I come from a house of notes. Not structured sentences with eloquent endings, but monosyllabic requests and replies. Need ride to work. Okay. Do dishes. Yes.
Grunts on paper and averted eyes in the halls. We lived as strangers, ignoring the blood that deemed us united. I can recall the singular time my father said, “I love you.” Drowned by discomfort in the backseat and scurrying away lest his feeble attempt at paternal affection seep into our spirit.
Mother? Dead. A letter littered with madness left in her wake. When I read her note, I neither cry nor laugh. Just wonder. If she’d been here, would I be different? Would I be a woman? Would things be better?
Later, as my chest swelled and my essence shattered, I tried writing notes of my own. Do u like me back? Circle: Yes, No, Maybe.
Always ‘no.’ Never the pretty girl, never asked to the dance or out for an ice cream. Branded manly because I pursued boys who wanted nothing to do with a tall, androgynous beast.
Later, I fell for drunks. Writing lines on my skin as a consolation prize. Excusing the yelling and the fighting and the agony. Cleaning up their vomit and stuffing down my needs. Not in love with, in love at.
At someone who might notice me.
At someone who might accept my bulging belly and fractured brain.
At someone who might care.
They sprinkled words on the ground. I wish I wasn’t so shallow so we could be together,
and, I’m attracted to your mind, but the rest… Stringing me along and cackling as I devoured the dirt.
For twelve years, I avoided relationships. Perhaps my aversion to sex and dating can be blamed on ‘being in the wrong body,’ as others claim, but there’s another page in this story. Worries that I might attack a loved one if my brain betrays me. Convinced they plot my demise while I decline my meds. Or maybe I’d spank a little too hard, bite a bit too deep. Immersed in a world of my own creation, psychosis places hands over my eyes and shame on my soul.
Bipolar Disorder, Schizophrenia, Schizoaffective. Woman, Man, Trans. Different labels, different limitations. Access to care made a difference, but it didn’t make me stable. Talking and sharing and hoping, hoping for one day without suicidal thoughts. One day when the walls don’t shift and shimmer. One day when I can love and be loved.
In 2020, I received a comment, written in tears and taking root in my heart. We exchanged messages, back and forth, close and closer. Until I chose to try. And, thanks to a patient woman and a persistent want, this paid off. Aegosexuality is little known, but a big part of me. Experiencing pleasure through a lens, tweaking myself and my identity until I can achieve relief. Joy. Climax.
With leaden limbs and swollen fingers, she and I adjust. Pillows and baths and massages. Pills, creams, and braces. Ouch. Just…yeah, move a little that way. Okay, slow down. That’s working. Oh wait, yeah, it’s…damn.
Orgasms are hard to come by, no pun intended. Dysphoria? Probably. But sometimes reality intrudes. Knocking on the door of my awareness and pinning me to the floor.
You can’t be that.
You can’t be him.
You’ll never be enough.
The visions and voices do not torment her, but she understands. Why she can’t touch me in darkness, in case I strike. Why she must never say my name in ecstasy. Why she has to answer hospital phone calls and wait for my release.
So she welcomes me home. Rubs my puffed kneecaps and monitors my moods. A muse who not only adores, but uplifts me. Showing me through words and work that I am not broken. She doesn’t put the pieces back together, but gifts me strength to pick up the glue.
At first I hid the scars. Warned her about exclamation points on my wrists which punctuate the past. She wept. Kissed each one. Didn’t ask me to stop and didn’t walk away.
Making love is an event. Careful conversation. Safe words. Stopping, checking, listening. She twists. Under my body and my specific desires. Until safety fuses our skin.
Words echo through my skull, cruel and caustic. Branding me an imposter, damning me to hell. My spine hollers, drowned out by her delighted screams. Hurting and halting, we continue. Once a week, twice. A production with two directors, two stars, and rare happy endings.
But it’s worth it. She’s worth it.
And so am I.
About the author
Dean Robert Holmes (he/him) is an aegosexual, transmasculine author and artist who uses creativity to manage schizoaffective disorder. Through his work, he often explores psychological themes and the power of queer love. His first collection of short stories, “Unlocked: Seven Titillating Tales of Gay Trans Love and Lust” can be found wherever books are sold, and his debut contemporary romance novel “Treading Water” will be out soon.
Find Dean on Instagram, Threads, and TikTok as @fandomtransmandom, and on his website at deanrobertholmes.com.