These past few weeks have been kind of rough for me transitioning-wise. And it wasn’t until last week when I finally could express why, both framing my sense of dysphoria and honestly saying why and what is happening without just saying, “I’m frustrated shit isn’t happening fast enough for me.”
I imagine it the way I like to imagine how I first encountered a Jack in the Box. You’re given this small unassuming box with a crank on the side, and it starts to play “Pop Goes the Weasel” when you turn it.
*DOoo-do-do-DO, do-doO-DO-DO–DOo-do DOoo-do-do-DO, do-doO-DO-DO–DOo-do DO!!!* AND A FUCKING MONSTER IN THE FORM OF WHAT LOOKS LIKE A JESTER POPS OUT AT YOU!
And your first reaction just had to be like, “Come on! What the fuck? Seriously guys, is this the kind of shit we give to kids? Is this for real? What the hell. What in. the. hell. Seriously. This can’t be good…” Then you put it down, and forget about it because of, well, object permanence. You just kind of forget about it and pick it up later, and the whole process starts again.
*Do-do-DO-DO!-Do-do-do-do-do* And that bastard spawn of a hell child comes rushing back out into the space where your face just was ’cause you already chucked it across the room, ’cause, really, come on, fuck that shit. And you just look sternly at your parents and realize you’re going to resent them till the end of your days and never, ever forgive them for this.
Then a few minutes later you pick it back up, start the whole thing over, and honestly this carries on for years. But you don’t get why other kids don’t have the same feeling about this boxed devil. You see other kids just being kids and being incredibly cool with the whole deal as they are. At the end of the day you’re left thinking, “what in the hell.”
And then you get taught that feelings like this are for girls. “Hmmmmmmm… but I am-” And then they snap at you and tell you every chance they get that being a girl is not good. So you just live with that jack in the box being an asshole. You think, “Whatever, it’s only a jack in the box, why can’t I just deal with it and move on?” And some time later you learn some people /really/ like jack in the boxes and have fun with the whole surprise and adventure of it all.
So you try to just let go of that feeling that something is different about you and jack in the boxes. And you try it out again. *do-do-do!-do-do-do-do-do* And pop goes that little weasel asshole again. And you’re like, “whatever, people enjoy this. I don’t get it, but whatever, I know there are other ways to have fun. No big deal.”
But it is. And every time somebody brings up jack in the boxes you just don’t see all the fun. Like c’mon, what’s the fascination. And it keeps going. You thought you were past it for the moment, but bam that horrible face pops up. But you’re too busy right now to care. And then life moves on, and now you’re not that busy and things are getting better, but that’s because something special happens.
You meet people who agree with you! They also think the jack in the box is also an asshole, and your mind is blown. You’re so happy. “You? You also think this? I’m not just alone on this.” They think this, too! Whhhhaaaaat! You get so effing excited.
So you think, sure I can try it out again. Turning the crank and now even just the sound bothers you, and your hand moves slower and slower and you just don’t want the ending to hit. And you dread it as the notes ping slower and dimmer.
*do….. do.. doooo… do-duh-duh-duh….*
And now they have this thumping sound. Your heart sinks, and bam! You just sit there, looking at its grin. And all you can manage is a sullen, “what in the actual fuck.”
So you realize you can’t pretend anymore. This jack in the box is no longer an irritation, it’s a drag on you. It makes work and life this dogged thing. So you start confronting it and telling people you think differently about Jack in the Boxes. And try making changes to make it easier to deal with it. And then you actually /do/ start feeling better about it and you’re proud that you can be more than that springy little shit. Though you still have those nights when it dawns on you that it’s still there, just biding its time, at least now you can say, “I know who you are, ass. I got you figured out.”
But then music plays, and the surprise hits again. And you’re breathing hard, and crying, but in you there is now this hope planted deep that some day a change will come. And that one day you turn the crank, and that you will have this feeling that something’s different.
*do-do-DO-do-do-Do-DO-do* POP!
The top of the box opens, and there’s nothing there. All you see now is the beautiful interlacing on the box’s exterior, the dull greens and painted gold leaf around the edges. The little wooden flap is waving there, but now all you see is the deep, dark velvet interior of the box. It’s empty and just the most satisfying emptiness you ever imagined.
And that is how I feel about the Jack in the Box.