmed with panic. I was without my mask, without the identity I felt I had to wear.

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Now, I find myself nonbinary and queer. Unmasked, even when wearing makeup. This openness brings new fear. If I go against culture, must I become untethered from the world, floating alone, unconnected? Will I lose my family? I just want to be loved. I fear emptiness, nothingness, darkness. Inside me, deep below these bellows of flame, there is just void. The ashes taken by gravity, so dense, that no light can escape their cavernous expanse. Is this where I am meant to reside? This deepness, chaining me down in the heaviness. No strength to stand. My chest so tight I cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot scream. These dark ruminations build over time, climbing higher, and higher, fueling the fire. I can see now, this fire is built on fear, but its flames tell a different story. Rage. 

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This is a feeling I am not supposed to know. The more I ignore it, the more it overcomes my very core. Fury rises, filling my heart. Not just for me, but for everyone trapped in these dark places. Hidden away from their own nature. This fire isn’t for me, it’s for the world. It is to set ablaze the injustice of self-identity, of human emotion, of safety. I finally release a scream so powerful, the chains that hold me break.

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It took me so long to accept this anger as mine. Tempered paternal memories shadowed this feeling as something evil, but my fire is different. Where others take their rage and turn cruel, I found new understanding and gentleness. Acknowledgment of the horrors of the world, but seeing through the cracks in the walls that reveal so much more beauty to be discovered. A cascading aura of hues dances in this inferno, raw color flickering before my eyes. It has created light within me. I was so afraid it would burn away who I was, but it was making room for metamorphosis. Shedding a skin that was not my own. Spreading a pain that was searching for release, for air, to reach the sky and dissipate. This turmoil turned into something beautiful. A controlled burning of that which no longer serves me.

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It fills the cavernous place I lived in. My heart sings with fiery passion for love, for hope, for morning sun and fresh breeze - gasping for breath, filling my lungs for the first time. I waited so long for this day to come not realizing I was still trapped inside their box. I had let more of myself burn away inside, not knowing that I could awaken anew. I had to learn to find strength from this fire, with enough of a shove, I could open the box. It is here I find that I am not alone, I was just blinded. I spent so long quivering in my own suffering, not knowing who I would become when the fire burnt out. This flame is eternal. I will gain the strength to rise from these ashes in a journey of healing. I will claim this light as mine. It need not swallow me whole, because it is part of my whole. Fractals of chaos and uncertainty, but also joy, inspiration, and kindness. Those nonsensical structures, laws of gender and love made up by those no longer alive, need not hold me down. Because I am here, and I am alive.