For the last few days I've been feeling some pretty intense body dysphoria. I look at my skinny hips and tiny butt and I hate them, because they don't fit my clothes and they look so ugly. I look at my genitals, and I hate them, because they prevent the intimacy I so desire. I look at my massive chest and wide shoulders, and I hate them, because they are so unfeminine.
But then last night I dreamed that I was confined in a wheelchair. It was very vivid. I rolled down a curb cutout, and because I wasn't used to the chair I lost control and fell off into the street, and I was helpless to get back into the chair. It was so real that when I awoke, it took me a moment to remember that I really can use my legs.
And I thought, maybe this body isn't so bad.
It could be a lot worse.
On the other hand, maybe the dream reflects the reality that, in a sense, I am disabled – even though my arms and legs move like water.
Some people believe that our bodies reflect who we are; that we are our bodies. This is so not true. Ask any transperson. Ask Steven Hawking. Ask Helen Keller (okay, she's dead; so channel her through a medium). The soul, the person, that spark of life that resides behind the eyes or in the heart, that animates the body and moves it from place to place, is independent of and separate from the body, and if your body reflects who you really are, that is just luck. My body is no part of me. It doesn't even belong to me. It's somebody else's, and I don't know how I ended up in it. It's just the vessel that carries me from place to place, in which I am trapped.