Ryan Orme/Elle Emerson

The Trans Teenager As Frankenstein’s Monster - Inspired by the works of Mary Shelley and Silas Denver Melvin 

I am new to the world. 

My pieces are not - I was stitched together from scraps of souls I will never know. I was many other Creatures, before.
Now I am grotesque, or so my Father thinks.
I am not sure whether I agree.
I am a Creature of darkness. I was laboratory-born. I was built, like some twisted patchwork that offers no warmth, no comfort.
There is not a trace of holiness in me but I like to pretend. I like to pretend that I possess a shred of divinity -

that I am whole and gentle and good. I try to be. 

I watch the strangers around me reach for each other in all they do; the fireplaces, the mealtimes and stories and songs. I watch their love and I make it my own. I am a collage of moments of love. I am an abomination, a devil, so my Father says; though I’m not sure whether I agree, I no longer want to die. 

I have died before, in a thousand different ways, to arrive with you now. I have been so many others whose names I cannot recall. There are only shadows where their memories ought to be and I believe it’s best this way - if I remembered, I would have to change it all again. I would have to return to the attic where I was not born and submit again to the scalpel. 

I’m far too tired for that. 

This body may be ill-fitting, but it is my own. 
"This life may only be an accumulation of anguish, but it is dear to me, and I will defend it."
Such an endeavor is not always an easy task.  As I am both terrible and sacred, so too, it seems, is the rest of the world. With every kind word, a string of  curses is shrieked and carried across rooftops. With every gentle touch comes a killing. Some nights, I wake to the heavy feeling that there will never be any atoning for all of our transgressions. Some nights, I feel myself losing sight of the sanctity of it all. In those moments, it is all I can do to shudder and sigh and try to forget the horrified whispers and pinched expressions with which I am met. I did not think love would feel this way. I thought we were family.

could destroy it all. I could put an end to the hurt. I could tear these trees from their roots, houses from their foundations, and set the place ablaze. Some nights, this seems like my only option. 

I could take everything from this world. I could. I am a powerful thing. I did not ask for a part in this half-life, not quite dead, not quite alive, not one nor the other, never any more than a horror no matter how many times I fumble my way through gentleness. The world is no place for me. 

I did not ask for a body. 

I have one, though. And I have found that the pieces from which I was created are precious. They lived before me. My creation was not the first punishment. I have always been whole. And so I am learning to care for myself as I do my rare, quiet moments of clarity. Which is to say I am learning to direct the love I have observed towards my own outsider heart. I am done phrasing myself delicately. I am done allowing those who were born tell me that I am some abomination purely because of the circumstances under which I entered this world. I was made. I was created. I am my Father’s child, it's true, but do not confuse body and soul. Remember that I pieced me together. I am the creator, the final form, and I choose to take it all. I have taken this accursed, bodysnatched thing and within it I have made  a home for the self I have crafted. I have taken the names Creature, Freak, Faggot, and they offer me the hope that I do not have to be beautiful to be holy. 

I think I’m finished seeing myself as a metaphor. I do not need to explain myself to myself any further. My only want is to be known as what I am. 
It’s been years of searching for that answer, and will likely be many more to come. 
We are all searching; all we are searching for is a tether that can lead us back to ourselves. Perhaps to exist is to find parts of yourself in every story you are told. 
Perhaps to exist is to be left in the dark about the entirety of your true nature, and I believe that’s for the best. If I understood myself completely, I imagine the most good that would come of it is a splitting headache. 

For now, I know what I love. I love long walks. I love sitting in the sun. I love the brownie in the center and apricot orange. I love talking about my identity and revealing exactly no specifics. I love calling myself a transsexual, a transfag, and I love knowing that to be trans is to carve out a home for yourself outside of any definition or label. To be trans is to be your own Creature and your own Dr. Frankenstein and your own severed cadavers. 

Of course, no process as involved as self-creation is devoid of emotion; I have spent hours sitting in the corner of my shower in tears, trying to grieve the loss of a boyhood I never had. I have asked any God within earshot why I was put into a body I hated, that I viewed as such a cosmic mistake. I have searched for compassion and found only the notion that my existence is a perversion of the natural order. A design of death. I’m only now learning to look in the mirror and find sanctuary in my monstrosity (used here to describe something akin to humanity). I am  a far cry from a beautiful thing. I do not have to be beautiful to be holy.