Dysphoria is a strange, cruel thing. People have told me that it’s hard to imagine for someone like me. I think they see “thin” and “strong” and think “better,” or maybe the word is closer to “easier.” What they don’t see is the childhood bare bones; the raw wounds that can only ever scab over with time.
Ready to bleed anew should the feelings stir up. They fail to understand how a brain may develop around the concept of “wrong.” The wrong eyes, hair color, interests.
Wrong and strange enough that no one figured out I needed glasses until second grade. With my affinity to watch and draw, everyone assumed the problem wasn’t visual.