I Wish You All the Best

by Mason Deaver

I reach over to the remote on the nightstand and flip through a few of the channels on the TV, my eyes settling on a rerun of The Golden Girls. Because I can’t be alone right now. Not tonight. Thanks for being a friend, Betty White.

Such a contrast to the other nonbinary people I’ve seen online. Their smooth, hairless, acneless faces, their trimmed hair that always seems perfect. These things I could never be. Because no matter how hard I will it, my body isn’t how I want to see myself. Not that there’s anything wrong with those kinds of enby people, I just … it’s hard to describe. Bodies are fucking weird, especially when it feels like you don’t belong in your own. But it’s too late for things like puberty blockers, and surgery isn’t something I want.

I don’t know what I really want, but it isn’t this body. It’s almost like it knows, with the way it taunts me.

If you’re queer, your life has the potential to become one long coming-out moment. If I ever want to be called the right pronouns, I’ll have to correct people and put myself out there first and who knows what could happen.

It’s not even that what he’s saying is gross or anything. I don’t hate the idea of kissing someone, or even having sex with them. But there are just things about my body … things I’m still not quite over. It’s hard to describe.

Boys aren’t supposed to wear dresses. Even if I’m not a boy, even if clothing shouldn’t be gendered. Whenever anyone looks at me, that’s all they’ll see.

But the more I stare at my body, the more I hate it. It’s the same feelings I had before I realized I’m nonbinary. Things just aren’t where they’re supposed to be, and I feel like I’m larger and smaller than myself at the same time. Like nothing adds up.

“Have you ever had a crush before, Ben?” “Not really? I mean there are people on TV that I find attractive, but no one I’ve really been attracted to, if that makes any sense,” I say. “Not even Chris Evans?” they ask. “He’s too beautiful, that doesn’t count.”