A poem I wrote about dysphoria

Someone I do not know wrote this today, the dysphoria has been so horrendous these last few days. We don’t usually struggle this badly and apparently someone (I know he’s a man, that’s it) really needed to write about this and I’m grateful they did. I’m thrilled to see our communication starting to work and others reaching out. We are in therapy with a specialist to ease any qualms but I’d love to hear from other systems how you’ve handled this kind of thing. (also the formatting is kind of a mess but I tried) I think this is Charlie speaking (she/they).

Dysphoria. (this is not my body)

Seeing my chest in the mirror sends a pang of remembrance through my brain-

Oh yeah, this isn’t my body.

Is it…normal to feel like you’ve appeared in a body that’s not yours?

Surely everyone has felt this way on some occasion, right?

Gotten startled seeing someone else in photos you know you should’ve seen yourself in?

Been confused when people call you by a name you recognize but is not yours?

Or when your voice comes out too high from what you remember it being?

Felt weird when your muscle memory feels all incorrect and backwards?

But wait, I have to remind myself:

this isn’t my body.

I am not here to stay,

I’m here to get a job done.

That’s my only reason for existing.

I’m here to protect this body and the others that are a part of it…

even if this flesh prison is “wrong” while I’m in it

Cause

this isn’t my body.

Why can’t I seem to get that through my head??

I’m not supposed to feel at home here.

This isn’t my life

This isn’t my choice.

I do not have a choice here.

I don’t get a body.

I don’t get a life.

I shouldn’t have ambitions.

I shouldn’t have feelings towards this body.

I’m here because I had to be.

I didn’t have an option in this,

that ruling was made for me.

And no one goes against their programming here.

Protect the system –

at all costs.

That’s why I’m here.

A life outside this brain doesn’t exist for me.

I am bound to a purpose I didn’t get to decide on.

I don’t get to make changes to this body;

I don’t get to have a say with how it appears in the “real world”,

For 

I do not exist, and 

this is not my body.