Too close to be safe

It creeps in on me. 

It’s the small things first. How the darkness starts to get closer, how the shadows seem to move towards me, how it’s getting harder to breathe. The sun doesn’t shine as bright as mere moments before. Something has shifted, but I don’t know what. Is it the atmosphere? Is it some kind of sixth sense? I don’t know, but I feel uncomfortable.

The tightness of my skin is tormenting me. It hurts. It hurts so much, and it hurts too much. I can’t stand it. I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t need this in my life, this feeling that makes me nauseous and feel out of sync with everything around me. It’s impossible to live like this. Out of sync, out of breath, out of mind.

The people who are walking near me on the street are too close. They are everywhere. They are stealing my air, my space, my calm. They are making me paranoid.

Will they hurt me today? Is this the day that will be the last? I don’t know. I never know.

I start to panic, my breath gets stuck in my throat, I’m suffocating. I see the way they are looking at me. Is it because I look nervous? Maybe because my breathing is too loud? Is it my looks? Can they see it? Can I conceal it, or is it too late?  I don’t know exactly where I am, and it’s scaring the living shit out of me. They seem dangerous, violent. What will they do if they catch me? Will it hurt a lot?

I try to broaden my shoulders, relax my walk, take everything in stride, but I fail.

I fail.

Hands. Height. Clothes. Looks. Attitude. CIS-people everywhere. I am in a war zone, a spy, a broken person. They whisper about me, make assumptions, make me some kind of threat.

I’m not. But still they make me the enemy. I don’t understand why. I have never started anything violent, I don’t even like violence. Still. I need to be prepared. They see me as something so dangerous that they keep me from getting the things I need to be able to simply breathe. Simply survive. And hopefully, some day, simply live. 

The waiting list for what I need stretches out before me. It’s a ridiculous amount of time that is needed to get help. And it is impossibly difficult to get it even then, somewhere in the future. Meanwhile I’m stuck in this hellhole, trying to keep up, trying to fly under the radar, trying hard to blend in. Trying to sound right, look right, feel right. It’s always about that. Adapting, compromising, never being able to fully be myself.

I can’t change my hands. They are too small. My height is too short. God, how I would have loved being just ten centimeters longer! I would’ve still been short, but less alarmingly so. 

But I can still work on the clothes. Nothing about them says anything but “real CIS-dude bro”. And I like them. I like how they make me feel. I like the attitude they give me. They give me confidence in this dangerous world. But still. I will never be CIS. There will always be people who can see through me, who can judge and harm the real me, not just the front I put up. I can never really relax. Every step out in the everyday life of society holds the potential to be fiercely dangerous. And I am so very fragile.

Cautious. I need to stay cautious. Don’t let them catch me off guard. Keep your guard. Keep your guard. Never let it down. Never surrender.

But what if it hurts a lot? How will I react this time? How broken will I be? And how long will it take to recover?

Suffocate, suffocate, suffocate.

Please don’t make me suffocate.

I need to breathe.

In

Out

In

Out

The paranoia is winning, despite all my efforts. I fight it, I fight it. I know that it is all in my head. It’s all in my head, right? Please say it’s all in my head. Breathe, you useless fuck. Breathe. Don’t let it take over. You’re done if you let it take over. 

I try to pull myself out of my own head. If I am honest, I know that the people around me probably aren’t really interested in me. They are not actually trying to hurt me. They are not actually looking at me. It just feels like that. Yeah, it just feels like it. 

But as I get closer to a group of loud guys I realize that it’s not just in my own head. 

It’s not just my paranoia playing tricks on me. 

It’s not something that I’ve made up. The feeling is real. The threat is real. I see how they motion towards me. I see how they start to whisper and I see the mean glances they cast when they look at me. I tense. There is no escaping this time. I understand, but still I try. I try to find a way. I need to get to my safe space.

Quickly, quickly now. Don’t let them get too close, but it’s already too late. I can see the anticipation. I can see it in their eyes, in the springiness of their step. In the dark light they cast out as they approach me. 

The people on the street around me are turning a blind eye. They act as they don’t see what is happening, even when they hear the sounds, the beating, the screams. I can’t hold it in anymore. I fight. I fight, but I am no match to the angry hands of the men who are breaking me. I try to stay conscious, even if I don’t really want to. It would be so easy to slip away, to let everything just wash out in the blackness, to disappear in darkness. 

I need to get out of here, but I’m lost. I’m so very lost. 

I’m lost, and I am heartbroken.

Where is my safe place?