Little black tendrils

Little Black Tendrils

My coming out story

The little black tendrils are growing out of my body again.

I say this facetiously: they are constantly growing. As soon as I’m done with them, they are already slowly, steadily crawling back. Spiteful little things they are.

The ones on my torso, arms and legs, I learned to ignore. It was, after all, not appropriate for a person of my culture-imposed disposition to care about them. But then I focused on the ones on my face. The ones that stare back at me in every mirror, that blur every photo.

I used to mindlessly pluck them. When my mind was idle doing some repetitive task, usually while sitting at a desk, I grabbed them one by one with the tip of my fingernails and yanked them out, robbing them of some extra millimetres of growth. Bald patches here and there. I didn’t mind. It felt good.

I used to level them using all sorts of sharp objects. I tried so many different kinds. But they wouldn’t go without a fight. Without leaving the underlying skin tender, bruised, scarred, bleeding. Hurt.

It is, in reality, a struggle against myself. They come out of me and cover me all. The dislike I feel towards them is the dislike I feel towards me. The image of me. What looks back at me in every reflective surface. We are intrinsically linked. What I do to them, I do to myself.

And they match the other tendrils. The ones I can’t pluck with my fingers or level with a razor. The ones that no one else sees are the most noticeable to me. The ones growing inside. The ones in my mind that cover and blur all my emotions.

Why fight? Life would be so much easier without fighting.

After a while, I yielded. Because yielding was another culture-imposed behaviour. “Why fight? Life would be so much easier without fighting”. I let them grow. And grow they did. In and out, I was all covered and filled with pitch-black bristles that refused to cease.

I cut some now and then. That, at least, was appropriate. But I had given up. The battle against myself was over, and I lost.

I gave up forever.

And then I didn’t give up anymore.

One otherwise unremarkable October afternoon, I couldn’t take it any longer. I couldn’t hold it any longer. The courage I had been mustering for so long finally emerged. The support, love and encouragement that now surrounded me ripened. I finally acknowledged myself. And that included dealing with the tendrils, those on my face, those on my body, and those on the inside.

I lathered up, and with the water, away they went. They still didn’t go quietly and left me burned and bruised. But they were gone.

With a razor, I levelled them as I used to do all those years ago. Still the same hurt skin. But they, too, were gone.

And for a short, precious moment, I could feel my skin with my skin, without noise or interference. And in that moment, I knew there was no turning back. I couldn’t yield any longer. I would have to fight. For me and for the love that surrounded me.

That precious moment was soon gone, of course. The tendrils never stop growing. But I wasn’t the same. Feeling the air on my skin changed me in more ways than I can say.

What a difference can a simple, mundane thing make on a person.

After that, I fight them. They grow. I slash. And I enjoy those fleeting moments when the air touches my skin.

The ones on the inside are more pernicious, however. But love, acceptance and safety are the tools steadily subduing them. Even more than the ones on the outside.

I know I need more than razors and lotions. No amount of ripping or cutting will suffice. The battle against myself now is on another level. I know it won’t be easy. I know it will hurt. And above all, I know it will never be over.

But, like I have always done, I will prevail. Not by ignoring myself. Not by trying to convince myself I am something I am not. But by accepting it. Accepting and embracing it, and surrounding myself with more love, support and respect.

The battle as such can end. It can become something else. In place of a struggle against myself, it can become growth. Not of some bristles covering me inside and out, but of myself. It is me who is now coming out instead of those tendrils of self-hatred that used to be everywhere.