Written on skin

Author’s note: This post contains topics and visuals that may be triggering to anyone who is or has suffered from self harm/injury.

“What are those?” My mother doesn’t qualify what she’s referring to, nor does she point or give any clear indications. Instead, there’s a subtle connection between here grey-blue eyes and the markings on my forearms. At first, I’m tempted to feign ignorance and sarcastically shoot back, “They’re called tattoos, Mom.” But I know what she means. She’s not looking at the kitsune dancing over the painted lilies, nor is she observing the cherry tree that Steve free-handed on my arm. What caught my mother’s eye were the series of pale, parallel lines etched across my skin—faded visages of my darkest hours and my most deep-seated self hatred, permanently made manifest. Instead of a snarky retort, I lie. I tell my mom I cut my arm on the loose frame of my now-deceased rat’s cage. I don’t know if my mom buys this pathetic excuse, but she doesn’t press the issue further. She continues eating her lunch and our afternoon continues without further mention of my scars.

I remember carving each of the lines into my skin. I remember vividly cleaning the knife and plunging the still soapy tip into my arm. The feel of dragging the cold, metal blade through my flesh—the simultaneously searing warmth, the scathing sting that followed, as ruby beads bubbled to the surface. Clutching my arm in my shaking hand, teeth grinding against the pain, I felt a strange euphoria flooding through me: emotional pain transferred into physical reality, escaping, momentarily, through my veins and into the cold Washington winter air.

But it’s important to remember that feeling of euphoric release is momentary. It’s only a temporary escape from the hell of my mind. Reality crashes down quickly thereafter. I remember the doubts that followed almost as vividly: am I damaged? What’s wrong with me? Am I broken? Am I crazy? Wasn’t transitioning supposed to fix the depression, not make it worse? Depression has a strange way of distorting the mind. Cutting became a magical way of grounding me in a physical reality. Cutting transformed my body into something that was as hideous and broken as I felt inside. This is the danger of transitioning before you’re ready—this is what happens when you’ve internalized all the transphobia of the world and then, without reconciling those attitudes, diving head-first into a transition; those clear blue waters that were supposed to hold the freedom of self-ideation quickly morphed into a thick black wave, all-consuming.

A voice in my head kept repeating: “You’re not a girl. Look at you—you’re too tall, your face is too masculine, your shoulders too broad. You look hideous. You are nothing like that girl you imagined”—the girl with the red hair. My soul mate...my saviour. I was a disgrace—a poor imposter. The voice continued: “You’re not normal. You’re not like the other girls—the NATURAL girls.” And it was true. What am I? Who am I?

Existential doubts are toxic to someone in mid-transition. I found myself calling the local crisis line just for some human contact—a kind word and a sympathetic ear. I put myself into the hospital twice because medical attention was still attention nonetheless. But all these avenues were hollow. The hospitals neglected me, isolated me and asked me condescending questions about my gender; the voices of the crisis line became more impatient and cared more that I didn’t damage my body than that I had a damaged soul. I even took solace knowing that, statistically, girls were more likely than boys to engage in self injury. As I said, depression has a weird way of warping the mind.

I think it was Elizabeth Wurtzel who first compared depression to Hemmingway’s famous quote about going bankrupt; it happens “first gradually, then suddenly.” She’s right. Turns out returning from depression is much the same; I cannot tell you how I managed to crawl out of self injury or how I learned to swim out of the black wave (again, Wurtzel’s imagery. I give her props—she’s the master of describing what it’s like to be depressed). I cannot outright tell you the wisdom I learned that made everything ok, partly because I’m still learning it and partly because the lesson cannot be taught. It has to be experienced to be learned. It has to become engrained on your skin—an etched reminder.