My House of Pain: When the Armor Comes Off

Read After: Safety of a Queer Space

The bar had been too fucking much. Too loud, too crowded, too filled with people who didn't have to think about the way they moved through the world. I hadn't even realized how tightly I'd been holding myself together until I finally escaped, the night air hitting my face like a slap of reality. My ears still rang with the cacophony of careless laughter and clinking glasses, the memory of sideways glances still burning on my skin.

My House of Pain: The Safety of a Queer Space

I fucking dragged myself up to our house, each step grinding my bones like rusty gears. My body wasn't just tired—it was hollowed out, scraped raw from the inside. The kind of exhaustion that makes your eyeballs throb in their sockets. My fingers, cracked and numb, scraped against the cold metal of the keypad twice, fumbling like a drunk before the lock finally gave way with a mechanical sigh.

The wall of familiar smells hit me like a physical force: sweet lavender fighting against the bitter, acidic ghost of morning coffee that still haunted the air. And beneath it all, that goddamn indescribable scent that was just our home—a mixture no fancy perfumer could ever capture but that made my chest loosen the second it filled my lungs.

Coltrane appeared from the shadows, his amber eyes cutting through the darkness like twin flames. That demanding bastard wound between my legs, his midnight fur collecting on my dress, leaving black threads clinging to the fabric like memories. His purr rumbled like distant thunder as he pressed his warm body against my bare ankle, the vibration somehow reaching all the way up to my chest where it shattered something hard and cold that had been building there all day.

I dragged my ass up those stairs, each creaking step a goddamn complaint under my weight. The loft loomed above—a dark mouth waiting to swallow me whole. By the time I reached the top, my calves screamed in protest and my heart hammered a war drum against my ribs, the blood rushing in my ears drowning out everything but the final, ominous creak of that last fucking step.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

My partner, Aubrey, was exactly where I expected her to be, the blue glow of the computer screen painting her face in ethereal light. Her glasses had slid halfway down her nose, and she was absently twirling a strand of reddish hair around her finger—a habit from years ago that still made my chest ache with tenderness.

"Hey, you're back earlier than I thought," she said, not looking away from whatever had her attention on screen. Her voice was soft, worn at the edges like a favorite sweater. "You wanna play some Overwatch?"

I stood in the doorway, jacket half-off, watching her. She knew I was there, but she didn't turn, didn't make me meet her eyes, didn't ask how the bar was or why I was home early. Just offered this normal thing, this routine escape. My throat tightened. I hadn't realized I was still holding the caustic residue of the evening inside me—bitter and burning.

"Sure, why not," I said, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears.

She nodded, finally glancing over, her eyes scanning my face for just a second—long enough to read everything I wasn't saying. "I'll set it up. There's leftover pizza in the fridge if you want."

The familiar rhythms helped. Kick off shoes. Grab food. Settle into the chair that had molded itself to my body over years. The pizza was cold, the cheese congealed into a rubbery mass, but I ate it anyway, tasting nothing but grateful for the activity.

The game loaded with its bright colors and chaotic energy. We fell into our usual roles, me with my support character, her with the widow-maker. The same dance we'd done hundreds of times before.

"Fucking kids, they're all twelve today," she muttered as we joined the match. She wasn't wrong. The other players chatter came through the colors in the chat box—high, energetic, talking a mile a minute about streamers I'd never heard of, using slang that made me feel ancient at fifty two.

"At least we've got Under and Elz, “ I said, noticing our regular teammates' names pop up on screen. Other older players, people who understood what it was to navigate this space when you weren't some twitchy-fingered teenager with lightning reflexes.

Under’s deep laugh came through the headset. "Hey! We’re getting the band back together."

The familiar banter helped ease something in my chest. These people knew me—as Wendy, just Wendy. Not as someone to be analyzed or categorized or questioned. The player names floated above our digital avatars. Digital identities that felt more honest than half the interactions I'd had in the outside world today.

The match started, and I lost myself in the comforting chaos. My fingers moved automatically over keys and mouse, muscle memory taking over. For these moments, my body wasn't something to question or critique—it was just the vessel that connected me to this colorful digital battlefield.

Our characters moved in tandem, covering each other with the synchronicity that comes from years of knowing someone's patterns. We weren't the fastest or the most skilled, but we understood each other's play style completely.

"God, you two are so in sync it's scary," Under commented through the static voice chat after we successfully defended a point. "Like some weird telepathy shit."

We played for hours, winning some, losing more. The losses didn't sting like they might have once. There was something validating about just being there, these middle-aged players holding our own against kids half our age. Not dominating, not always succeeding, but stubbornly present. Refusing to concede that this space wasn't also for us.

When my eyes started to burn from the screen glare, I finally pulled off my headset. "I'm done for tonight, guys."

After goodbyes were exchanged, I sat in silence, listening to the hum of the computer fan. She closed the game and swiveled in her chair to face me.

"Better?" she asked simply.

I nodded, not quite trusting my voice. The digital respite had helped, pushing the evening's weight back just enough to breathe. But exhaustion was crashing over me in waves now, dragging me under.

"I'm going to bed," I said, standing up with joints that cracked audibly.

She nodded, turning back to her screen. "I'll be there soon. Just want to check something."

Our bedroom was dark except for the strips of city light bleeding through the blinds. I moved through the familiar space by memory and habit, shedding clothes as I went. Earrings on the dresser. Bra unhooked and tossed toward the laundry hamper. Dress in a heap on the floor that I'd regret in the morning.

And then there I was, standing before the full-length mirror we'd mounted on the closet door years ago. Naked except for my panties, illuminated in strips of streetlight orange and shadow.

I didn't mean to look, but I always did. Some fucking masochistic ritual, this nightly accounting of my body. The shoulders still broader than I wanted. The hands that would always be my father's hands. The jawline that hormone therapy had softened but never quite enough. The chest with augmented growth that was never affirmative enough. The hips that curved more than they once had but never enough to match the blueprint in my mind.

So many years of transition, and still this gap between what I saw and what I wished to see. The dysphoria hit me like a physical wave, bitter as bile rising in my throat.

Why did I still fucking try? The thought surfaced unbidden, vicious in its clarity. Why keep fighting this uphill battle where victory was always just out of reach? Why continue to navigate bars where strangers' eyes dissected me, games where children might clock my voice, a world that constantly demanded I explain my existence because all it wanted was to erase me ?

I was so lost in this spiral that I didn't hear her come in. Didn't notice her presence until she was standing behind me, her reflection joining mine in the mirror. She wore an old long t-shirt, her face bare of makeup and soft with the beginnings of wrinkles we'd earned together.

"Wendy," she said, her voice impossibly gentle. "It's okay."

Her hands found my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots of tension I carried there. Her touch was warm against my skin, familiar as my own heartbeat.

"You are still loved," she continued, resting her chin on my shoulder. Our eyes met in the mirror's reflection. "And understood by—if no one else—me."

And now I just stand in silence…

The simplicity of it broke something in me. Not a dramatic shattering, but the quiet crumbling of a wall I hadn't realized I'd constructed during the night. Her arms circled my waist, holding me steady as I leaned back against her solid presence.

"I know it doesn't fix anything," she whispered. "But you're not facing it alone."

It helped some, like throwing a goddamn thimble of water on a five-alarm blaze. Not entirely—nothing could completely erase the fucking nightmare I called a relationship with my reflection. But her words carved out just enough space for my lungs to expand, a split-second gasp of oxygen when I'd been drowning for years. A momentary ceasefire in the bloody, relentless war I waged against myself day after miserable day. The hatred still simmered beneath my skin, hot and caustic as battery acid, ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. Her words weren't salvation—just a meager bandage slapped over a wound that needed fucking stitches. But for one breath, one heartbeat, the screaming in my head dulled to a whisper, and I didn't want to put my fist through the mirror. And sometimes, that's the closest thing to peace you can get.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

We stood there in the striped darkness, her arms around me, both of us looking at my reflection—not with the critical eyes I usually turned on myself, but with a gentler gaze. One that acknowledged the journey rather than just the destination.

"Come to bed," she finally said, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "Tomorrow's another fucking day."

Tomorrow would bring its own battles. The mirror would still be there. The gap between vision and reality wouldn't magically close overnight. But so would she, with her matter-of-fact love and her readiness to play another round of games with other battle aged players who made it seem valid to try.

And really, that was the whole fucking point, wasn't it? Not winning, but continuing to play. Not achieving perfection, but persisting in the journey. Finding the spaces and people that made the persistence possible.

I closed my eyes……Tomorrow was another day. Another chance to remember my strength.

Continue reading…..

My House of Pain: The Devil You Don't Know