As You Are: Chapter 2

"Oh Toni, you look beautiful."

I tried to manage a smile, even though I was feeling more and more uncomfortable by the minute. If anyone else at the dress fitting had said it, I would still feel uneasy, but this was from my mum.

My mother really wanted a daughter, except that I think she wanted a doll to play with more than an actual living, breathing human being with a mind of her own and feelings and likes and dislikes. When I was four, I told my mum I was a boy and asked why I didn't have a penis, and she got very angry with me and then she began to overcompensate with my femininity. I used to be forced to wake up at an ungodly hour on school days so my mum could spend hours curling my hair or giving me elaborate braided hairstyles, which was like torture with sitting still for hours, pulling too hard with the comb, and the painfully-hot curling irons and crimper. My hair would go flat within an hour after I got to school anyway, so the fuss with the irons was for naught. And on days when I didn't have to wear a school uniform, my mother made me wear these frilly dresses which were too stiff and scratchy.

All it did was reinforce that feeling that I was a boy and everything was wrong.

But the worst was when she entered me into child beauty pageants after my father died, to "make him proud" even though my father always quietly sympathised with my distaste for her shenanigans. I started getting sick just before the pageant out of anxiety, until my mother thought I was "faking it" and dragged me along anyway while I was sick. It took my mother being sloppy drunk and vomiting at a show for the committee to tell her to not come back.

At which point she went on a three-day bender and left me home alone with almost no food, not knowing if she'd come back or not. On day three I rang my father's brother Nigel in a panic, he came to get me and once he found my mother he had a talk with her and I went to go live with him and his partner Steve so I didn't get taken away and put in a care home. My mother sometimes attempted to visit me, but these visits usually didn't go well and after I began uni, I kept my distance from her until my wedding, and then her journey of sobriety.

The word "triggered" hadn't yet entered casual conversation in 2012, it would be another couple of years, but that was absolutely how I felt at that moment, and didn't have a word for it. Triggered.

I had asked my cousin Judith weeks ago if there was any way she'd allow an exception for me to wear a pantsuit instead of a dress. Judith herself had no problem with that, but her mother Angela - the one arranging everything - absolutely did. "And the dresses are so nice, Antonia," Angela kept telling me when I tried to argue and negotiate, like the lawyer I was. "Not like the godawful Pepti-Calm pink you're used to seeing at weddings." The dresses were jewel tones - plum, wine and peacock green - and we were allowed to pick the colour. I went with peacock green, but I still felt like I was performing very bad drag. And since my mother had to be included in her niece's wedding, here she was to personally oversee that performance, which dredged up all kinds of icky memories and feelings.

Today was just the fitting, not the wedding. But if I felt this bloody awful at the fitting, I could only imagine my discomfort when the wedding happened, even though Judith and Terry would be the centre of attention. And there was one more round of this nonsense between now and the wedding - I was invited to the rehearsal dinner, where I would be required to wear a dress, and not this one. Since my old little black dress didn't fit anymore, I would have to buy a new one for the occasion, and shopping for it felt like adding insult to injury.

The dresses may not have been Pepti-Calm pink, but they were still too revealing for my comfort with cleavage and spaghetti straps. I had worn a strapless and backless gown for my own wedding - at my husband's request - and I'd felt exposed the entire time. It wasn't that I thought there was anything immoral about the design, such notions of "modesty" were rather illiberal - and Judith was in fact wearing a sapphire blue wedding dress rather than traditional white, because she was a feminist and felt the connotations of white with virginity was patriarchal bullshit, and I agreed with her and wished I'd done the same for my own wedding. It was just that...

"You look amazing, Toni," Judith said, her eyes wide as she looked me up and down. "That dress really flatters you." She chuckled. "I'd kill for a figure like yours."

I exhaled. Judith looked like a plus-size version of Counselor Troi from Star Trek: The Next Generation, I thought she was beautiful and deserved compliments more than I did. I'd been bullied in school for being a nerd and she'd been teased for her size, so we were natural allies and got on like a house on fire. It always made me sad to see her put herself down for her weight, sadder still when I saw her picking at salads or not eating at all.

But then one of the bridesmaids - Alex, I think her name was - chimed in with, "You've got great tits!" and that made it even worse, when the others laughed and nodded in agreement. My face burned and I wanted to run off and hide. If the wedding were not at the end of June and were in the fall or winter during cold/flu season, I would have pretended to have flu just to get out of it. I felt trapped.

Trapped not just doing this... ridiculous archaic ritual of gender conformity, no matter how feminist we all were, but trapped in this body I didn't want, didn't sign up for. This life. My husband Steve was the equivalent of an "ambulance chaser" with celebrities' broken families and broken hearts and the legal community celebrated him; I kept battered women from going to prison in self-defence and I got to hear "you've got great tits!"

I smiled again, but my face felt as stiff as the dress I was in, and I felt sick to my stomach.

After the fitting, we went out to a late lunch. I really didn't want to go, but my mum kept badgering me and Judith gave me a sad look.

But I had a very valid reason why I didn't want to go, and it was because I knew I was going to feel like I was the proverbial fish out of water, on the outside looking in. My mother, my aunt Angela and I were the only women in attendance who were related to Judith. Everyone else was a friend or friendly co-worker, everyone else knew each other... and didn't seem particularly interested in getting to know me.

Nor did I feel like I had anything to talk about. Once the conversation shifted from small talk to more personal subjects, I felt even more left out. First people began talking about home renovations and interior decorating, passing around cell phones to show off photo galleries of their projects. While I often felt like a gay man trapped in a woman's body, I wasn't that much of a stereotype and I felt I had nothing to contribute. The topic of homes turned to the topic of children - of the ten bridesmaids, two were pregnant and four had small children, and I felt my skin crawling just thinking about it, the thought of being pregnant was visceral horror. I had decided at the age of ten I didn't want children - I had tried, and failed, to get my tubes tied, with doctors telling me "you'll change your mind".

Then the topic of children became reading to children, and then the topic of children's books became talking about adult books. That would have been something where I'd have felt more at home, I loved to read, except the conversation was all about romance novels - Fifty Shades Of Grey was still the new hot thing in 2012 - and Jane Bloody Austen, which was somehow trendy these days. Though my parents were well-to-do, I was mostly raised by a Royal Navy sailor and his factory-worker boyfriend, and I had been part of a Marxist club at Cambridge; I knew I defied class expectations... and I thought Jane Austen was bourgeoisie garbage. I kept that thought to myself but as the discussion wore on I felt more and more uncomfortable and eventually I just started zoning out.

As a rule, I avoided alcohol because of my family history of alcoholism and it felt doubly bad to drink in front of my mum, but I was sorely, sorely tempted.

My mother was the one driving me to and from the fitting and lunch to get in some extra time with me, and I really wished I'd asked to leave early by the time everything was done and it was time to head home. Now I was going to have to deal with Steve - while he was my plus-one for the wedding, he didn't need to get fitted for anything being he had so many suits for work. I felt drained from the fitting and the lunch even though I'd barely interacted with anyone through the latter. I just wanted to be alone for awhile.

Naturally, my mum decided now was a great time to talk my ear off. Extroverts are so bloody fucking exhausting.

My eyes began to glaze over again and I was reminded of the adults in Charlie Brown where their speech all turned into "womp womp womp." I felt myself nod and heard myself throw in an occasional "mhm" on autopilot, but I wasn't really there. And my mum kept talking and talking and talking.

As we approached my house, I started to come back to myself, just in tine for my mum to drop the bomb. "Between now and the rehearsal, I think we need to take you to get your hair done. Perhaps a full day at the salon for a manicure and a pedicure... maybe a day at the spa! We'll treat ourselves!" Her face lit up.

I gave a nervous little laugh that I was sure made me sound like I was about to have a nervous breakdown. I did get my hair cut regularly, and I was glad my mother had finally gotten off my arse to grow it out again, remembering her shit fit about the pixie cut before my wedding. But as far as the rest of it, I would have rather read Fifty Shades or Jane Austen. She was describing torture and thinking it sounded fun.

But more than that, it was yet another reminder that my mother did not get it. She did not get me. It was as if all the years of asserting myself and my wishes and preferences - that I was not ever going to be the girly girl she wanted - had gone completely the fuck over her head, again. That no amount of trips to the salon or spa was going to magically transform me into that girly girl by showing me how "fun" it could be.

"No," I said.

My mother's face fell. "Oh," she said very quietly.

At that moment, I felt like the biggest arsehole in the world. I felt like I had committed a faux pas on par with Kanye West's "I'm happy for you and I'mma let you finish" moment. My mind began to spin its gears, taunting me with Well, you've done it now, Toni. Now she's going to fall off the wagon and go on a bender and it's going to be YOUR BLOODY FAULT because you broke her heart -

"All right, I suppose," I said, and then I wanted to smack myself, because even with the idea that refusing would "make" my mother drink - like that was somehow my fault and not her responsibility - this entire farce was stressful enough for me without one more thing, one more daub of shit icing on the shit cake that this was turning out to be.

"If you're sure," my mother said, in that passive-aggressive way she had. "I don't want to inconvenience you..."

It had nothing to do with inconvenience - yes, being a lawyer ate a lot of my mental energy for people places and things, but it wasn't like I couldn't take a Saturday and do the thing. It wasn't about time, it was me being done with this shit before it even began. "It'll be fun," I lied, and followed it up with the biggest, fakest smile I'd ever put on in my life apart from the one I had on my wedding night when Steve asked me if it was good. I was really tired of lying my way through life. I patted my mum on the shoulder, we exchanged a quick hug and kiss, and then I dashed out of the car and straight to the bathroom, where I proceeded to dry heave for the next ten minutes.

I came out and made some tea, to settle my stomach and soothe my nerves. Steve wasn't in the living room or kitchen; I looked around for him and there was no sign of him, so I assumed he was out with one of his friends... and felt guilty that oh good, he's not here was my reaction. But I also couldn't deny that he was the very last person I wanted to deal with right now, I was already stressed out enough. And having that reminder yet again that Steve was a continual source of aggravation in my life and our marriage was more of a sham that had long since brought me more discomfort than happiness, just made everything worse.

I leaned against the counter, watching the tea, and started to consider the possibility of a divorce. It wasn't the first time I'd had this thought - the first time had been during our honeymoon - but it was something I now knew I couldn't put off indefinitely.

However, I also knew that going forward with divorce proceedings while I still had the matter of Judith's wedding to deal with, would be more misery than relief, especially since Steve was also invited and if Judith had to suddenly disinvite him that would be bad form. I needed to cope until after the wedding... perhaps a few weeks to a month afterwards, to give myself time to recover from the nonsense that was dealing with crowds of people while wearing these wretched outfits.

I sat down with my tea and Walt Whitman's poetry - something that had long been comforting to me - but now it just reinforced the ache, knowing Walt Whitman was a queer man and he'd written of male-male love. It wasn't just the dresses that made this whole fiasco unbearable, though that was part of it, but if Angela wasn't so up her own arse about me wearing a pantsuit and I could wear a bloody suit to the wedding, I would still have a problem. It was OK to be a masculine woman - I was a feminist, I didn't believe in this "pink is for girls, sportsball is for boys" shite. But I had never felt like a woman. I had told my mum when I was small that I was a boy, and she had reacted badly.

That feeling never went away. And now, as I read my favourite poem, my eyes misted and my heart burned.

We two boys together clinging,
One the other never leaving,
Up and down the roads going, North and South excursions making,
Power enjoying, elbows stretching, fingers clutching,
Arm'd and fearless, eating, drinking, sleeping, loving,
No law less than ourselves owning, sailing, soldiering, thieving, threatening,
Misers, menials, priests alarming, air breathing, water drinking,
on the turf or the sea-beach dancing,
Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness chasing,
Fulfilling our foray.

I closed the book and threw it down on the coffee table, and leaned back in my chair, shoulders heaving with a long, deep sigh. I rubbed my face like an annoyed wet cat and then I slumped down in my seat and closed my eyes.

I wanted what he was talking about, so much. I didn't want to be Steve's wife. I wanted to be someone's boyfriend or husband. Once again in my mind's eye I saw myself making love to another man, as a man. There was my "gay Jon Snow" fantasy again, topping him as he called me Daddy.

As he called me Anthony, not Antonia.

Tears spilled down my cheeks and I buried my face in my hands. I had that phantom limb sensation again, like I had a dick once upon a time and it was missing.

But more than that... the Welsh have a word, hiraeth, a sense of homesickness for a home long gone... or a land, a world, that never existed in the first place. I felt that now, crashing over me like a tidal wave. I felt trapped in this body, and there was no amount of feminism and smashing patriarchy that could rectify the feeling that everything was wrong, that this life was not mine and there was something else, somewhere else, another life out of my reach.

I changed into my pyjamas and made myself go to sleep for awhile, shutting down, shutting the world off. I woke up shortly after six PM to the sound of Steve getting in the door. I sat up groggily just in time for him to walk in the bedroom.

"Hi," he said.

I gave a small, tired wave. "Hey."

Steve sat on the edge of the bed. "You all right?"

"No." I gave a nervous laugh.

"Did something happen at the fitting?"

I shrugged. "Not really, I just... you know. Don't feel like I really fit in. I know Judith was trying to be nice considering how close we were growing up but I think we kind of outgrew each other, and her friends didn't convince me otherwise." I wasn't going to get into it about whatever the fuck existential crisis my brain was having about my gender.

"Oh, I think you're probably being too sensitive. You deal with the public all the time as a barrister, you're not crap at it."

I felt myself tense and restrained the urge to bark at him for calling me too sensitive. "Defending my clients in the courtroom and making small talk with a group of girls is two bloody different skill sets, Stephen."

Steve blinked and recoiled at the use of his full name, then he laughed it off. "If you say so. I still think you're being too sensitive and it's not as bad as you think it is."

I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, to keep myself from blowing up. My head started throbbing. I quickly changed the subject. "Are you hungry? I'm not really in the mood to cook, but we could get a pizza or something?"

"OK," Steve said. He mussed my hair and then he got up. "I'll ring for takeaway. You want our usual, sausage and mushroom, right?"

"Right." When he left the room, I muttered to myself, "Arsehole."

I tried to tell myself he thought he was being helpful and reassuring, but his comments came off as dismissive. It came off like gaslighting me. I didn't feel like an outsider at that lunch for no reason - I had nothing to say to anyone and nobody had anything to say to me. But it was pointless to fight with him about it.

Because I didn't bloody care anymore. Sometime in July, when this was all over, I was going to get a divorce and wash my hands of him. I was done with comments like you're too sensitive.

I was done with being somebody's wife, somebody's bridesmaid.

chapter 3 | return to A Place Called Home | return to Original Works | return to index