Finding My Best Friend

By Connor Kristiansen

How long had it been since I’d seen them? It was hard to remember. One day, we were talking about the future, the happiness, and the anxiety that came with it, and the next, they disappeared. I didn’t think much of it at first. Sometimes this happened. My best friend would take off without a word, but this time, they didn’t come back. I had never been without them for long. It was like we were connected. I feel it was more than that, though, like they were a part of me. I couldn’t explain it. I knew there were ways of finding them, though. I had to quiet the loudness in my heart and the rapid thrum in my ears. My hands shook, fear gripped my body, and my stomach rolled with nausea. I swallowed. 

People tried for years to push me into a small, perfect box: the slurs, the harassment, the hatred. I didn’t let them win, until I did. The box eventually felt safe, and it was stored inside a metaphorical closet, one I didn’t feel comfortable leaving. You can’t be a man. People who give birth to children are women. I’ll never see you as a man until you have surgery. The thoughts whirled in my mind, and I sank deeper into the seclusion society had put me in. It was roomy, but there wasn’t enough space for everything I wanted. I couldn’t put up pictures; there was no bed, no place to cook food, no space for what I needed to thrive. For ten years, I remained in that box. 

Toward the end of the ten years, I realized my best friend had left. Where did they go? Sometimes they vanished, but they always came back. This time, they didn’t. I needed someone to fit inside this box with me, but maybe they couldn’t fit anymore. I sat, crossing my legs and scooting into a corner of the box with scratchy letters all around, spelling 'CISGENDER.' What did that mean in terms of who I was? It was easier to ignore until my friend left. I wanted to leave, to go on the journey to find them, but I was scared. Politics worried me. I was afraid I would lose family along the way. My marriage was crumbling, and I could no longer fight for that happiness. I had my daughter and myself… and my best friend, of course. 

Something had to change. The box was getting smaller, and breathing was becoming difficult. It was harder to keep lying. Shutting out the noise around me, I embarked on a journey through the labyrinth of my own mind. The path was fraught with obstacles as fear and doubt whispered their sinister lies into my consciousness. You will never be a man. You can’t pass. No one will believe you. You’re just lying to everyone and yourself. But with each step, I delved deeper into myself, determined to uncover the truth. 

Along the way, I encountered fragments of memories, echoes of laughter, and shadows of forgotten dreams. Back when times were easier, before I was put into that box. Each clue, no matter how small, propelled me forward, fueling my resolve to reunite with my lost companion. 

As I journeyed further, I confronted the monsters lurking in the shadows of my psyche. Fear, insecurity, and self-doubt threatened to consume me, but I refused to succumb. I embraced the discomfort, knowing that only by confronting my fears could I hope to find solace. 

And then, in the stillness of introspection, I stumbled upon a revelation that shook me to my core. My best friend was not a separate entity, but a reflection of myself. The journey I had embarked upon was not to find them, but to rediscover the essence of who I truly was. 

With this newfound clarity, I embraced the uncertainty that had once paralyzed me. I embraced the fear, knowing it was a fleeting illusion. In that moment of acceptance, I found myself whole once more, reunited with the best friend I had never truly lost. 

I opened my eyes and looked around me, noticing the tears and rips in various spots around the box. Light leaked through—soft pale blue, white, pink. A hand that belonged to someone much younger reached through one of the tears in the top of the box. Panic consumed me for a moment, but I remembered my best friend was back and I was not alone. Grasping the hand, I was pulled out of the box and came face to face with the person I was at eighteen: young, happy, freely expressing myself. Around my younger self were even younger versions of me, all the way down to infancy. Each kid represented a piece of who I was, who I almost left behind. Turning to face the other way, the future seemed almost blinding, but I could see happiness again. I could see myself further along in my transition, a dad, older, and not alone. 

It was at this point that I told myself I could no longer let anyone tell me who I was or lock me away. I refused to hide. I would not give up who I am for anyone. 

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Bio: Connor Kristiansen (he/him) is a trans man, writer, and EMT based in Phoenix, Arizona. He writes contemporary fiction, including medical drama, queer stories, and maintains a writing blog at 'The Marbelled Quill' on Wordpress. You can also follow Connor on Instagram: @foxunderstars