A Tricky Relationship With Photos

Or alternatively: In defense of posting thirst traps on Twitter

For someone who takes as many selfies as I do, the idea of formally having my picture taken makes me want to crawl out of my body and throw up. 

The only school picture I really like and really see myself in is my Kindergarten picture. My long hair is messy for God knows what reason, and there’s dirt on my face that matches my plain gray t-shirt. I’ve always liked that picture, and when I think about a time when I wasn’t concerned with fulfilling “woman” or “man” criteria, that smile will always flash in front of me. I don’t remember getting it taken, but I will say every picture I've taken afterward has been colored with anxiety and never conveying the Me that I want to.

Coming of age in-step with social media, There are pictures of myself at just about every age, angle, and Instagram filter. In an attempt to show who I am online, I could only get myself to show images of me that I knew would get people to tell me how beautiful I am. Don’t get me wrong, I still do it now. It’s just that I agree with them a little bit more now.

Working in theatre or reading tarot, I have to have headshots so people know who I am. But then there’s the pressure of trying to encapsulate “me” in an image.  While I don’t even know who “me” is. Everything I got back was a good picture and one that I looked good in, but regardless of what anyone else saw, I just saw a person hiding. If I look at my older pictures, I can see someone inside screaming to get out. It’s spooky. Who knew eyes could scream like that? Except probably other trans people.

Most of the pictures I take of myself are of a very specific three-quarter turn (with a peace sign). No chest or curves in the frame, and I’m using the lighting to create a stronger jawline than naturally granted. 

It’s hard to play with androgyny while I still have a feminine body type. I’ve read accounts of people on testosterone who felt more comfortable playing with femininity after physically transitioning, and I look forward to the day when I can join those ranks. Until then, I dance the dance of “Just try not to feel like a boy dressing in his dad’s clothes”. 

Last winter, my friend was going to take my headshots for a restaurant’s website where I was going to be reading. I put on something that used to make me feel connected with my spiritual side, but I ended up having a panic attack. “This picture is going to show people who you are and will be their first and biggest impression of you. Don’t forget it’ll be up forever, and you’re going to look like a woman.” 

My chest felt like it had been struck by a baseball bat. I was binding, and my hair was the shortest it had ever been, but my brain was screaming “EVERYONE WILL THINK YOU’RE A GIRL AND YOU’LL HAVE TO DEAL WITH THEIR DISAPPOINTMENT WHEN YOU’RE NOT”. I felt stuck and trapped, and not just because my chest was literally bound to my body.

I changed into more androgynous clothes and had my picture taken. I looked good, which is a testament to my friend’s talent because they were working some tricky lighting in a tight space. The pictures came great, but I still see someone screaming behind my eyes, and I feel guilty that I should be over the moon at the very least because of the kind gesture. My dysphoria takes away what was a really fun evening with one of my best friends. And that doesn’t make me feel cool or hot or even good for that matter. 

It’s constantly feeling like a poser. It’s only being able to feel yourself so much because you’re still stuck in a skin that Does Not Feel You. Whether you know it or not. And the action of taking a picture, to me, solidifies that moment, and all I can see in these photos is how uncomfortable and even upset I was in that moment. My dysphoria’s looking me right in the face.

But sometimes that three-quarter turn and peace sign combo is great. I’d be remiss not to mention that I do still post a healthy amount of thirst traps on my Twitter. And is it for the attention and platitudes? Yes, mostly. But it’s also a confirmation that I don’t feel dysphoric every day, and some days I can feel so great about myself that I want to make sure the whole internet can see too. 

Any day I, or any other trans person, feels great in their body is a moment for celebration. We’re living in a time when our bodies are constantly scrutinized and under attack. And the fact that we can still find the joy and celebration in those bodies?? Outstanding. Good for us. 

I don’t know what I’m going to do with those photos of me that scream “get me out of this body”. And there’s a non-zero chance I’ll be finding versions of these (if not increasingly more sporadically) for who knows how long. But that doesn’t negate or invalidate the fact that there are days when that voice finally shuts the fuck up. And that kind of moment practically demands to be documented for all of social media and the rest of the internet to see.

Take the thirst trap, my trans and nonbinary siblings. Celebrate every time you feel confident in your body. Put it on the internet, save it in your phone, send it to a hottie you matched with on Tinder. Photos can be tricky which makes it that much more important to take as many joyful ones as possible. For every photo we had to grit our teeth through, we owe it to ourselves to document just as many moments of positivity and self actualization.