Atlas Booth

Tw:// depression, imposter syndrome, dysphoria, thoughts of mutilation 

I shouldn’t be here

I think as I smile

I shouldn’t be here

I’m 2 and in a dress. A blue soft thing. It is actually needed for the heat of the day. No frills, but I
can’t go play. I’m in a dress. All the boys are playing with the dog. Running about in the grass.
I’m sat in a chair in the shade. I shouldn’t be here.

I’m 3 and on a couch. My hair is in pigtails. I shouldn’t be here. I’m given presents. I hold it,
waiting to give it back so the person it’s meant for can open it. I’m told to open it. Oh? Is it for
me? Yes, it’s your birthday, I’ve told you this already. Irritation. Confusion. I shouldn’t be here. I open the presents slowly in case I’m being tricked. No one stops me. I smile at the gifts that
mean nothing to me. I shouldn’t be here.

I’m 4 and enjoying my cake. It’s just for me. It’s got cowboys and farms animals on it. I’m in a
matching sweatpants and sweatshirt. No presents but the cake, I think, I love it. Then I’m
whisked away to be around others. The gifts are dolls. Why? I don’t play with these, I never
have. Just smile and act for the camera. I do. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t know these people.
They don’t know me. I go find myself a balloon. I like balloons. My mother is left to carry the gifts
that aren’t mine.

I’m 5 and in uncomfortably tight clothes. And then in a double layer dress. I don’t understand
why. Just smile for the camera. I hate it. It’s your birthday. Is it? Am I to be uncomfortable on this
day? Is that what a birthday is? I have to smile. There’s a camera. 

I’m 6 and in a school uniform, a dress, and climbing the ropes with the other boys. Are you a girl
or a boy? My hair is cropped short. I wanted spikes like shark boy. I can’t answer the question. I
mumble what’s expected. I shouldn’t be here. All I do is lie. I shouldn’t be here. I tell my mother
about the conversation, she is angry. I am confused. I want the same question answered that
the other boy asked. I shouldn’t be here, should I?

I’m forced into a school play. I want to cry my heart out. I’m in a skin tight bather looking outfit
with a tutu and a face full of thick makeup. I shouldn’t be here. Why am I being forced into this?
It will be fun, just smile for the camera! I want to run instead. I shouldn’t be here. I want to throw
up. I want to rip my face off. I have no choice. I should have a choice. I shouldn’t be here. 

I’m 12 and looking for a way out. I’m in clothes. I’m wearing a bra. I want to cut my chest off.
Every bit of this flesh revolts me. I shouldn’t be here. What did I do wrong? I shouldn’t be here.
Everything feels dark. Nothing is funny or happy anymore. I want to scream and I want to run. I
want to disappear. I don’t plan past 21. Surely, I won’t be here. I shouldn’t be here.

I’m 13 and telling my mother I want to be someone else. If I could choose, I wouldn’t be here.
She says everyone feels that way at my age. I hope not. I shouldn’t be here.

I’m 16 and in a dress. It’s a casino royale school party. I’m acting so hard everyone believes me.
My mother breathes a sigh of relief behind me. I cringe inside. I break the heels I’m wearing on
purpose so I can walk barefoot. So that there could be one thing that didn’t feel like suffocating
me. I shouldn’t be here. I smile at the chatter around me, but the smile is empty. I don’t even
know what they are talking about, which conversation is running at present. I’m too busy
floating. I shouldn’t be here.

I tell my mother for the second time that it doesn’t feel right. If I could choose, I wouldn’t be here.
She offers to send me to a psychologist. I know she can’t afford it. I shouldn’t be here, but she
shouldn’t have to suffer for it.

I’m 18 and wearing a dress. I’m smiling and so is everyone else. I know they see it. I shouldn’t
be here. I shouldn’t be in thick makeup, in the dress, in the heels. I didn’t have a choice. I feel
like ripping it to shreds, but it was expensive and it would upset people. I try to be dainty, but I
was never meant for that. 

I’m 21 and still here. Still lying. Still acting. I don’t know what else to do. My time hasn’t come. I
shouldn’t be here and yet... there’s cameras so I smile.

I’m 25 and I hear a new word. I have a friend. A real friend. They call me he. I weep alone in my
room. I’m finally here. I’m terrified and for the first time, I’m real.