Finding the real ‘me’ in the mirror

Growing up, I was always taken to the boys’ section in clothing stores. But boys’ clothes seemed to hide who I really was.

Source: Getty Images

I stand in front of the clothing rack in the Dangerfield store in Penrith, on the outskirts of Sydney. I nervously play with the jagged stitching of my jumper, patched up by my husband over the past few years. The shirt I’m wearing underneath has a stretched-out collar from where I’ve tugged at it with anxiety. Most of my clothes are riddled with holes – whether from my cat’s claws or a moth, I’m not sure. Either way, I’m due for a new wardrobe, and have been for a long time.

Author Michael Stoneburner. Source: Supplied

My husband and I had decided to visit Dangerfield because we’d heard it was LGBTIQ+ friendly and had clothes for all shapes, sizes and genders. The last place we tried to shop at called us “perverts” for looking through the women’s clothing, while other places refused to acknowledge us.

I stare at the clothes, sweat beginning to form on my brow. If it wasn’t for the blue nail polish with majestic sparkles I’m wearing, I’d be biting my nails. Instead, I seek some form of comfort by rubbing their surface over and over.

There’s nothing worse than entering a shop and having to either pretend they didn’t misgender me, or correct them by saying, “First of all, I’m not a ‘sir’”

My husband squeezes my hand as a shop assistant approaches us.

“Can I help you?”

We smile at each other, relieved that the first hurdle is over: they didn’t say “sir”. There’s nothing worse than entering a shop and having to either pretend they didn’t misgender me, or correct them by saying, “First of all, I’m not a ‘sir’.” Even when I wear a They/Them badge, it’s often overlooked or ignored.

“I want to find some really great pants,” I say.

Growing up, I was always taken to the boys’ section in clothing stores and shown sports shirts and jeans in shades of blacks, blues, reds and greys. Although I liked some of them, I often glanced at the girls’ section and saw purples, pinks and other bright colours I wasn’t allowed to try on, and imagined how beautiful I’d look in them. Boys’ clothing always seemed to hide the real me.

I was a he and a he was all I was meant to be.

Michael Stoneburner wearing clothing purchased from Dangerfield. Source: Supplied

Without hesitation, the Dangerfield assistant shows me a fabulous pair of corduroy pants, which I fall head over heels in love with. The fabric is soft to the touch and red, like the feathers of a phoenix. But I don’t know what size I am. Men’s sizes are always just a bunch of letters: S, M, L, XL, XXL and a lot more Xs, while women’s sizes tend to differ with each brand.

“I think you’ll be a size 18, but also take these.”

The assistant hands me two pairs and indicates the location of the dressing rooms, a place I usually dread. This time, however, I practically skip towards the cubicle.

Once inside, it’s as if I’m a child again. I fumble with buttons and zippers and awkward holes as I struggle to undress. The new clothes I’m holding feel foreign. I suddenly don’t want to try anything on. The pants are too beautiful, I tell myself. I almost leave. I know that if they don’t fit, I’d spiral into body dysmorphia – that dark cloud of anxiety that has me seeing a larger, uglier version of myself. I can hear my inner imposter: I told you this wouldn’t work. You weren’t made for this. Face reality. A he is all you are meant to be.

I can’t bear to see what awaits me. If I don’t look, I won’t judge. I won’t see the years of trauma, the fat or the flaws

I hold up the size 18 pants, which the assistant had said would probably fit. For a moment, I check the mirror. I see my reflection expand as I look. Despite feeling disgusted, I inhale deeply and slip on the pants. Even though they slide on perfectly and I can button and zip with ease, I avert my gaze. I can’t bear to see what awaits me. If I don’t look, I won’t judge. I won’t see the years of trauma, the fat or the flaws.

I won’t see him.

I hug myself, feeling my jumper’s jagged seams beneath my fingers. I list all the reasons why the pants won’t work. So does the imposter: I told you this wouldn’t work. You weren’t made for this. Face reality. You’ll always wear a mask. A he is all you are meant to be.

The quiet voice, the one desperate to be free of the mask, deep inside me needs to see. What if you’re beautiful?

I look in the mirror. For a brief, euphoric moment, I see a bigger picture: I am more than a mask. I’m an authentic painting hanging on a wall ready to be seen by the world. The quiet voice within me sobs, I’m beautiful.

For the first time since I started wearing eyeshadow and nail polish a few years ago, I feel transformed. The mask has fallen off, and I feel amazing. I also feel loved – I’m not talking about the love I get from my husband, who greets me with, “Good morning, my love,” each day (although I feel that kind of love, too). This feels different. This is self love. There’s nothing better than a reflection’s love.

I open the curtain and step out.

“Oh my god, they look fabulous,” my husband says, and I agree.

 

This story has been published in partnership with WestWords, a writing group and mentoring program for writers from Western Sydney.