Dysphoria (from Greek δύσφορος (dysphoros), from δυσ-, difficult, and φέρω, to bear)
The opposite of euphoria (Dysphoria, Wikipedia.com)
Sisters, misters, those who not know who you are when I began to realize that perhaps my femme feelings and desires were other, I searched high and low for descriptions of gender dypshoria, hoping that to name the thing would be to tame it.
Hoping in my heart that I wouldn’t have it. For to have it is to face looking at the same face in the mirror and wonder, hope and yearn to be other, softer, made of light. Made of goodness.
See I always thought it meant you felt trapped in a woman’s body.
Which I have not felt.
Or that one hated their genitals.
Which I definitely did not. Let me assure you.
But dysphoria manifests itself in anxiety. Once while at work I looked down at my fingers typing and at once they were bathed in light and became the hands of a woman. Nails, polish, hairless, and pretty.
Like porcelain.
Like the very sunlight itself.
The hallucination/vision lasted only seconds, but the impression remains with me to this day.
Once I stared at a girl’s painted toes as she played with her mule. The mall noise became river water over stones. And for a second I felt her skin, as if my skin had somehow become the vehicle for her sensation.
Oh, to allow your consciousness to spread beyond the male body is holiness.
Is sex.
Is a painted lady.
Is a sculpture.
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