Morning Belle

I tend to sleep naked.

It’s just the most comfortable way to curl up, for me.  I’ve preferred it for as long as I can remember, probably from the first time I tried it.  It’s not always possible, but right now I have my own room, and some modicum of privacy, so I am basically always naked by the time I’m bedding down for the night.

This of course means I also wake up naked.  While I assumed I was a guy, my head was too full of despair to really notice myself in the mirror, and even when I did, it was with disgust and self-loathing.  Most mornings, I would just get up, throw on some pajamas, and get on with the morning routine of cat maintenance and getting ready for school or whatever.  That was after my daily realization that I was still, unfortunately, alive, and that I would probably not be so lucky as to die that day, or later that night in my sleep, which was my most fervent wish for a very, very long time.

Even after I realized I was a girl, my mornings would go similarly.  It’s a more involved routine, now, with shaving and makeup and stuff if I’m going to leave the house, but, less the persistent wish for death, the start hadn’t changed.  I would get up, either not notice my reflection at all, or if I did, not really pay it any mind, throw on some pj’s, and do my morning bit.

But now it has changed.  I wrote the other day about waking up and catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and really being happy with what I saw.  I wrote about it because it was unique, it was a one-time event, and that made it remarkable.  But the same feeling struck me today, although I did not sit around and revel in it.  Mostly because I’m ravenous, and I’m about to go find some food.  But before throwing on pajamas so I can leave my room and go forage, I saw my reflection and I smiled and watched myself stretch.

I was pleased with myself and my body and what I am.  What I am now, and what my body is becoming, a little more every day with HRT, and a little more every week with electrolysis.  Some people confuse this kind of self-love with vanity.  It’s nothing like that.  There is no context of comparison, here.  I don’t look at myself and think, “look at that sexy bitch, so much hotter than all the other girls,” or anything of the sort.  It’s just me, and without any point of reference for comparison, I love myself, I love my body, I feel feminine and beautiful and sexy and mysterious, and I’m so much happier than I’ve ever been.