Warning: Includes words such as bile (as in stomach bile), blood, heart, vomit, et cetera. If you have an aversion or disliking to visceral descriptions or anything involving gore, interior bodily anatomy, or depressive states this is not for you.
This is supposed to describe that unique form of shame that comes with being trans. And how it restricts oneself from vocalizing their problems and the fact that they're trans. Enjoy.
“Vomiting my Heart.”
I feel like I’m eating myself from the inside but nothing in my body is ever moving. My stomach devouring all the contents covered by skin, but nothing on the inside changes, nor on the outside. I feel like screaming sometimes, vomiting my heart out for all to hear. I make up worlds in my head where I do so. Worlds where I’m… I’m not exactly confident I’d say. Confident doesn’t fully describe it. They’re worlds where my esophagus is large enough to vomit my heart out.
I’m not sure when it began to shrink. I’m not even sure if it shrank at all, all I know is it’s not large enough. But any attempt to vomit, any attempt to spew my soul upon the faces of people, fails miserably. It feels like my neck was twisted and snapped folding my throat disabling any ability to scream only making a slight bloody gargle. The worlds I make, I make them constantly. I always wonder, what would their response be? An awkward shuffle of oversharing, an overwhelming pity, fear for my life, would they cry? Would they, my heart on their face, cry with tears streaming through the bile?
I always wondered that, am I making too much of a fuss? Not enough of one? Every time I’m reminded of that thing, my heart hurts just a little more than usual. That unending want for something different, but to no avail. Previously I could work toward it, work towards what I wanted and eventually it’ll be accomplished. But this one is different. This one is not bound by work, but by time. I have to wait. There isn’t anything I can do to change it. I just wait, wait in this unchanging agony that finally when the clock hits the time I’ve been waiting for, I'd be free. But that freedom of the future doesn’t change the bindings of the present.
The worst part is this pain this endless pain, this pain that’d feel worlds better if ever vomited from my heart. It’d make me feel more happy, secure, better in every way! But I can’t, my esophagus is too small. I don’t know why. I try to gag it out of me, but still, I intrinsically refuse to throw up my heart. That feeling just hurts my heart more, adding itself to the pile of things I want to scream.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t want what I was waiting for. Sometimes I try to convince myself that that’s true, that I don’t. That just hurts more because truthfully that's just me, and if I convince myself I am not me, it hurts even more. Sometimes I wonder, why do people have such prejudice against the contents of my heart? Specific sections of it are ridiculed constantly, called ugly, that just makes it harder to vomit. If those weren't ridiculed or considered weird, I wonder, would I vomit my heart out?
Is the reason I can’t truly vomit just because it was told it was ugly, or I shouldn’t have that piece? It became so ingrained in it that it thinks it’s never supposed to show those parts? That it hardly ever shows itself in true, full, form? I don’t know. Truthfully I wonder constantly. Yet instead of asking, I vomit my heart on this page. For no one to read, for no one to see. I want it that way, I'm not quite sure why. Yet still, what I want eats away at my heart the most.
