This essay discusses sexual assault, which may be distressing to some readers. If you or someone you know has experienced sexual assault, support is available. In the U.S., you can contact the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 800-656-HOPE or visit RAINN.org for confidential support and resources.
You are not alone.
In an empty church, two white men wearing combat boots, army pants, and beige t-shirts tear at each other's bodies. They move almost in sync, panting as they push each other through and against the pews, destroying everything in their path.
Are these men the same person or different? It's starting to feel like they are the same, and the pain in my body is creeping in.
Julien Baker's "Faith Healer" tells a story about what it means to feel. Like the men in conflict, it's unclear what will destroy or help us survive—the experience of feeling too much or not feeling at all—perhaps both. Baker, a queer artist and member of Boygenius, often sings about her experiences with substance abuse, religion, and inner struggle. It has helped me to embody and understand the feelings arising within me before and during my journey of transitioning genders.
Before I started testosterone in 2020, I was hurting. I remember being a master's student in Columbus, Ohio, crawling to the bathroom as I gathered my body to stand before the mirror. Taking the image of my face in, I'd rack my body over in shame and pain.
"What was this body before me?" I'd ask myself. "Who was this awful and ugly person?"
But Julien helped me to survive these unbearable dysphoric moments. I lay in bed one evening in late November 2018. Pitchfork is livestreaming Julien and Boygenius' concert from Brooklyn Steel. My laptop opens in my dark room; I watch Julien perform her song "Sour Breath." As she strings the guitar, she grinds her teeth, the guitar intermixing with a violin as her voice grows louder and louder. As she releases the words from her mouth, so does my pain release from my body. Her pain is my pain. Her struggle is my struggle. These painful lyrics hold me. The sound fills my body. I cry uncontrollably, but it feels so intimate. So tender. Every sound is an embodiment of my pain. I feel seen and held. There's a beauty to this moment. She got me through the night.
When I started gender-affirming treatment in January 2020, I began to trust my voice more, to find joy in my body, and to build friendships with people who saw me more fully for who I was—and who I saw myself, finally, to be.
But in these years since transitioning, I also noticed that the relationship that I had towards my feelings changed. I didn't exactly feel numb, but I didn't feel things nearly as strongly as I used to, either. It's a form of transition I haven't heard many trans men talk about—moving from such an intense and visceral awareness of my dysphoria to a more level experience of feeling.
As I transitioned, I became attracted to men for the first time in my life. Because of my dysphoria, sex had often been difficult. But as I grew more confident in my gender, I decided to take a chance and allow myself the freedom to explore my sexuality. In the past, I often blamed myself for being too guarded about my desire. But I didn't need to be so guarded in this new, renewed period. I could trust my body. I could offer myself permission to live.
But things didn't go as planned. I didn't know many of these men wouldn't see me as human. I didn't think they would take from me what they could, regardless of my needs and desires.
When the body is constrained and does not feel safe, it finds a way to survive. But in surviving, sometimes something is lost. Sometimes, it's our voice. Sometimes, it's feeling safe enough to feel and come undone.
When he put himself inside of me, I knew I was no longer safe. Moments earlier, I felt that I was. I asked him to put a condom on, and he readily agreed. But then he couldn't get the condom on, he said, and he was going limp. He looked dejected. I comforted him. I didn't want him to feel bad about his body.
But moments later, it would be me feeling bad about my body. Entering me without my consent, I felt a panic arise in me. But I felt the need to control my panic. I didn't want him to sense that I was afraid. I tried to leave, but he kept getting me to stay. I knew what he wanted. I knew the only thing that he wanted.
My vagina.
This part of me that I did not like and didn't feel safe harbored much emotional and physical pain. Although I managed to leave that night, I felt changed afterward. I lost a piece of my voice that night. And I lost a bit of my body. I struggled to articulate just how devastating this experience was to me. How could I no longer feel desire for men without feeling the immediate fear of what would happen if I decided to be with them?
While I remained compassionate with others, I hardened to myself, creating barriers between my interior life and the world I was a part of.
I blamed myself for liking men. I blamed myself for my desires. I blamed myself for my trans body. I turned on myself. The pain wasn't my fault, but I couldn't be vulnerable enough to come undone. So, I lodged the pain against myself.
A few months after my assault, I turned on Julien's album Little Oblivions in my Chicago apartment. The lights dimmed, my cat Peony lay in her bed, and I let the music fill the room. On a Saturday night, I thought maybe I should go out. Perhaps I should drink. Possibly go to the bathhouse. My body knew that was not what I needed. I needed to come undone, and I needed to do so safely. And through the album's waves, I allow my body to feel the fullness of my experience.
I let this silent pain that I had bottled up spill out. I hold my body as I dance to her music, placing my hand firmly on my heart. I feel an intimacy with life for the first time since my assault. It's painful but a loving release.
During this night, I experienced Julien's music as if it were a meditation. Every single note she feels. Every single rise or quiet of the voice conveys and embodies a feeling. Her music connects me to my body and these parts of myself that are too often afraid to exist. I come home to my body through her music. And it's a home fraught with the pain, beauty, and grief of living.
Listening to Julien's music is like having these healing hands on me. All these things I've gone through. All the dysphoria, trauma, and pain. There is someone here to hold it, scream through it with me, gently whisper the truth, and release it again and again so that I can live. There is a gift in coming undone, but being present as we do so allows us to feel the intimacy of life. Julien helps me to touch these deepest feelings and to understand them. I may still be at war with myself, tearing at myself occasionally. But I'm trying to hold my body and heart with these healing hands.
I thank Julien for helping me feel, for her honesty, and for helping me access this honest and raw part of myself, even when it isn't easy. Thank you for helping me to be more tender with these hurting parts of myself. Thank you for helping me remember the person I am and all that I have survived.
Thank you for helping me to live.
Thank you.
Ray Buckner is a PhD Candidate in Religious Studies at Northwestern University.
Voices is dedicated to featuring a wide range of inspiring personal stories and impactful opinions from the LGBTQ+ and Allied community. Visit pride.com/submit to learn more about submission guidelines. We welcome your thoughts and feedback on any of our stories. Email us at voices@equalpride.com. Views expressed in Voices stories are those of the guest writers, columnists and editors, and do not directly represent the views of PRIDE.com or our parent company, equalpride.