Yesterday evening I completed my move across town from one apartment to another. The experience was, and continues to be, disorientating. I guess everyone needs a place to call home. I start from scratch, again.
I woke up from an anxiety nightmare early this morning. Soon after, was lying on the floor doing stretching exercises and caught myself in full sight in my new wardrobe mirror door. I'd never seen myself like this before, in my bed things and a baseball cap, lying on the floor in relative darkness. Me watching me. Studying the incompleteness.
Up until the move to a new apartment, I'd spent more time alone, my flatmate at my last place away on leave. Her absence meant I could blur the lines a little: I stopped making shower/make-up the first act of my day. I would wander, instead, into the kitchen and our minimalist living area of floorboards and wooden table. Would have breakfast, trying to enjoy the absence of pressure on performing and presenting me, though it appears to have left me inconsolable: maybe without the performance, I'm nothing. I saw myself in the mirror much more often during this period, not as I present to the public, but in fragments of Gina. I wonder in hindsight if this had the effect of looking into a broken mirror: my Ego in fragments, my body disunified.
I usually identify as a transgender woman, but these past few days, the word that comes to mind is androgyne, if such a word exists. A thing in between worlds, and between people. I hear real people's stories about real stuff, dating, holidays, and I've never felt so distant.
These are the days we don't really hear or talk about. I exist in isolation, a construction aware of its own constructedness. I wish I was not this way. I arrive at my university building this morning covered in sweat, it's muggy outside despite the nice walk (I love my new walk to university). My body battles with temperatures, my hair so thick keeping all the warmth inside. Am so hot and sticky. My temperature diodes do not seem to be working. The floor of my unconscious, uneven. Jagged skylines. Literature, music, cinema, alcohol, none of the above. My brain explodes with the lack of answers. What do you do when the performance you thought you were putting on for the world, is being performed for your own benefit? Shards of broken Gina, lying on the ground, watching itself in a full-length mirror.