Oneiroi Zero-Eight

Written by Erik Garkain ©  2018 

(Approx. 32,000 words)

Chapter 1: Life is Elsewhere

Mica joined the queue for the Firefly coach from Sydney to Adelaide, all his worldly possessions in his tattered backpack. At the front of the line, the ticketing lady looked at him twice before asking if he was sure, was that really where a nice boy like him wanted to go?

‘Yes, Ma’am,’ he said with a polite smile.

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘You one of them, then? Those infected, those—Volatiles?’ She growled the slur at him. ‘That’s all Adelaide’s good for anymore. No more City of Churches, it’s City of Freaks now!’ she spat.

Mica’s heart pounded as he snatched the ticket away rougher than he’d intended. ‘You see anything freakish about me, lady?!’ he managed. Mica knew there were limited outward physical signs of his mutation and he’d almost perfected the art of pretending there were none. He turned his back with more confidence than he felt, then boarded the bus to the sounds of her incoherent grunts. The curious gazes of his fellow passengers, who all looked as normal as him but could quite as easily be hiding their own secrets, followed his steps.

The bus was at near capacity for the overnight trip to Melbourne, but most people disembarked into the first flush of morning at Southern Cross station. The city was already bustling, and the aroma of coffee wafted through every street. This metropolis was mostly unchanged, still home to people unaffected by the Oneiroi Zero-Eight virus that had spread throughout the country. People who didn’t want to know freaks like him. People like his family, those unaffected by the retrovirus. Apparently, Adelaide was an entirely different story.

There were only a handful of people still aboard when the bus passed through Ballarat, and after the drivers changed at Horsham, Mica was the only passenger left. He was the only one to see the illuminated billboards in the night. Not the path you seek. Turn back and find the light: A message brought to you by the Anti-Oneiroi Community. And another one not even half a kilometre down the road, a desperate last plea by the same community who were petitioning for mandatory testing and isolation of the infected. There is life elsewhere. Call us today. Concerned citizens spreading the words of their God; ignorant of the increasing statistics of scared young people killing themselves because of that same hateful propaganda and fear mongering bullshit. The same support ‘community’ that his parents had contacted after he’d come out to them when he received his blood test back. The ones that had influenced his parent’s views on his affliction, made him appear like a predator to his kid sister when Mica refused to attend their internment ‘camp’… and his father’s belligerent last words to his firstborn.

Mica turned away before his rising hatred had time to get the better of him, but the next billboard pulled his attention back. Two people, seemingly in full body makeup rivalling the best prosthetic special effects in the industry, dressed to the nines, their top hats dipped low. Their arms were held back like a private welcoming ceremony to the greatest show on earth. And the words, quoted from one of his favourite superhero films, Hellboy: All us freaks have is each other. And, Welcome home.

Mica grinned and settled more comfortably in his seat.

#

In the early hours of the night, almost twenty-four hours since he’d boarded, they stopped outside of a place called ‘Sweeties Bakehouse’ in the small country town of the unambiguously named, Bordertown, though it was almost twenty kilometres from the actual border separating Victoria from South Australia. The deli was a dimly lit weatherboard shop sporting two large wagon wheels. Here the bus keys exchanged hands once again. Fuzzy with perpetual dozing, Mica peered out of the window at the two drivers who conversed and traded satchels. Lights from the neighbouring Shell service station didn’t penetrate the shadows enough to see the pair clearly beneath a gently swaying tree, but the new driver glanced up and directly at Mica. What light there was reflected from his eyes and Mica shrank back. It must have been pitch black on the bus, only the headlights and safety lights around the outside were lit up – there was no way he could have seen in, could he?

Mica sank away from the window and deeper into his seat, his eyes bleary from sporadic sleep and his mind still vague from dreams, or so he convinced himself. The new chauffeur boarded and stood glancing down the aisle at his single silent passenger. Mica feigned sleep but swore the driver’s eyes gleamed red beneath his hood for only a second or two. He clutched his backpack closer to his chest and calmed his breathing. The bus rumbled into ignition and sat idling for a moment while the driver sorted himself out. Mica breathed a sigh of relief as the bus rolled down the quiet street and back onto the highway.

Weathered signs were highlighted by the bus’s high beams. Some of these vandalised, ripped down, but their messages were all the same: Road Closed Ahead; No Access; Restricted Area; Quarantine; Do Not Venture Beyond This Point; Oneiroi Zero-Eight Infected Zone. Mica stared. 

The bus slowed to a stop. Were they going to be turned away? Mica sat taller, his head swivelling, searching for danger. 

The driver didn’t appear worried. He stood up casually and stretched rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck from side to side. ‘Pit stop,’ he called down the aisle. ‘Won’t be a moment.’ The front door yawned open, and the driver disembarked. 

He reappeared moments later strolling towards the shell of a long since abandoned single brick office building. Colourful scrawls of graffiti and the charcoal stain of fire were visible through a single busted window. A huge weathered sign labelled it ‘Checkpoint Zone 6’. The driver walked straight up to the checkpoint, shuffled around in the front of his pants and started pissing on the remains of the building.

Mica jerked his eyes away. Six-foot fences topped with razor wire surrounded them and disappeared into the darkness beyond – how long did they go on for? Once in, was he trapped? But it had been damaged, and there wasn’t a single person to enforce the quarantine. No doubt, when the virus has been new and scary, these gates would have been heavily restricted. He’d heard about the testing measures to ensure only the infected were allowed to pass. Nowadays people were free to make their own decisions whether to come or go. What uninfected person would want to cross this border? And who of the infected would think it was a good idea to leave? Or perhaps, did too many people carry latent versions of the virus making any control unenforceable? It was hard to believe anything mainstream media said of the virus.

The lights, only a few of which remained, lit up the surrounds like daylight. The gate ahead of them had been ripped from its hinges, laying bent across one side of the road. So, it had been busted open? Not freely opened? Since when? A single tank upended onto its side, the continuous tread stripped from the wheels, the turret ripped clean from the hull – what could do that? Behind it an emu lay decomposing, one toe twisted between two lengths of wire fencing, its other leg snapped under its heavy body.

Mica startled as the driver reclaimed his seat behind the wheel. ‘Tradition,’ he laughed. 

The door closed. Off they went, unhindered. 

#

Four hours later they reached Adelaide.

Mica hadn’t slept since the drivers swapped. He watched the darkness lift and the city lights approach, his mind filled with anticipation and a dreaded fear. Would he be any more welcome here than he had been at home?

The driver was standing at the doors when Mica disembarked. His hood pulled back revealing his face to be unshaven, but otherwise unremarkable. No visible sign of mutation, but Mica knew that meant little.

He held out a perfectly regular hand to Mica. ‘Welcome to the city of Adelaide,’ he greeted with a warm smile. ‘May you find what you’re looking for.’

Mica hesitantly clutched the man’s hand, thrown by his sincere welcome and the intrusion into his soul. Was he that obvious? ‘Thank you,’ Mica mumbled unable to find any other words. He moved off, his legs humming with the relief of activity. He could feel the bus driver’s eyes on him until he found the foyer of the bus station and finally disappeared out of sight into the restrooms. He splashed the sheen of sweat off his face with cold water and stared at his haggard reflection. No regrets.

The young lady behind the counter this time was friendly and helpful. She called him ‘bloke’ and told him not to take attitude from anyone; that the people around here could be aloof at times, but generally, they had good intentions. She directed him to cheap accommodation just around the corner.

‘Good luck finding what you’re after,’ she called after him.

He stopped. ‘Why do you think I’m looking for something?’

She smiled. The tattoos down her neck swirled and morphed like Rorschach blots when she moved. ‘We’re all freaks here. All outcasts. No one comes to Adelaide these days unless they are looking for something; somewhere to call home, somewhere to fit in, someone to love; hey bloke?’ She suggested. ‘I hope you find your happiness.’

‘Thanks,’ he mumbled. So his journey here hadn’t been original? The double doors slid open and warm air burst in drying out Mica’s already tired eyes. The sun was only just on the rise and already the day promised to be a warm one.

On the corner, only a hundred metres from the bus station he found ‘Sunnies’, what he’d been told was the friendliest place to stay for those with little to spare. Tourists were up and sharing a pancake breakfast, so he joined them with minimal persuasion. Although they included him, Mica was too tired to hold any conversation for long. He retired to a newly purchased bunk in a shared room and collapsed. His bones creaked and popped in relief as he stretched out for the first time in what felt like aeons. Suddenly the weight of the past week, his recent journey, and his full belly overwhelmed him. He couldn’t even find the energy to make it to the shower before the need for sleep defeated him. He closed his eyes to the tune of his father’s angry mantra: Get away from my daughter. Get out of my house. Go away!

FTM Magazine Article

I am officially a published author...

Originally published on https://ftmmagazine.com/ (HERE) on 10 April 2017, the link is no longer active, so I am posting my article here:

Self-Harm, Transition...

It was never a choice. I did not one day decide to be a boy. One day I simply allowed my true self to come into being. | Erik Garkain

My body is scarred.

From my shoulders to fingertips, under my clothes, over my chest, my stomach and my legs – all support a tracery of scars inflicted through deliberate self-harm. Self-harm had been a way for me to release emotional pain and stress: the only way I could feel in control of my life.  It made me feel alive. It made me feel something, not just so disturbingly numb.

If you could see under my shirt, you’d see other scars too: surgical scars that helped salvage this life. I have two identical scars curving from my armpits to my sternum – double bilateral mastectomy with chest reconstruction; and, a horizontal 20cm scar underneath my belly, just above my pubic line – total hysterectomy with bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy.

Ten years ago I was living a completely different life. I was bordering on my 21st birthday, working with the elderly in an aged care hostel, and, at the beginning of what would become a five-year relationship of relative heteronormativity.

I was also a girl. I often wonder if my self-harm was a consequence of my latent gender dysphoria?

I was male on the inside. It was a feeling I hadn’t come to accept, or believe could be fact. I was carrying a weight that I’m sure rings familiar with anyone who has borne the confines of a closet. My ‘closet’ was an identity I had been taught, not one that was true. The hormones were wrong, my body was wrong; it had bits I couldn’t associate with, it did things that terrified and disgusted me.

Coming out was a challenge. I have always been shy. I don’t often speak up, even if I have something worthwhile to contribute, so, to come forward to the people in my life with something so personal, was a terrifying prospect. When you come out as trans, it immediately cultivates all sorts of unwanted and personal intrusions: Is it a sexual thing? Does that mean you’re gay, or straight? Do you like boys or girls now? Are you pre-op or post-op? What have you got ‘downstairs’? And my favourite: If you don’t have a penis, you’ll never be a ‘real’ guy. But I shouldn’t have worried. My family have always been supportive, my sisters – amazing. I don’t often give people a chance to be anything else. If they want me in their life, they will respect my choices.

Strangers are harder. Historically gays have been persecuted by just as much misunderstanding and judgment as the transgender community, but a lot of trans people feel ostracised in queer safe spaces, as if we don’t belong. A lot of the discrimination I have had has come directly from the gay community: My choosing to be male didn’t make it so because I would never have a penis.

It was never a choice. I did not one day decide to be a boy. One day I simply allowed my true self to come into being. I would never choose to become a second class citizen; to open myself to discrimination and hate with possible abandonment and rejection from family and friends; to jeopardise my job security; to lose the right to marry; or, risk ever finding a partner who could accept me… None of this is anything I would willingly choose. It was simply the next step of my existence, and it was always going to happen.

Looking back this past decade, to the start of my transition, the doubts were strong. But now I can see what I have achieved. Physically and mentally I am in the happiest place I have been. As each day passes, my confidence grows, and with it, strength to be who I really am, and that is a wonderful feeling. If I could go back, I wouldn’t change my journey, because changing that would change the essence of who I am. But perhaps some words of solace for the darkest of nights: You’re not weird, you’re not crazy, and these feelings, they won’t go away. Don’t listen to the people in your life that want to make you feel worthless. Don’t listen to the people who want to tell you who you should be. Listen to yourself. Only you know how you truly feel. And yes, at times it will be tough – out on that ledge, exposed to the world – but you need to be yourself. That is where your happiness is. You are better than you think you are. You are great, and people love you, for you.

A fantasy novel I am working on...

Where dense forest joined water on the outskirts of Forest Blakt, I crouched. I stared unblinking out into the Waterfalls of Lake Neb, focused on any movement among the cascades. Lined with jagged rocks and algae that waggled beneath surging water, the Skyggen prince Azrayh stood motionless under the deluge, his lean and pale body almost luminescent under the glow of the moon. Frightened that any movement could scare away my prince, I watched him carefully, as I had since he’d surfaced when the sun disappeared beneath the horizon some hours ago. I’d been waiting for the young Skyggen to lift his head and take a breath, but Azrayh remained as he had, a drowned water statue.

‘Azrayh,’ I whispered finally, desperate for my lover’s return. Impossibly, he snapped to attention, his amber eyes finding mine in an instant. He dove into the water and surfaced just metres away. I could almost touch him. I edged closer but he stayed just out of reach, his wings slowly undulating the water, gazing vacantly at me. His eyes, once bright and filled with curiosity, were empty and hollow, devoid of the passion he’d once had. I could have sworn there was a faint blue tinge to his skin, he’d never been quite so pale, his scars transformed into translucent purple veins about his flesh.

Stepping into the muddied edges of the lake, viscous darkness engulfed my legs to the ridge of my black boots as I waded further into the water – closer to Azrayh. I reached out to collect him into my arms but he frowned and backed out of reach with a flick of his wings. In the water he was faster. He smiled at me, as if this was a game, lifting a svelte arm and holding it out for me.  I grasped it before he could change his mind. With a strength I had never imagined he dragged me down into the water, laughing as I was doused up to his chest, soaking my clothes through.

I threw my arms around his naked waist for an instant before recoiling so violently I smashed backwards into the surrounding banks of rock. His skin was ice cold, even in the tepid water. The void that embraced me when I held him was endless. Desperate I pressed my hand against his chest. ‘What’s happened to you?’ I withdrew. ‘How long have you been out here?’

‘Swim with me pretty,’ he cooed, ignoring my questions. ‘I will show you sights of this world unknown to the—’

‘Azrayh, do you know who I am?’ He wasn’t there.

He laughed delightedly and for a moment I allowed myself to indulge. That laugh. But it wasn’t him. He wasn’t there. ‘Of course I do… You are beautiful…’ He ran a finger down my cheek. I could see the green tinge of algae collected in his long nails, and he reeked of the depths, of coral and darkest caverns. All familiarity I once knew – gone. ‘I would show you a world that mirrors—’

‘Come with me!’ Angered at the unfairness of life, I hauled my lover from the water. 

Azrayh shrieked as he hit the rocky banks, water running in rivulets down his torn and scarred leathers – last remnants of the proud armour he’d once donned.

I collapsed next to him, my hand on the Skyggen’s chest holding him against his will, with strength and incantation. ‘Your heart is not yet cold,’ I warned. ‘You are not yet of the deep. Please fight it Azrayh. Please.’ The fear of losing my lover was too real.

She'll kill me when she reads this...

My best friend is an avid gardener. In a few short years she’s turned a once barren backyard into a wonderland for native birds and insects. She is macabre with a penchant for gore and surgery and a love of nature and native propagation. She is androgynous with a shaved head and large green eyes. She has body piercings, scarification, and a pair of gargoyle wings tattooed on her back which she wants extended into a xenomorph tail down her legs. She has the chemical elements for psilocybin mushrooms and DMT tattooed on her neck but tells people who ask that they’re dopamine and serotonin. Other than this half-truth she is incapable of telling lies, shy, somewhat anxious (especially with phone calls), hates conflict, super intelligent, gentle, meticulous. She can’t make decisions and is often sad. She doesn’t like social gatherings, prefers to be alone or with close friends, loves to cook with fresh ingredients from her garden, and abhors clutter. Her home is minimalist – everything in it has purpose. If there is artwork it’s dissected bodies or true-to-life medical illustrations. She’s building an anatomically correct piñata from skeleton up, to bash away personal demons, for an upcoming birthday. She works in an indigenous plant nursery and has plans to one day own her own business selling native plants, homemade food and handmade wares. She just needs to banish self-doubt to enable her plans to come to fruition. She has lots of acquaintances and few true friends, but those she has know her worth and adore her completely, even though sometimes she doesn’t have the confidence to see it herself. She’s spiritual and believes that this is only one of many lives lived.

Clues to her personality (some truth, some fiction):

1. Can’t lie but hates conflict – so when she tells people her half-truths about her neck tattoos, saying they’re ‘feel good’ elements, she can’t keep eye contact and fiddles with her lip piercings. She doesn’t trust that people will be reasonable with the truth.

2. Shy – She doesn’t like to meet new people. If there’s a stranger in the house she will linger in her bedroom until they go away.

3. Anxious – She will sit at her desk for half an hour staring at her phone in preparation to make a phone call.

4. Intelligent – Her words aren’t casual and every one is thought out and planned ahead. She lives in her head most of the time. She won’t casually respond to a question – her answers take time.

5. Gentle – She holds her budgerigars in her hand while they happily nibble on seed.

6. Meticulous – Everything in her house, bag, and mind, has a perfect place and a perfect order.

7. Sad – Her smiles are rare and take some effort to form.

8. Self-doubting – Compliments from others are often shrugged off, or excuses found to discount them.

9. Doesn’t like making decisions – She often becomes frustrated if she has to make a decision, something like what to order for dinner can have her in tears and without food.

10. Macabre – She rejoices while watching real-life TV shows about surgery.

My friend is meticulous (Latin meticulosus from metus ‘fear’. Is she afraid of what might go wrong if things aren’t so perfect?) In everything she does, she has an extreme attention to detail. She cares about the small things and getting things exactly right every single time and won’t stop until they are perfect. She thinks before she talks and creates structure, order and compliance. She is organised, graceful, hates making mistakes and writes lots and lots of lists. She needs space, quiet and sensitivity. I don’t know why she is like this but it’s helpful to me because she edits my work, organises our trips away, and cooks awesome meals. I think she likes to be in control. She doesn’t thrive on chaos, can barely function in it. When she is in my kitchen she gets frustrated because I don’t have the perfect tool for a certain requirement. I’m a ‘many uses for one thing’ person. Any cup will do for a measurement, if indeed I even measure. She needs precision. She likes to produce things of a high standard and as such she needs to be meticulous.

MY BEST FRIEND TURNED CHARACTER

The child looked upon the needle in wide-eyed horror. Azha trapped his attention in her placid green eyes and only then was she was able to pick up the needle without him flinching away. It was a large needle – far better at closing wounds on a warrior, not a small child who’d fallen from a tree – but it would have to do, it was all she had.

‘Do you have any sister’s Tobin?’ She asked as her fingers deftly threaded the bone needle with a braided silk suture. Quietly she blessed the needle and pointed it east before shifting her attention to the boy. As she worked she hummed a barely audible enchantment that soothed Tobin’s mind and dulled his senses. His anxiety flittered away and Azha was able to stitch the wound closed. Drunkenly the boy blathered of his family and life in general until she had finished.

‘Done,’ she said simply. The boy’s mouth dropped open a little before he dared look at his arm. Where moments ago it had been a red raw gash now nine neat little stitches disguised the wound. His face changed in an instant. Forgotten were the moments of intense distress that had penetrated Azha’s afternoon nap. Forgotten were the streams of blood he’d thought he’d lost and never recover from. Now it was a warrior’s wound, one he’d survived, one none of his friends had… He beamed.

‘Thanks Healer Azha!’ He jumped up, restless to be back with his friends.

She flinched at the title he’d named her, but he was already off with barely a nod. The villagers had dubbed her their healer, and though she didn’t refute it, she disliked the dependence it gave them. They respected her for her knowledge of medicine but were wary of her solitary life and use of magic. Despite the fear, Tobin’s mother was sure to come by later to offer thanks. They were diligent with their thanks and continued to remind her of her worth to them. Azha would conveniently be out picking herbs or collecting water when they came by. A gift basket of dried meats and fresh fruit would be left on her porch as always. Many times the villagers had offered her services or insisted she allow an assistant into her home, but every time, she refused. She enjoyed things as they were, however hard chores were becoming.

Azha rose with a sigh and rinsed her hands and instruments in the stream. Cold water jarred her joints. The cramps were getting worse. How long until she could no longer wield a needle, plant a tree, hold a cup of tea? Banishing the thoughts she unfolded her instrument wrap and replaced the tools carefully into their assigned places to be sterilised later that evening.

She wandered home stopping to admire the seedlings that had sprouted in the recent rains. She discovered a cluster of rare purple herbs and breathed in deep the sedate mint aroma.

Her home was small and offered little in the way of creature comforts, but it offered all she needed. To a casual gaze it was invisible in a copse of fallen trunks and dense bush; spider webs lined the porch protecting her from negative energies.

A large black bird cawed at her from a tree top, its beady yellow eyes judging her for being away so long. ‘Oh shush Worm, it was hardly an hour!’ It cawed again and landed gracefully on her right shoulder, instantly fussing with her scarf to make more room for its oversized body. ‘You need to cut down on grubs.’ She said as it unhooked her scarf and pitched it to the ground. Worm croaked and looked away. Azha smiled and poked the bird playfully.

The Hands of Goodna Cemetery

Based on True Accounts.

1. EXT. GOODNA CEMETERY – NIGHT

A battered P-plate car pulls up next to a large fenced-off cemetery. There are few street lights but the moon is full and high, bathing the cemetery with spooky shadows - it certainly doesn’t look like a nice place to be after dark.

There are large trees and neat gravesites but furthest from the road the trees become denser and the gravesites more tattered –paths less trodden.

DANNY (18) football superstar, and LOLA (17) wannabe cheerleader, climb out of the car, giggling.

Danny struts over to the passenger side and embraces Lola in a bear hug. Looking around, Lola is not impressed.

LOLA: I didn’t think you were for real, bringin’ me ‘ere.

DANNY: Are you kiddin’? It’s tradition.

He pokes her playfully but Lola pulls away, her arms wrapped around her own body. It’s not cold but something has chilled her.

DANNY (CONT’D): Come on bae it’ll be a laugh, an’ you’ll get to tell your squad about how I took ya “down to Goodna”.

LOLA (groaning): How romantic!

The headlights of a car round a bend and approach from a distance.

DANNY: Quick!

She gives in to him as he pulls her towards the fence where he lifts her over in one simple movement and with little effort he scales the fence himself.

He grabs her hand and together they flee deeper into the cemetery. Shadows seem to reach after them.

2. EXT – GOODNA CEMETERY – CONT’D

Lola’s giggles ring out through the night as Danny catches her in an embrace and backs her into a large tree. His hands are all over her.

DANNY: It’s said… (he begins nibbling her neck) …that this cemetery was used by the ol’ Woogaroo Asylum and there are hundreds of headstones identified only by numbers… The grave digger died before he could put up a plaque so all the names are lost.

She ducks out of his grasp.

DANNY (CONT’D): It’s them that haunt here at night, wandering ‘round, wonderin’ who they are.

LOLA: Haunted? For real?

She glances around, wondering… the trees becoming sinister and more claw like reaching long tendrils down towards the pair…

DANNY: Uh huh. Last weekend Jase covered his car in flour – like the ghost hunters said – and drove down Stuart Street, not even IN here. When he got home there were hundreds of fingerprints all over his car as if something had been clawing to get in… I swear, true story.

LOLA (laughing): He covered his car in flour?

DANNY: His mum was well pissed. Might be that ghosts don’t want no one to be here?

They hold hands, meandering down a twisting path. Danny’s other hand wanders over her body until…

DANNY (CONT’D): BOO!!!

He grabs her waist suddenly and she startles.

LOLA (laughing): Jerk…! Oh look.

Ahead, highlighted in the moonlight, they come across diminutive headstones, barely a foot tall, at least fifty in a neat semi-circle, and numbered – impersonal to the people they represented.

LOLA (CONT’D): That’s so sad…

She drops down onto her knees in the leaf litter. One of her hands runs over a headstone, her fingertips tracing the number.

LOLA (CONT’D): …to be forgotten… You won’t forget me like that? I’m not just another girl you bring down ‘ere?

DANNY: You bae, how could I forget you?

She smiles, content for now, as he leans down to kiss her. She allows it, his hands moving over her body – under her shirt, up the legs of her shorts. He crawls on top of her, resting her gently back on the ground and gyrating his groin against hers. She moans.

LOLA: Oh, Danny. Oh Danny! Ow Danny. Ow. DANNY!

As her moans turn to cries she scrambles away from him.

DANNY: What?!

He stands up, adjusting himself, miffed at the rejection.

LOLA: Something was pinching me.

She rubs her upper arm and he laughs at her.

LOLA (CONT’D): For real, it kills!

DANNY: Lemme look.

She moves over to him but the light is too poor to make anything out. He rubs her shoulders placating her instead. He kisses her ear.

DANNY: Don’t worry. (Whispering) I’ll protect you from the grabby ghosts.

LOLA: Maybe it’s them protecting me from you?

She sticks out her tongue and escapes down the path, deeper into the cemetery where the graves are more spaced out, more elegant and more run down.

DANNY (calls): You don’t need protecting from me bae. Well, maybe my… GRABBY HANDS!

He roars playfully and gives chase, following her hysterical giggles.

3. EXT. GOODNA CEMETERY – NIGHT

Danny and Lola are deep into each other, making out and rolling around in pine needles. Headstones loom over them throwing shadows across their bodies like disembodied clawed hands.

A headless weeping angel seems alive in the moonlight and Lola screams, spotting it in the gloom.

DANNY: Lola chill, don’t be weak.

He’s losing patience. He moves to grope her again but she swats him away.

LOLA: I’ve had enough Danny – I wanna leave.

DANNY: What’s that?

He motions to a patch of red raw scratches and fresh bruising down the side of her torso.

LOLA: I don’t know. I thought it was just the leaves and shit, but it’s creeping me out. We shouldn’t be here! I wanna go!

DANNY (sighing): Okay. Fine.

4. INT. CAR, GOODNA CEMETERY – NIGHT

Lola is sitting in the passenger seat rubbing her legs and fingering faint scratches.

DANNY: Jeez bae… (He takes on a spooky tone) Maaaaybe it was the ghoooosts—

LOLA: Don’t. Let’s just get outta here.

An amused grin crosses his face before he starts the car.

Nothing.

He tries it again, this time revving the engine, but it’s as if the car is stuck. It rears to move forward but has stuck fast.

Lola glares at Danny.

LOLA: That’s not funny—

She pauses.

DANNY: I’m not—

LOLA: Shush!

DANNY: Lo—

LOLA: SSHHHHH! Listen!

Outside something is scratching against the metal work of the car, pawing against it, as if to get in.

DANNY: What is that?

LOLA: Please can we just go?

DANNY: Lola, I’m trying!

He tries the car again. Nothing. It’s revving. It’s trying to move – almost as if the handbrake is on and it wants to go – but something is holding it back.

He sighs and flings the door open.

DANNY (CONT’D): I’ll check the—

Lola’s face contorts into a soundless scream. A disembodied arm clings to the open door – claws latched deep into the paintwork. Danny sees and jerks the door back closed.

DANNY (CONT’D): Whaaa—?

Lola is climbing up onto her seat – as if the hands might come through the floor of the car to get her. She’s pressed against the door but doesn’t trust the window so she backs against Danny. She’s crying, bordering on hysterical.

DANNY (CONT’D): It’s okay.

He slams the locks down on both doors and his arms come around her, his hand stroking the back of her head.

5. EXT. GOODNA CEMETERY – SUNRISE

The sun comes up on a car parked outside the cemetery. It could almost be a different place as the sun lifts away any sign of anything sinister within the graveyard and light fills the darkness.

6. EXT. SUBURBAN HOME – CONT’D

The P-plate car pulls up in a driveway and Lola jumps out before it’s even come to a halt. She’d exhausted – a sleepless night evident on her tired face. She slams the door and motions to lean in the open window. Before she gets there she is backing away in horror.

From in the car Danny looks concerned.

DANNY: Bae?

He climbs out and comes around to her. He stares at the car, fumbling for Lola’s hand as they both back away silently.

Deep within the paintwork are huge scratch marks that had almost made it to the handle…

SMASH FADE TO BLACK.

GLITTER GIRL

FADE IN:

1.   INT. SMALL HOUSE, BEDROOM - DAY

The bedroom is small and in disarray. Strewn over a double bed are piles of woman’s clothes of all colours and designs. Clearly the cupboards have been emptied and dumped on the bed.

To one side there is an old crumbling chest of drawers with a huge cracked mirror above it. Before the mirror sits a thin androgynous young man, DANIEL (17), staring hopelessly at his reflection. On his face are fading bruises and a fresh splatter of blood. He wears a dress that falls lifelessly down his chest making him appear waifish and masculine. He tugs half-heartedly at the straps.

Daniel turns away from the mirror and glares at the clothes on the bed. He jumps up, seizing armfuls of the clothing and sweeping them to the floor. He continues this until the bed is entirely clear… revealing a human shape hidden under the covers.

He pulls back the doona to reveal the recently deceased pale CORPSE OF HIS MOTHER. She is wearing a black dress that has been stabbed and mutilated around the torso area.

Daniel smiles at her. He kisses her forehead before proceeding to undress her.

2.   INT. SMALL HOUSE, KITCHEN - EVENING

Amongst mould and mountains of dishes, Daniel does his best to prepare a meal and set the table, not forgetting the most important thing: his father's bottle of Jack Daniels.

Daniel grins as he pulls the bottle down from the alcohol cabinet and rinses a glass. He places them both side by side on the table. He’s wearing the black dress he’d removed from his mother but it’s been tucked into a pair of jeans so it now resembled a shirt.

The microwave dings and he removes a ready meal. By the time he places the on the table, grabs and cleans a fork, his FATHER ambles into the kitchen.

Silently Father collapses into his prepared seat and cracks open the bottle of Jack Daniels, not even bothering with the glass.

FATHER

(irritated)

Where's your mother?

DANIEL

She had to go out.

Father pokes at the meal, making no attempt to eat it. Daniel watches him silently.

FATHER

Get out of here!

Before Daniel can leave, Father pushes the uneaten meal away and stands up. He wanders out of the room with the bottle in his hand.

Daniel clears the table and retreats back to the safety of his mother's room.

3.   INT. SMALL HOUSE, BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

His Mother is staring up at him when he walks past her and returns to the vanity. She’s half uncovered, her limbs splayed.

Distracted, Daniel finds his mother’s makeup, making the effort to line his eyes in kohl, surround them with green and cover his lips in the brightest red he can find.

All the while he’s mumbling to himself (or to her) incoherently.

As if he’s spotted her disarray in the mirror, Daniel returns to his mother. He folds her arms gently across her chest, closes her mouth and caresses her eyes closed.

He pulls the doona up to her neck to cover all the unsightly stab wounds over her chest and stomach and rests her head on a pillow.

He kisses her forehead.

DANIEL

Be still Mother.

4.   INT. SMALL HOUSE, LOUNGE - NIGHT

Daniel slinks in the doorway watching his Father who is mumbling incoherently at the TV, clearly drunk.

He fetches another bottle of alcohol from the kitchen and carries it over to his father. His father takes the bottle, pushing the mostly empty one to the floor.

As he cracks it open he looks his son up and down, trying to focus on him.

FATHER

What the fuck are you doing home? You should be out making money!

Daniel's eyes narrow as he realises his father's mistake. His father grabs his arm, dragging him closer.

FATHER (CONT'D)

Daniel? What the fuck are you doing wearing your mother's stuff?

His father wrenches his son down so far he almost stumbles to the ground, but as the bottle smashes him hard across the head he goes down anyway.

FATHER (CONT'D)

I have fucking told you again and again not to do this shit!

Daniel scrambles up crawling in the broken glass and spilt alcohol. A trickle of blood runs down the side of his face.

His Father is climbing to his feet.

Daniel is thrown against the wall as his Father hisses abuse in his ear.

FATHER (CONT'D)

You want to be a bitch then I will treat you like a fucking whore!

His father's hands come up Daniel's skirt, and Daniel attempts to escape but is restrained quickly.

Daniel grins weakly as his father unbuttons his own jeans and slides Daniel’s dress up.

FADE TO BLACK.

FADE IN:

5.   INT. SMALL HOUSE, KITCHEN – NIGHT

Lit by only moonlight, Daniel sits in the dark at the kitchen table. His breathing is heavy and strained. His make up is smeared and there is dried blood caking the side of his face. His lip and cheekbone have swelled significantly and his dress is torn around the neck and left in haphazard ruins.

He is staring blankly at a bloodied knife.

6.   INT. SMALL HOUSE, LOUNGE – DAY

The house is immaculately clean and Daniel sits on the sofa in front of the television pouring himself a cup of tea from a pot.

He is wearing a beautiful summer dress, his make-up applied carefully over bruising and scabs, his hair is pulled back into a scrunchie.

He is beaming.

Beside him on the couch are two Decaying Corpses, both dressed like porcelain dolls in fancy clothes and wigs with glitter and coloured make-up upon their rotted faces.

Daniel leans back into the sofa and drapes his arm around his Father. He looks at the man lovingly and reaches over to kiss him on the cheek.

FADE TO BLACK.

END.

BLACK WEDDING

INT. GRAND RECEPTION HALL - EVENING

A wedding reception well under way - full of laughter, frivolity and dancing... Exhaustion is evident on the faces of the wedding party, and inebriation on the guests. SHERYL-LEE, a late-20s blushing bride in an elaborate white dress, makes her way towards the bridal table. She reaches for a glass of water.

Beneath a flawless mask of make-up her weariness begins to show. TILLY, the Maid of Honour, grabs her from behind, intercepting her quest, and instead hands her a glass of champagne.

TILLY (giggling): Don't be a pussy Sheryl-lee! Do you think Timmy wants you sober for the night you finally get to do it?!

Tilly sticks out her tongue and playfully elbows Sheryl-lee in the ribs. Sheryl-lee laughs but it takes effort.

SHERYL-LEE: Shut up!

She takes the champagne to avoid an argument. Perhaps the alcohol could dim the ache of her feet She finds her groom amongst the many faces of family and friends, TIMOTHY (handsome - bookish, 30yrs), his face awash with the joy of the day. He is slow dancing with an elderly woman, his mother.

He meets Sheryl-lee's gaze from across the room and holds it. A genuine smile reaches his eyes and she can't help but return it. He whispers something into his mother's ear and she reluctantly pulls away so he can motion his bride over.

Sheryl-lee finishes the champagne and pulls free of her stilettos. Leaving them and the empty flute on her table, she manages her way through the dancing crowd. 

A moment of blinding whiteness fills the world with emptiness.

Sheryl-lee missteps only for a moment before continuing. The flash so brief it could have been imagined. A few nervous laughs come from the guests but the incident is quickly overlooked. The crowd parts to let the bride find her way across the dance floor.

Sheryl-lee finds the arms of her groom as the music dips into a slow romance.

SHERYL-LEE: My husband.

TIMOTHY: My beautiful wife.

She falls against his chest, suddenly overcome with weakness. Perhaps she shouldn't have drank that champagne so quickly? Her face flushes and she closes her eyes trying to reign in the sickly feeling that embraces her. She is lulled by the slow gentle movements of her husband's dance.

Timothy fumbles a step, jerking her into the present. Sheryl-lee looks up at him - his face flushed red. He looks down at her, his eyebrows knitted in concern.

TIMOTHY: Babe, are you okay?

She frowns, the question taken from her lips. She watches as his face colours further - a huge contrast with the crisp white shirt he wore. The veins in his forehead become visible, as too the marbling rising from his collar.

SHERYL-LEE: What's wrong?

Sheryl-lee stumbles away from her husband, grasping for the nearest chair. All around her guests are fumbling for seats or collapsing to the floor - their skin mottling to a bruised purple and green.

Timothy stumbles towards her. She grabs his hand and pulls him outside...

All around the picturesque wedding setting bodies litter the ground - swollen and decomposing. Some twitch leaking green and brown fluids. ADAM, the best man, has collapsed into a settee, his discoloured fluids staining the white table cloth.

SHERYL-LEE (mumbling): We're going to lose our deposit.

Sheryl-lee stops, drops Timothy's hand and sucks in a shuddering breath. Behind her, Timothy collapses. She turns to him - his face bloating and purple. He has swollen to twice his size and his three piece suit is stained and wet under the strain. She glances down at her own attire - her once white dress now a filthy remnant of its previous beauty, her decomposing fluids ruining her day.

TIMOTHY (moaning): Sherrryyyllll-llleeeeee...

His arm stretches out to her and he groans.

SHERYL-LEE: Babe, I'm hungry.

She stumbles, collapsing to the ground. Her body twitches in the throes of death. And finally - is still.

EXT. MANICURED GARDEN RECEPTION - CONT'D

A bird's eye view of a wedding party - a mix of glamour and decomposition, wiped out so fast some guests are still seated leaning against one another. Others in piles on the dance floor never understanding what had come over them. Wet decay has been replaced with dried mummification. Weeks should have passed before this sort of decomposition was evident.

The bride and groom, recognisable only by their stained attire, lay embraced.

Restless in death Sheryl-lee twitches, life suddenly returning.

END.

BÊTE NOIRE

EXT. CITY BACK STREET – LATE EVENING

The weather is bleak – a lightning storm highlights the dark grey sky in angry flashes.

A Man (42, harried, wearing a cheap suit) hurries on his way home from work. He brings his briefcase over his head as fat drops of rain start plopping to the Earth. His mobile phone rings - obnoxious technology in this powerful show of nature - and the Man fumbles to locate it whilst attempting to remain dry.

Once answered, the caller has barely had enough time to say a word before the Man is shaking his head.

MAN: No. No. No Jeffrey. As I already told you this morning, I want the Wilson’s account to be settled first. Yes, then deal with Carrigan and his incessant demands. Why is this so hard for you to understand—?

Lightning bleaches the world in an instant of blinding force, followed closely by a deafening crack of thunder.

The Man looks at his phone, shakes it as if reviving it and returns it to his ear.

MAN: Hello? Jeffrey? Jeffrey! Damn it!

He stabs at his phone with his thumb. No signal.

Another lighting white out, this time, as it dissipates, A body is briefly illuminated in the street ahead.

The Man pauses, squinting ahead as if the body is a trick of the storm. The hand holding his phone, temporarily forgotten, falls to his side.

FUUUU-WOKKK!

He startles in fright as another crack of thunder rips the world. His briefcase no longer a suitable shield to the rain, he submits to a dampening.

The body - barefoot, dressed entirely in black, androgynous, and apparently unconscious - is almost impossible to see in the backdrop of the gloom. Only the paleness of its skin gives away its position.

Regaining his sensibility, the Man walks over to the body, approaching cautiously – drunks could be dangerous – even, psychotic drunks, to be out in this weather?

He rolls it over with the least amount of contact – did he really want to soil himself on this possible hobo? The body flops almost lifelessly, a tinge of blood at the corner of its mouth; its eyes blink open slowly… staring past the Man, to the sky above, longing.

MAN: Hey, are you alright?

Neither male nor female, the creature closes its eyes. Impossible to tell tears disguised in rain, its eyes say it all: it mourns.

CREATURE: Father’s angry.

The Man, less scared now and more concerned, wipes the blood from its mouth. He brushes the long dark hair from its face.

MAN: What happened to you?

The worst hurt anyone could possibly imagine has come to pass; inflicted on this poor precious beauty, and evident on its face.

It looks from the Man, to the sky above…

CREATURE (sobbing): I fell…

The Man follows its gaze to the Heavens above: dark grumbling clouds alive with ferocious activity and static power…

FADE TO BLACK.

Come Away With Me.

A review I just found for one of my short films, 'Come Away with Me'. 

From the MRC (Media Resource Centre) Lipsync magazine HERE. 

Review by Emily Brindal: 

"Come Away with Me is a dark tale of love between two selfdestructive gay men. While there is no rock ‘n’ roll, there is sex, drugs and self-harm. If there were a nice antonym for ‘light-hearted’, I would insert this word here. It is intense and unashamed in its intensity. The cinematography is beautiful and really engages the viewer in the story. It also adds tension which is at times lacking in the performances. Although overall the film is more serious than some may prefer, it achieves what it desires to – it confronts the viewer and asks them to consider the line between love and self-destruction."


You can watch my film HERE.

A taste of my novel to come...

I see body bags every day, this one, no different. That same plain blue becomes so monotonous, so easy to forget the contents; negating countless lives. The unzipping always takes me back to childhood days spent camping; that early morning surfacing from the tent, tearing the fly screen open to eagerly set out for a new day of adventure and exploration. Easy, care free days.

Inside this body bag was a dead girl.

It should have been no different, but seeing her tore a rusty nail through my heart. She was one of mine – one of the ‘freaks’.

Her tattooed body displayed bands I loved, logos I knew, artists I admired. She could have been my friend.

She could have been me.

Seeing her made the pain fresh, brought me to that moment, those final seconds of desperation as she stretched her neck into that noose. It was the most common way these days: hanging. So easy, almost everyone was doing it.

Through a latex barrier, I caressed her cold flesh, rippled by years of self-harm. A pain I was intimately familiar with. She was younger than me, by five or six years, but she was here. She was one of the ones who hadn’t made it. I’d tasted that pain almost every day and felt how easy the way out could be. Not the act, the temptation. How it grasped at the darkest part of your mind and suffocated you with it. No kind deed or happy face or friendly grin made its way through that jumbled web of grey: hatred so intensely self-destructive.

Her life, reduced to a report and a photo in a file. Her organs sampled in a pot with a label. Her, just a body on a trolley – a statistic on suicide.

Self-Harm and the Trans* Community

An estimated 40 to 50% of GLBTIQ (Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Trans*, Intersex, Queer) people self-harm, or attempt suicide at least once in their lifetime.

National estimates suggest between 4 to 7% of Australian youth (aged 15 – 24 years) have engaged in self-harming behaviours. 63% of respondents of the Trans Mental Health Study 2012 (Study 2012) harmed more prior to transitioning, and only 3% after. Of these, 60% felt the reasons for self-harm related to being trans* either directly, or indirectly.

A recent Australian review of LGBTI mental health reported that 50% of trans* Australians had attempted suicide. This is almost identical to a UK study which suggested 48%. Suicidal ideation and attempts are more frequent pre-transition. One respondent said, "I feel as if I am always going to be different by the society around me, and either patronised as a ‘brave survivor’ or avoided as an incomprehensible alien artefact – never just treated as a person."

Self-harm reduces following transition for the majority of those who have a history of self-harm. "My feelings of self and worth, not to mention, my confidence has grown exponentially since coming out, and presenting male. I am not ashamed of myself anymore – it’s been a wonderful journey," said Azaria**, 31, Adelaide, SA. A respondent in the Study 2012 said, "I gained the guts to stop caring what other people thought about me. I wake up every day with a few billion people hating me just for existing, and it doesn’t matter."

The majority of trans* people feel that the way their community is represented in the media has a negative effect on their emotional wellbeing. "Tabloid stories about transpeople are often exploitative, invasive of privacy, inaccurate, irrelevant or intended to drum up transphobia." Just look at the Courier Mail reporting the death of Mayang Prastyo a couple of weeks ago. Insensitive, sensational headlines, and photos, described the trans* murder victim as ‘she-male’ and ‘lady boy’.

Transgender and gender diverse people are more likely to experience mental distress due to the social disapproval and discrimination they encounter in their daily lives. Their mental health status is disclosed by some, depending on their perceived reaction from doctors or health care professionals. According to Gender Disorder Information, ‘Some shrinks want to solve the other problems before they tackle the gender issues – but what if the gender issues are the likely source of the problem?’ Many trans* people will hide feelings of depression or self-harm in fear it will delay their transition.

Discrimination is one of the main factors influencing trans* mental health and self-harm. Abuse, discrimination and stress are all too common. Going Upstream (a framework for promoting the mental health of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and intersex (LGBTI) people) suggests that 49% of LGBTI youth experience some form of abuse in childhood. The Study 2012 confirms this. ‘Once dysphoria is resolved via transition, all that remains is people’s attitudes. Once society stops discrimination against us, then it will be safe to say that being trans* is not a bad thing,’ participants said, ‘I am more comfortable with my appearance and who I am, but it also makes me very aware that others aren’t.’

From Writing Themselves in 3 2010, a national study of SSAIGD (Same Sex Attracted, Intersex, and Gender Diverse) people aged 14 – 24 years, has shown that 18% who have never been subjected to physical or verbal heterosexist abuse, had self-harmed. 31% had self-harmed after verbal abuse and 55% after physical heterosexist abuse. Data from 2013 Growing Up Queer suggests that 33% of young people have self-harmed after homophobic or transphobic abuse. ‘I was sexually abused as a child by a close relative… I was emotionally abused growing up, perhaps responsible for my self-esteem issues and confidence problems now,’ said Azaria.

According to the experience of many trans* people, healthcare services are "inadequate and staffed by uneducated workers, especially when gender issues are coupled with self-harm". Self-harm and ‘alternative’ lifestyles are still relatively taboo in our society. A high per cent of trans* people have reported feeling emotionally distressed about their mental health whilst attending a Gender Identity Clinic (GIC). 

These frustrations are just as common here in South Australia. Newly identifying trans* people are required to see Gender Clinic prior to transitioning. There is only one GIC in Adelaide, and no alternative other than travelling interstate for care. South Australian law is still abiding by the Sexual Reassignment Act, written in 1988. Obeying outdated rules and regulations in fear of archaic laws leaves no room for best professional practice and individualised care for trans* people.

I attended the ANZPATH conference, Adelaide October 4 - 6, and there the first seeds of developing a national voice for the Australian trans* community were established. This is exciting. It is a work in progress that is going to take time and commitment, but it is going to reap some fantastic steps forward for the trans* community, and the future of gender diverse people in Australia, and hopefully, the world.

**Name changed.

Short Story Writing

We were tasked to re-write the following short story, A Story from 19th Century Japan, author unknown. It had to be from Tanzan's point of view, after a significant amount of time had passed, and new information had emerged.

A Story from 19th Century Japan

Tanzan and Ekido were once traveling together down a muddy road. A heavy rain was falling. As they came around a bend, they met a lovely girl in a silk kimono and sash, unable to cross at an intersection.

"Come on, girl," said Tanzan at once. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over the mud.

Ekido did not speak until that night when they reached a lodging temple. Then he could no longer restrain himself. "We monks don't go near females," he told Tanzan, "especially not young and lovely ones. It is dangerous. Why did you do that?"

"I left the girl there," said Tanzan. "Are you still carrying her?"

My Re-Write, as told from Tanzan:

I wish I could recall it now; the smell of the mud as it crawled its way into our socks; the rain as it twisted rivulets down the path Ekido and I had travelled. To feel the sodden cowl swathed heavily over my shivering body would be a blessing over the creeping dread that filled me now. What I wouldn’t give to experience that evening over, to walk that journey with my friend again. I would turn back, just the once, to see clearly what we hadn’t.

The girl was lovely in the midst of the pouring rain. Her helplessness played flawlessly, perfectly executed in silk kimono and sash purity, untouched by the buffeting elements – ethereal with foresight. I remember the impact her allure had on me, the flush of warmth, soothing as it rolled through me, like melting into a hot bath.

I’d left her there in the soaking rain, but Ekido hadn’t. He’d tried to warn me. He hadn’t been fooled by the pretence of innocence. He’d seen the demonic shadow hidden in the girl. 

I felt it, days later.

It started as a niggling irritation in the back of my mind; frustrations towards brothers, nerves snapping over small mistakes. I found my spiritual path maddening, wanting instead a life of indulgence. Ekido recognised it. He whispered stories of the man-eater, Manushya-Rakshasi, a demonic spirit who could possess and commit evil deeds through men. He stood by me while others distanced themselves. Trying to explain the absurd, he’d been ridiculed and we’d both been driven out.

Through isolation and insanity, the demon rejoiced. And as the blood of my friend coagulated in the pouring rain, the twisted blackness in my brain found corporeal form, its feminine likeness far from lovely. The kimono she wore – once silky and flawless – hung limp and filthy with blood and mud. The Rakshasi stared me down finally freed from its spiritual curse.

Avoiding Direct Exposure

or: I am the way I am and sometimes that really sucks!

The deeper I think, the deeper I seem to sink

AFI The Last Kiss

My body is scarred from my shoulders to my fingertips. Under my clothes, over my chest, my stomach and my legs, all support a tracery of scars inflicted through deliberate self-harm. None of them have been life-threatening, and none of them have required emergency medical care. Of that, I have become an expert.

And it’s not all random slashes, there’s ‘art’ too: the word FAG is scarred onto the back of my right hand. It was branded at four o’clock one morning with a candle and a wire coat hanger. I traced the Slipknot ‘S’ meticulously onto my calf with a razorblade when I was sixteen; the alchemical symbol for Sulphur (or ‘Leviathan Cross’) soon followed, by skin removal; I have a pentagram, and seemingly endless song lyrics scored into my flesh. Amid the chaos, a word stands out, a word that’s repeated again and again. This word: hate. Why (and, who?) do I hate so bad?

Self-harm was a way to release my emotional pain and stress. It was the only way I could feel in control. It made me feel alive, feel something, not just numb. Although I don’t self-harm anymore, I still feel this ‘numbness’[1].

If you could see under my shirt, you’d see other scars too: surgical scars that helped salvage my life. I have two identical scars curving from my armpits to my sternum – double bilateral mastectomy with chest reconstruction; and, a horizontal 20cm scar underneath my belly, just above my pubic line – total hysterectomy with bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy.

My favourite tool for self-harm was a razorblade, and I have been a cutter since I was twelve years old, but now I wonder if it was a consequence of my latent gender dysphoria?

You want them to see you

like they see any other girl

They just see a faggot

They hold their breath

not to catch the sick

AGAINST ME! Transgender Dysphoria Blues[2]

Ten years ago I had a completely different life. I was bordering my 21st birthday, working with the elderly in an aged care hostel, and, at the beginning of what would become a five year relationship of relative heteronormativity. I was also a girl.

I was carrying around a secret that I’m sure rings familiar with any closeted kid. I was male on the inside. It was a feeling I hadn’t come to accept, or believe could be fact. My ‘closet’ was an identity I had been taught, not one that was true. The hormones were wrong, my body was wrong; it had bits I couldn’t associate with, it did things that terrified and disgusted me.

Coming out was a challenge. I have always been shy. I don’t often speak up, even if I have something worthwhile to contribute, so, to come forward to the people in my life with something so personal, was a terrifying prospect. When you come out as transgender, it immediately cultivates all sorts of unwanted and personal intrusions: Is it a sexual thing? Does it mean you’re gay, or straight? Do you like boys or girls now? Are you pre-op or post-op? What have you got ‘downstairs’? And my favourite response: If you don’t have a penis, you’ll never be a real guy.

I shouldn’t have worried. My family have always been supportive, my sisters – amazing. I don’t often give people a chance to be anything else, if they want me in their life, they will respect my choices. Strangers are harder. Historically gays have been persecuted by just as much misunderstanding and judgment as the transgender community, but a lot of trans people feel ostracised in queer safe spaces, as if we don’t belong. A lot of the discrimination I have had has come directly from the gay community: My choosing to be male didn’t make it so because I would never have a penis.

It was never a choice. I did not one day decide to be a boy. One day I simply allowed my true self to come into being. I would never choose to become a second class citizen (in the eyes of many); to open myself to discrimination and hate, possible abandonment and rejection from family and friends; to jeopardise my job security; to lose the right to marry; or, risk ever finding a partner who could accept me… None of this is anything I would willingly choose. It was the next step of my existence, and it was always going to happen…

---

[1] I have since been diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety.

[2] Transgender Dysphoria Blues is the sixth studio album from Against Me! (one of my favourite bands). It was released on January 21, 2014 following the coming out of Laura Jane Grace (founder, lead singer, songwriter and guitarist) in May 2012. The album deals with gender dysphoria.