I see the “Men” sign on the door, and I cringe. Then, I sit on the toi­let. If I look down, I’ll cringe again.

In a way, the bath­room cap­tures the es­sense of my ex­pe­ri­ence be­ing a trans woman: I don’t fit with my group, and my body is wrong.

Last week, I saw S­tar Trek Into Dark­ness with some friends.

Even be­fore the movie, I had to use the bath­room. I did­n’t. I Hate Bath­rooms.

By the end, I re­ally had to go. I don’t think I could even talk straight.

I found the bath­room. As al­ways, I was con­fronted with two choices. I knew the one I must choose.

Say­ing my men­tal “fuck you,” I tore my eyes away from the “Men” sign and en­tered.

There was a line. Men were go­ing at the uri­nals, and—af­ter lift­ing the seat—in the stalls, as well.

Fi­nally, my turn.

And, I re­al­ized, as I sat down (I’ve never done the whole stand­ing thing)—

I was out of place.

I was­n’t sup­posed to be there.

The door said “Men.”

This is wrong.

With so many men in one place, I re­al­ized just how out-of-place I was.

I wished I could have made a dif­fer­ent choice.

Not pre­sent­ing as fe­male, I would not have felt com­fort­able in the wom­en’s re­stroom (and I doubt those in the re­stroom would have felt com­fort­able with me). But, even pre­sent­ing as male, I was far from com­fort­able in the men’s.

The choice would­n’t have mat­tered any­way. No mat­ter the choice, in­evitably, I would have to look down.

And look down I did.

I saw what has been there for all my life. Usu­ally, that very fact—that it has been with me for all this time—is enough to al­low me to ig­nore its ex­is­tence.

That night, I could­n’t ig­nore it.

I ut­tered my sec­ond “fuck you.” I’m not sure if it was for the bath­room, or for my body.

It’s not so bad in my own bath­room. In my bath­room, I don’t have to think at all. I know where every­thing is. I could do it with my eyes closed—and, in­deed, that’s in ef­fect what I do at night when it’s dark.

I can get out my phone, and dis­tract my­self. It works very well. In my own bath­room, I’m al­most fine.

It’s the only bath­room I feel com­fort­able in.

Other than my own, I don’t feel com­fort­able in any bath­room. In some bath­rooms, how­ever, I feel less com­fort­able than in oth­ers. Smaller bath­rooms, smaller stalls, smaller seats… I have to think more; I have to avoid the walls, avoid the large toi­let pa­per rollers. It be­comes im­pos­si­ble to avoid me.

And that’s why bath­rooms are aw­ful.

It’s bad enough that they make me feel apart from my group.

They then add in­jury to that in­sult: they re­mind me about my body.

Fuck you, bath­rooms.