Bed of nails (2021) ceramic, acrylic, 52 hypodermic needles.
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Images taken at Engendered on display at Marketview Arts, York, PA
Every Thursday the alarm on my phone rings at exactly 9:00 pm, signaling the beginning of my weekly ritual. I wash my hands with warm soapy water and gather my supplies. I grab two alcohol pads, one 25g hypodermic needle, a 3mL syringe (only because the pharmacy I go to didn’t have the 1mL size when I bought them), and the vial of testosterone my doctor prescribed to me. I sit down and carefully tear open the sealed packages containing the needle and syringe. I lock the two pieces together and draw exactly .8mL of air into the chamber. I wipe the top of the vial with one of the pads and insert the needle, pushing the air into the bottle before pulling the thick oily liquid out. It’s slow, I have to wait a while for it to fill up to the desired amount. I use the second wipe on my thigh. I try to alternate sides but it’s hard to remember which leg I did last time so I usually just guess. I hold the skin down on my leg and sink the needle into my flesh and press down on the plunger slowly.
The steps are simple enough, and I know the actions so well. I’ve done this exact process over 300 times by now. I often find myself wondering about what it is I’m actually doing. I call myself trans, because that’s the term people use to describe someone who does what I do, or is what I am. But that label, that term, it implies a definable start and end point, and implies that I am somewhere in the space in the middle, moving toward the end, the destination. The longer I spend in the middle, the less convinced I am that there is an end, or that there even was a start. I certainly never did “girl” right and can’t really figure out how to define “man”. Perhaps I’m moving sideways rather than forward. I’m not complaining though; I like where I am, and feel like I’m headed in the right direction, whatever that is. The testosterone might not make me “man”, but my little bed of nails gives me space to rest, relax, and just be me.
The steps are simple enough, and I know the actions so well. I’ve done this exact process over 300 times by now. I often find myself wondering about what it is I’m actually doing. I call myself trans, because that’s the term people use to describe someone who does what I do, or is what I am. But that label, that term, it implies a definable start and end point, and implies that I am somewhere in the space in the middle, moving toward the end, the destination. The longer I spend in the middle, the less convinced I am that there is an end, or that there even was a start. I certainly never did “girl” right and can’t really figure out how to define “man”. Perhaps I’m moving sideways rather than forward. I’m not complaining though; I like where I am, and feel like I’m headed in the right direction, whatever that is. The testosterone might not make me “man”, but my little bed of nails gives me space to rest, relax, and just be me.