Weight

It feels like the weight on my chest has sloughed off. That it has migrated to my thighs, wrapped around my wrist, clung to my jaw, settled between my legs.

I’ve felt heavy from lack of sleep before, but this is a whole new level. Seriously, did someone replace my bones with sticks of lead while I was sleeping?

I amble across the hallway’s fuzzy carpet, my foot steps sinking into fluff. I bang my head on the bathroom doorway, and pain inches through my skull. Hands on my head, I pull my gaze to the wall-sized mirror. I expect to see mascara smears under my eyes, frizzy ponytail, a greasy face.

Instead I see...

What the hell?

I must be dreaming, I must be dreaming, I must be dreaming.

Digging my nails into my skin, leaving sharp creases there, I will myself to wake up.

This has to be a figment of my imagination, a dark thought come to life. Reality can't be bent this way, can't be altered for no reason.

If the mirror is speaking the truth, I'm a boy.

My sugar, spice, and everything nice has been ripped from me, replaced with snips and snails and puppy dog tails.

My entire being suddenly feels foreign.

I look at the mirror, listen to the ugly, screeching tune that it's singing.

My coily hair has been sucked into my skull, my strands only taking a few lazy loops before being severed. My arms and legs look like they're filled with liquid, pushing against my skin. I have whispers of a mustache, a beard. When things used to be round, they are now square, curves morphed into sharp angles.

It's atrocious.

I stumble out of the bathroom, desparate to blink away what I've just seen. My footsteps on the stairs shake the whole house, down to its sparse wooden structure.

My mother is making a smoothie, her fingers attacking the wide, gray buttons on the blender's control panel. Blobs of kale are flung against the clear sides as the blades frantically rotate. The sound is agonizing, like there's gravel in there instead of leafy greens.

Like the blender, my throat is filled with gravel that isn't exactly there. "Um, Mom. I'm a boy."

Her attention is laser focused on making her breakfast. "That's nice."

"No, Mom. Really. Look at me."

She swivels her head. Looks calm. But the second she registers that I'm not joking, she lets out a scream.

"Oh my god. What happened? Are you okay? Does anything hurt?"

She fires question after question, none that I can answer. My mind is a weather machine. Flurries of snow, acid rain. Scorching winds, ashy clouds. I can't see, not my surroundings and certainly not my inner self.

She stops, her eyes tearing up. "I need to make some calls. Go lie down. Read a book or something. Relax."

Up the stairs again, threatning to splinter. I lay back on my mattress, my eyes drift to the ceiling, lime green painted over with white.

I've always thought of myself as a fighter, warring against the stage whispers of sexism. I had more weight to pull, but that made my success sweeter.

Now that I had been given the 'advantage', where did I stand?

That thought is too heavy. I'm too weak to deal with it. I need a distraction.

I find a half-finished and most likely overdue paperback from the library on the floor. I lose myself in it, attempting to forget that I've changed.

I'm only allowed to leave my room to go to the bathroom. Which is weird, and as much as I hate to admit it, much easier now.

Whenever my mother comes in to check on me, she gives me the same demand.

"Wait. Just wait."

I do.

The day crawls by, and so do four novels. Everything's dull, empty.

Twilight descends, night appears. My lids grow heavy with exhaustion. I slip away from the truth, anxious and grateful all at once.

The next morning, I wake up as light as a feather. Only two things remain heavy. My chest and my memory.