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
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
“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 , a writing group and mentoring program for writers from Western Sydney.
