Phrenectomy

I do not want to be seen as just a pair of tits anymore. Not that I ever wanted to, but I’m over my physical appearance being my defining feature. What about my brain? My beautiful, brilliant brain! It’s the best thing about me, I’d argue. But people care not for my brain. They care about how great my boobs are. I’m not funny, I’m not smart. I am boobs. I am butt and vagina, sometimes I’m even Girl. I hate being reduced to these things. I want to be seen for who I actually am, not just what I look like. I’ve been having dreams where people can’t understand me. To me, I’m speaking clear as day, screaming, even. Begging for someone to understand me and hear me and help me. But everyone just smiles and nods or nervously gestures to their ears and silently mouths, “I can’t hear you.” It reminds me of how men treat me. Even my dad. Trying to talk to a man about something other than superficial bullshit has become a tumultuous task. And it’s not that I talk to stupid men regularly, I don’t have that kind of patience. Cavemen and meatheads are endearing from afar, but that’s about it. Dating one is hell, and being friends with one is worse. Anyway. I find talking to men to be exhausting for the most part. I feel like I have to “watch my language” and dumb myself down so they don’t get upset and throw a fit that a queer person is funnier/smarter/etc than them, a cis, straight, white man. Sometimes, to keep the peace, I play dumb. I find myself letting men explain things to me that I probably am more well-versed in, just for my own safety. The thing about non-cis men experiencing you as a threat is that they won’t get violent about it. I had a man threaten to knock my teeth out of my skull because I corrected him on a common misconception surrounding Nietzsche’s declaration that “God is dead, and we have killed him.” Sometimes I interact with men I don’t know, and my body goes into literal fight or flight. Like, my sympathetic nervous system genuinely reacts very negatively to men by default. It makes dating them nearly impossible. Every time I conquer my fear and see a man, I give license plate numbers, noticeable marks/tattoos, etc., and broadcast my location to all my friends. And this isn’t to say I don’t know any good men– I know plenty. I have a small council of eunuchs that I cherish greatly (the term eunuch here is being used in a non-literal manner, but you get the idea.) I know men who would put their lives in danger to protect me, as I would them should it come to that. I know men who see me as more than an object. I know men who respect women, no matter the context or situation. But I also know men who will reply to my Instagram stories with how attractive they think I am, despite the post being silly or lighthearted in nature, and in no way focusing on my appearance. I know men who can’t look past said physical appearance and respect my identity as non-binary. I know men who, and get this, are upset that they find me attractive because if I’m queer, then being into me would, *gasp* make them a tad homosexual. And don’t get me started on how my dad has never once taken me or my feelings seriously. To him, women are overly dramatic, difficult, and not to be taken seriously about emotional matters. One last qualm about men and I’m done. But holy shit please, for the love of all things holy, go easy on the cologne. I had a maintenance man walk into my apartment for 45 seconds. He left, but that stank lingered all damn day. Really ruined the vibes, in all honesty. If you’re a man and I allow you to be near me and perceive me in any capacity, just know I love you. You’re probably an idiot sometimes, but who isn’t? Also, you should go to therapy because I want to see you flourish. Go birds? Love you. ❤