I was asleep, for better or worse. Probably better. When I'm out of school or work I'm a night owl to the point of regularly staying up past 4 AM doing absolutely nothing but this whole town kind of bores me to sleep. (I'd give anything to be bored right now.) I still went to bed pretty late though and my first thought on waking up was annoyance with the loud commotion in the hallway interrupting my sleep. I think I actually dozed off again for a little while after that, and I would've had another few hours of blissful ignorance if I didn't roll onto my stomach and notice something wrong with my chest.
Unfamiliar straight blonde hair (a far cry from my Jew-fro) blocked my vision while I fumbled my way out from under the covers. Sitting up only made it more obvious that there's something attached to my chest. It dawned on me what might be happening, but it still took me what felt like far longer than it actually was to psych myself up and pat my crotch. Or even do anything besides lie back on the bed and look at the ceiling, really. Because that's what I do when I get bad news I can't do anything about: I ignore it. I put myself in a hermetic seal until I can't stand it anymore.
Lying on the bed and doing literally nothing, as it turns out, doesn't shut myself off from sensation. There's obviously weight on my chest but the sheer newness of every sensation was enough to make zoning out impossible. The nothingness between my legs is so conspicuous. Hair brushed my shoulders and entangled itself against the pillow... Even the sheets, the colors, the light, the ambient nature of my mind felt different, somehow. Maybe you can chalk that last one up to the barely suppressed freakout but I swear, it's implacably different. The world, turned strange.
Once I couldn't take it anymore I said fuck this and reached for my phone, hitting me with the triple indignity of arms too short for the nightstand, hands too small for the phone (that one really hurts) and my browser opened to this blog. I tried reading a bit through the archives but once it became clear that I'm probably gonna have to live this woman's life I stopped. That's too much. I'm a horrible actor, and I've always prided myself in, if nothing else, knowing who I am and staying true to it. I refuse to think about it.
I also refused thinking more about what I look like now until I had to go to the bathroom (how's that for making it real...). I won't tell you about that part, but I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and couldn't hold back my curiosity anymore. Staring back at me I saw the kind of girl I'd hurriedly walk past if I saw her on campus because she's handing out pamphlets for why I should join her particular bible study group out of the approximately fifty billion we have at UVA. She's about 5'5", I'd say, and since I'm not (I wasn't?) a particularly tall guy I only lost a few inches. Kind of thickly built but not what I'd call chubby. About my age, maybe a little older?
I stared involuntarily into unfamiliar eyes for I don't even know how long until something snapped and I ran back to the bed and just sobbed. I felt a heat behind my eyes that hadn't been there since I was a kid... I'm not like this! Why do I have to be like this!? I can't be this woman...
So I didn't be this woman. For now. I haven't left the room in hours even though I'm fucking starving because there's still people around here and I don't want to face being seen as, whatever I am. If I go through that doorway, or look inside the suitcase I found in the closet, this all becomes real and, I'd like to avoid that for as long as I'm able. That's why I'm blogposting when I have way more important things to worry about right now. Is that why all you people do it?
Also, someone knocked on my door just now, right as I was finishing writing all this. Guess we'll see if that means anything... later.
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