Speaking of PTSD
Jul. 18th, 2008 10:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clovehitchedThrough my network of Sekrit Contacts(tm) I had the opportunity to watch the pilot (and probably final) episode of Pretty Handsome today. It's about a family man in early middle age who is actually a transsexual woman, on the cusp of transition, from the same stable as Nip Tuck. When I say I "watched it", I mean I watched 5 minutes of it. Let me explain.
It starts with a slightly creepy scene in which the protagonist is in a lingerie shop buying knickers "for my wife", "he" tells the assistant who asks if she can help. "She's a larger lady, I want her to feel like a woman again".
Immediately afterwards we see "him" and "his" wife in bed together. The wife is, of course, nothing like the description. She's conventionally attractive, and in this scene is eager to make love with her "husband", only he's not in the mood.
By this point, it's bringing back memories of feelings and stuff I'd rather forget. We cut to the next scene in the bathroom. "He's" getting ready for work in "his" boxer shorts (which are later drops to reveal the panties bought at the start). It's time for the morning shaving ritual. A point is made of "him" looking in the mirror at "his" stubble coated chin, at the razor, back to the mirror. The sense of distress is palpable. At this point, I'm starting to cry, and there's a sick feeling rising inside me; I'm remembering a hollow, desperate longing and a crippling pain that I haven't felt for over two years now, and the intensity of it is almost too much to bear. God, it hurts. It really, really hurts.
There's then a scene where the kids are about to go to school. They're boys, and it's clear they relate much better to their mother than their father. One of their friends is round and has a teenage crush on the mother.
Cut to the protagonist's club. Leather chairs and men in suits, discussing important upper middle class worldly manly man stuff. It's obvious from the scene that our hero(ine) feels like an imposter here - the words of "his" friends drift by, ignored and with as much comprehension as if they were spoken in Martian. Our transwoman isn't paying attention - she's imagining everyone in the room (middle aged, balding, somewhat out of shape men) in lingerie. It's not an attractive image.
At this point I couldn't go any further. Deep, vicious, tearing wounds that have spent the last two and a half years scabbing over, and then turning to dull scars, any residual pain a mere shadow of its former self, are now acting up and I'm reminded of how incredibly, indescribably raw and painful they were. My throat is swollen and I'm gulping air; tears are trickling down my cheeks. I remember everything, and I feel it. It's only a TV show, but I feel I know exactly how the character is feeling, her soul crying out in constant anguish, scrabbling for even the tiniest hint of something that will dull or lessen the pain for a while, when only one thing, so terrifying to contemplate will end the torment. It all came back to me.
It's several hours later now. There's still a slightly bitter, sick feeling inside me, and writing this entry and increased it a little bit, but it'll be gone in the morning. I can look at myself in the mirror and see my face and hair, and hips. I can feel my breasts sitting comfortably in my bra. I can reach down and press my hand against the crotch of my jeans and feel what's there, and it makes it OK - it's OK, it feels like it was just a bad, bad nightmare, and I'm awake now.
Perhaps one day I'll be able to watch it to the end, but not yet - it's only been 2 1/2 years, and I'm not ready to face and own those memories yet.
It starts with a slightly creepy scene in which the protagonist is in a lingerie shop buying knickers "for my wife", "he" tells the assistant who asks if she can help. "She's a larger lady, I want her to feel like a woman again".
Immediately afterwards we see "him" and "his" wife in bed together. The wife is, of course, nothing like the description. She's conventionally attractive, and in this scene is eager to make love with her "husband", only he's not in the mood.
By this point, it's bringing back memories of feelings and stuff I'd rather forget. We cut to the next scene in the bathroom. "He's" getting ready for work in "his" boxer shorts (which are later drops to reveal the panties bought at the start). It's time for the morning shaving ritual. A point is made of "him" looking in the mirror at "his" stubble coated chin, at the razor, back to the mirror. The sense of distress is palpable. At this point, I'm starting to cry, and there's a sick feeling rising inside me; I'm remembering a hollow, desperate longing and a crippling pain that I haven't felt for over two years now, and the intensity of it is almost too much to bear. God, it hurts. It really, really hurts.
There's then a scene where the kids are about to go to school. They're boys, and it's clear they relate much better to their mother than their father. One of their friends is round and has a teenage crush on the mother.
Cut to the protagonist's club. Leather chairs and men in suits, discussing important upper middle class worldly manly man stuff. It's obvious from the scene that our hero(ine) feels like an imposter here - the words of "his" friends drift by, ignored and with as much comprehension as if they were spoken in Martian. Our transwoman isn't paying attention - she's imagining everyone in the room (middle aged, balding, somewhat out of shape men) in lingerie. It's not an attractive image.
At this point I couldn't go any further. Deep, vicious, tearing wounds that have spent the last two and a half years scabbing over, and then turning to dull scars, any residual pain a mere shadow of its former self, are now acting up and I'm reminded of how incredibly, indescribably raw and painful they were. My throat is swollen and I'm gulping air; tears are trickling down my cheeks. I remember everything, and I feel it. It's only a TV show, but I feel I know exactly how the character is feeling, her soul crying out in constant anguish, scrabbling for even the tiniest hint of something that will dull or lessen the pain for a while, when only one thing, so terrifying to contemplate will end the torment. It all came back to me.
It's several hours later now. There's still a slightly bitter, sick feeling inside me, and writing this entry and increased it a little bit, but it'll be gone in the morning. I can look at myself in the mirror and see my face and hair, and hips. I can feel my breasts sitting comfortably in my bra. I can reach down and press my hand against the crotch of my jeans and feel what's there, and it makes it OK - it's OK, it feels like it was just a bad, bad nightmare, and I'm awake now.
Perhaps one day I'll be able to watch it to the end, but not yet - it's only been 2 1/2 years, and I'm not ready to face and own those memories yet.
