Mastectomy

Trigger Warning: Medical gore, mental illness, substance abuse

Double incision. Remove the tissue. Sew it up.

Self-surgery by an untrained professional is risky, and it would most likely result in death. Even if I was trained, it would be declared as self-mutilation and back into the psych ward I would go. I'd sooner run away than return to that hellhole. Hypothetically- this is very much hypothetical, totally- I would not use anesthesia. That's a given, I can't operate if I'm unconscious. I would need something to numb the pain, though. Heroin is illegal and highly addictive, and after my uncle died from it I can't even look at a needle without shaking. Morphine, maybe. Less illegal. I could go to Oxycodone, though due to my very small dependency on it, the effect won't work as well. I just want to get out of this dysphoria.

My bones feel like they will burst through my skin. Every breath I take is constricted by a body that isn't mine. Generic trans statement, I know. But today is bad. It's getting worse as my breasts and hips continue to grow whilst the cisgender boys around me get taller, their voices deepening. I want to dig my claws into my chest and rip off the heavy fat weighing me down. My muscles are contracting, tightening, my joints crack, my face contorts. This body is not mine, an itchy skinsuit wrapping around my bones. My skeleton, untouched, identical to all my peers, trans or cis or whatever they are. It feels like an extra pair of hands trapped underneath my ribs, hands gripping my bones, metal bars jailing the boy stuck inside. If only he could break through the bars, rip through the flesh and be free, finally.

I stand here now, looming over a deceased animal, scalpel in hand. My parents call it a fixation. I guess I fit the criteria, spending countless hours locked in my room reading books on anatomy, drawing up diagrams, practicing my surgical procedures on stuffed animals. Now, it's time to practice on something more realistic. I didn't kill the dog, I'm not evil. I found it outside of school, freshly killed by a clean bite to the neck from a coyote, evident of the teeth marks. The coyote didn't take the prey, however, it must have been frightened by some unknown source and skittered away. This dog is female. She recently gave birth, helping me find the breasts even easier. It is time to operate.

Scalpel. Mask. Bright lamp. Disinfectant. Suction tube. Scissors. Speculum. Forceps. Tray.

During the surgery, I had successfully removed all tissue and disposed of it safely. The procedure was approximately two hours and twenty-six minutes long. I buried the dog in the backyard of my neighbor's house. They probably won't notice.

My "fixation" first began when I read a book about a trans kid who dissected dead animals and had an obsession for all things medical. It is quite easy for me to get attached to something if someone else is. I do not aspire to become a doctor; I just want to get rid of these horrible, disgusting, feminine, weightly, burdening, dysphoria-inducing things attached to my torso.

Now that my practice is finished, I feel empty. I finally find a distraction, a passion, a way to feel useful and exhilarated... but once it's done, the world comes crashing back. A while ago I read another book- I read quite a lot- and a passage described being trans as having an inch of air between your muscles and your skin. If you didn't move carefully enough, the skin would brush the muscle and it would feel awful. It's strange, having dysphoria, because underneath we are all the same. Our bones, our muscles, our organs. The thrum of our hearts, the flow of our blood, the popping of our joints, the filtering of our livers.

I am apparently sitting on my bed. I do not know how I got here. Did I sit down? Presumably. My mind is beginning to wander. In English we're studying Shakespeare. A Midsummer Night's Dream, to be exact. We will soon perform it. I am playing Demetrius. And here am I, and wode within this wood. And here am I, and wode within this body. For I am sick when I do look upon thee. For I am sick when I do look upon the mirror.

I do not know why I am thinking of this. Most likely my very deep desire to escape the feeling of my dysphoria. Sometimes I feel like Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock and Dr. House, the stars of the TV shows I constantly watch to occupy my head when my hands are shaking too much to perform surgery. Both characters are devoid of emotion, have a strange type of intelligence, addicted to drugs... qualities I, too, share. Well, I wouldn't consider myself addicted, but I do sometimes revert to tobacco patches or, in very dire cases, Oxy. I am sixteen years of age, but my mother began smoking at twelve, so some would say it runs in the family. We learned about addiction risk factors in health class. I happened to tick all the boxes.

Sherlock Holmes has what he calls his mind palace. Sometimes I can dissociate for hours on end. I wonder if that counts. I appear to relate greater to Dr. House, though. We are both obsessive, medical, drugged sociopaths that hate ourselves. Sometimes I think about what life would be like if I had a partner to reign me in. House's Wilson, Sherlock's John. I wonder if I could ever love someone. If someone could ever love me. Weird, ugly, depressing, messed-up me.

I have never kissed anyone. It seems like something so wasteful, so disgusting. Sharing mouths with another is grossly unhygienic. We eat food with those holes, why the hell would we want to taste another's breath? And don't get me started with sex. I understand the purpose of reproduction, but in this day and age, sex is rarely about procreating. Exchanging bodily fluids for pleasure? Most people barely clean their genitals, especially the males. Though I would never wish to see a penis- or dick, it is sometimes called- I wish I could have one. I wish I could slip into bed with my boxers, shirtless. I wish I could have a bulge in my pants instead of my shirt.

I feel the dysphoria seeping back in at the thought. Great. The monster begins stirring inside, screaming to get out. My tobacco has taken too long to seep in. Reaching for my stash of Oxy, I begin to daydream again. Mastectomy. Double incision mastectomy. Top surgery. Masculinizing chest surgery. Mastectomy. Mastectomy. I find myself standing, my legs moving without permission. I grab my favorite scalpel. Drop down onto the bed. Close my eyes. One, two, three, four. A small slit appears under my left breast. One, two, three, four. Another cut under my right. One, two, three, four. The pain hits me. I bite down on a stuffed animal to stop from screaming. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Blood. Too much blood, I recognize, I will bleed out. One, two, three, four. Oh god, this isn't- it hurts- no, no, I'm blacking out- Oxycodone, tobacco, scalpel, double incision- my blood pressure is dropping too quickly, I'm slipping away- I just want it off of me, I just want the boy to escape, I just want a mastectomy- I just want a mastectomy-

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