Fleabag, thinking about the Roman Empire and the three flavours of hating yourself.
Wherein I make up some fancy Latin phrases and bang on about how shit dysphoria is.
For me there’re three different ways in which I hate myself. The “Dysphoric Triumvirate” as I like to call them (I’m sure all you bros who think about the Romans on the reg are already frothing at that). In my mind this trio exists as a constantly shifting Venn diagram, each vying for my attention. Each power hungry, vain and opportunistic like the Caesar/Pompey/Crassus power dynamic. Sure, you can lump them all together, but each is its own distinct sonofabitch.
Physical Dysphoria. “Corporalis Tristitia” the most common and well known of the Dysphoric Triumvirate. The original flavour. The secret herbs and spices. The Classic. The thing that gets used to define all trans people despite not all of us suffering from it.
This flavour of dysphoria occupies so much of the discourse it is clearly the big favourite. It is a bankable property. As far as sadness for time investment goes it has a great ROI. Just a few minutes here and there of being disgusted by your meat prison and you will be drowning at the bottom of the well-of-self-loathing in no time. You don’t even need to look at yourself most times. Just feeling your physical form can be enough. Just being tall or short enough and looking out at the world at the wrong height can be enough to make you feel like you are walking around inside a skin-suit that doesn’t belong to you. This flavour is so easily at hand (God I just looked at my hands and I felt it) you really don’t need to do much work at all to find it. It’s what makes it so easy to explain as well. The absolute revulsion that cisgendered women have been hoodwinked into experiencing their entire lives. Sure, when a woman looks at her body and hates what she sees this is not a gender-based dysphoria… but it has such a similar flavour… The Coke/Pepsi dichotomy if you will (No, I will not be drawn into a discussion on which is which in my labored metaphor). For those of you who have stared into the mirror and wanted to evaporate into a miasma rather than exist for one more second in your horrifying flesh vessel it isn’t a stretch for you to hear me say “yeah, it feels like that, but instead of longing to be thin or fit I long to be more feminine”. People get that glassy-eyed stare as they are transported back to those moments of considering shapes and forms of their bodies. (Note: You are stunning honey, and I will roller-derby-body-slam anyone who says different). Cause that is kinda what this physical dysphoria, the disconnect from the physical form, is like. The deep well of sadness that comes from feeling trapped inside something that isn’t you. It’s a real sonofabitch to be honest and something I definitely have… but it isn’t the worst. Most days I am fine with the body, flawed as it is.
Social Dysphoria. “Cultura Tristitia”. I’m making up these Latin terms by the way. I literally went to google and typed in “sadness in Latin” and the word “Tristitia” came up. I typed in “social” and apparently the Latin word for “social” is “social”… so I typed “culture” instead. But I think it still applies… The culture of the world. The social interactions of the day to day. The broader discourse.
This is the dysphoria I feel when I see a news article about a multi-billionaire launching attack after attack on trans people from their Scottish castle. This is not the same sadness I feel when I look at my penis. I mean… sure in both those instances the phrase: “what a dick?” might still waft through my mind, but that’s mostly coincidence. The dysphoria of the world, of cowards shooting up gay bars, of pasty young men carrying banners calling for eradication, of chinless conservative politicians slithering to the podium to talk about wanting to “tackle the transgender problem” (honey, see my earlier comments about body-slams if you think you are capable of “tackling” me). Everything from newspaper headlines to online hate, to the shop attendant calling you “sir”. Whereas the first flavour is the feeling of disconnect from one’s body, this one is the feeling of being disconnected from the world. It is something that people like me face every day. It is also a sonofabitch. But that feels a little light for describing how it feels when you see politicians talking about eradicating you personally.
And lastly Mental Dysphoria. “Mentis Tristitia”. The disconnect from your mind. This one is a real cunt.
Lately the internet has been delightfully prancing around with video after video of women asking their cisgendered male partners: “Honey, how often do you think about the Roman Empire?” and these poor bamboozled men realise they think about the Romans weekly or even daily. Streaming apps are now curating lists of films and shows titled “thinking about the Roman Empire?”. This “act of thinking about the Roman Empire” has become synonymous with “being a man”. There have been plenty of counter responses trying to find the female equivalent of “thinking about the Roman Empire” too. The leading theory that I like is the theatrical play and series ‘Fleabag’… Go on, ask a woman in your life how often they think about it. You’ll probably be surprised (or not at all if you are a woman) about how much women think about it. But I’m not going to fall into the discourse on why men think about the Romans… though it does have to do with how the vast majority of things in western culture can be traced back to the Romans be it engineering, art, politics, religion… Goddamnit! You got me talking about the Roman Empire… You see this is my point? It’s so easy to just think about the Romans… If only women didn’t have their own triumverate of emotional/mental/domestic labour to deal with then maybe they could wile away the hours pondering the breath and scope ancient civilisations, but I guess a TV series from 2016 will have to do.
And now we have all these bemused women shaking their heads at all these men, affibly confronted by the realisation about how their minds wander into inot thinking about a failed empire (it didn’t die, it is still here it just transformed into something else). And it’s cute… genuinly. But it makes me realise just how much I think about the Roman Empire as well…
It’s a lot.
I lived as a man, was socialised as a man, believed I was a man for decades, and that cannot be erased. Much of it can be undone, the stitches unpicked, the corners of my heart and mind aired out… but I am still gonna think about the Romans. This is where the worst form of dysphoria lives for me. The fear that my mind is somehow “a man’s mind”. That I am compelled to behave, react, think in certain ways. Not because there is an innate biological man-brain, but that the decades of reinforced pathways will always win. That no matter what I do to change this body, no matter how progressive and supportive the world becomes around me… that these thoughts, these neural furrows are forever etched into patterns and shapes that are those of a man.
I know, I know, that’s bullshit. Any psychologist will tell you that isn’t how it works (believe me I’ve asked). But that fear is still there. I catch myself, like seeing a glimpse of your broad shoulders reflected in a shop window and remembering how you really look. I catch myself and notice how I think. I notice how when someone tells me about an issue they’re experiencing I’ll instantly leap to the problem solver discourse instead of validating and comforting. I notice how defencive I get. I notice how when I think about sex and intimacy and desires, I feel that much of it still reminds me of being “a man”. And yes… when I think about the Roman Empire… which would be weekly… I wonder if this mind is forever locked into being this thing that I am so sure I am not. I wonder if I can ever truly feel that I am a woman.
But also… I actually think about Fleabag quite a bit too. Like… almost daily… and to be honest that’s a comfort.
–S