Dysphoria

When It Hits.

Dysphoria

Its like wanting to throwing up but your body won't let you.

You're sitting there, weak and trembling; like the earth's plates during an earthquake
every movement becomes twisted into a bout of nausea, like the dna strand figure in biology textbooks
You're as pale as a white crayon and helpless; held captive by your sickness

Every fiber of your body aches to oust the illness
A vile purgation, stinging and hot against your throat
Like the feeling after you have spicy food and it lingers at the back of your throat
Waves and waves of sickness pouring out of your body like a tide with crazy winds
Until finally, feeble and wavering, you stand tall.

And the color begins to come back to your face.
A relief of all the gross and disgusting feelings
Allowing you to lay down again and rest peacefully
Without your head swimming with blight.

But that is not dysphoria.
There is no purge
There is no relief.
This is no "cure"
You are hit again and again with this nausea day by day breathe by breathe

No hope for an end
With every breath, your stomach churns
With every movement, your body shakes
Your eyes are closed and you bite your lip;
Any action can only serve to entice the disease.

No medication could ever relieve such a force
Of this malady, this fever, this ailment.
Nothing can calm the tides of dysphoria. 

It's like the voice in the back of your head

It's the feeling of yourself in the shower and being disgusted

It's the clothes that line your curves too well
It's the stare of all those around you

It's the screaming of the wind
It's the force of the tornado
It's the hail from the cold skies
It's the wave of the tsunami
It's everything crashing down on you at once

It's like a reverse button but everything is also in slow motion.

The worst part of dysphoria is that people say they understand how you feel but they really don't.

you cannot help but hate your body

the gangly limbs
the stomach that sticks out entirely too far
the freckles that dot your face
you fucking hate yourself
every mirror you look at is a reminder of what a total piece of shit you are
so when you start to float, it's a relief

the feeling of not being you is something entirely new
the arms that are not your arms
legs that are not your legs
eyes that you can't see through

and better
you aren't a fucking girl anymore
this is always the worst part
you can fucking deal with everything else
you can
but not that

because you are not female
and you know this
except
except you are

the binders lying on the floor are telling you that you aren't actually
they love that word
actually
shout it in the hallways and whisper in hushed conversations that they know you can hear

actually

the sensation of being ripped out of your own skin
and then
calm
then
you aren't you
so you're happy

you can't not be happy when you look like how you actually fucking feel

the sensation of being ripped out of your own skin, then
isn't bad
because it's not your skin anymore
it's that freaks' skin
you're not a freak

right? 

Dysphoria is 'A profound state of unease or dissatisfaction.'

I can understand that.
I ache.
My body twitches with the unseen tremors
of muscles that were never there.

And sometimes my fingers and skin
fool me -
wrinkles fade into existence
as my body is at once
too large and too small for
the galaxies burning within. 

  I am locked up in this body,

In this world of lies,

And deep down I know,

I will be free one day. It may not be soon but I know I will be free one day.