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You’d think not being able to see yourself would keep you from being dysphoric. Not being able to see the feminine curves of your form or how your hips are bigger than your shoulders. But it’s not enough. It’s not enough.
Matt Murdock came out when he was 8, a few months before the accident. He was just a kid, pre-puberty, pre-everything. His father didn’t get it, bless his heart, but he tried. He tried, he called him ‘Matty,’ got him boys clothes, and took him to get his hair cut short. Matt loved it. Loved every second of it, every new thing, every new opportunity to introduce himself as ‘Matthew Murdock, nice to meet you!’ Then the accident happened and things got put on pause for a while. He was still Matt, but that was on the back-burner, he had to deal with the blind shit now. And then his dad died. His dad was killed, more accurately, and Matt was sent away to a orphanage, run by Catholic nuns. Catholic nuns. They don’t love gay people, much less trans folks. And he was only 9, barely old enough to walk to school himself, especially not now. He couldn’t defend himself, couldn’t keep them from tearing him down, ripping away the tiny bits of masculinity he had. They made him wear the girls uniform. He cried the first time he put it on, feeling the wind on his knobby knees and the light brush of the skirt’s fabric. He couldn’t even see the damned thing, but it destroyed him.
He left the orphanage when he was 16, over a ‘difference of opinion’ as the nuns put it. It wasn’t legal, minors can’t be alone like that, but he left. And he never looked back.
He’s older now, nearly 30, and things have changed. He’s his own man, a /self-made man./ He got his name changed, legally, started testosterone (shots were tricky at first, but he powered through, he /had/ to), and got surgery. He eats, breathes, sleeps, /lives/ as a man. As Matthew Murdock, avocado at law.
It’s always a girl. Always a stupid girl that drives him into these depressions, into these periods of isolation and self-loathing. He takes a chance every time he asks one out, takes a risk just telling them who he is. This one was stupid, he was drunk and a little stoned (Foggy can be real persuasive when he wants to be), and horny. Just wanted something quick, just one night with a pretty girl. He always tries to tell them before they leave the bar, end the night there if anything goes wrong. But he was drunk and a little bit stoned (Foggy, you bastard), so he didn’t tell her til they were back at his apartment.
It started normal, heavy petting and making out. But when he pulled off his shirt, panting above her, she squealed and pushed him away. /You freak!/ she screamed. /You perverted freak! Don’t touch me!/
Matt fell back, knees on the bed, resting on his heels. He felt her shift and get up, rushing to get out of there.
/God, I can’t believe I almost slept with you! People like you are scum, freaks of nature, mentally ill!/ She screamed, heels clicking on the tiles as she scurried to the front door. /Fuck you! Freak!/
The door slammed and she was gone. Matt was alone. He heaves a huge sigh, and flops forward, pushing his face into the pillow. ‘Don’t cry, Murdock,’ He thinks. ‘Don’t fucking cry.’ But his thoughts don’t always listen to his words and he’s got tears pooling on his pillow. He rolls over and pushes his palms into his eyes, trying to force the tears back.
“Not fair,” He murmurs, “It’s not fucking fair.” He takes his hands from his eyes and runs them down his chest. He stops at the scars, faded and barely there. But barely there is still there. His fingers dance over the scars, gentle at first. The tears fall harder now, as he mutters over and over ‘not fair, not fair.’ His hands move lower, tracing down his hips, poking and prodding at the fat that just won’t leave. Not being able to see is almost worse, he can’t tell how much is really there, can’t see the wideness of his hips, the flow of his body. He stops poking and wraps his arms around himself. He just sits for a minute, trying to calm down and stop crying. He falls asleep after a while, arms still wrapped tight around himself.
Matt wakes up, tired and thirsty. His face is caked with dried tears and there’s crust at the edges of his eyes. He’s bleary, hungover, and he can’t remember much of last night. He stumbles into the kitchen, feeling around for a glass. When he takes the first sip, it all comes rushing back. The bar, the beer, the blunt, the girl. The /fucking/ girl. It hits him in the stomach, punches right through his gut. Her words ringing in his ears and beating him down. He’s been called a freak before, in the orphanage, on the streets. It’s not something new, but it hurts every time. Especially like this. When he’s so vulnerable, when he’s showing himself off. He shakes his head, claps his hands together a few times, and sighs. He heads to his closet, throws on a suit and gets to the door. He pauses.
There’s a moment, right before it all comes crashing down, where he feels perfect. Where he feels like he’s a gift to the Earth, he’s perfect and no girl can change that. But when he reaches for the door handle, it hits him again. Hits him in the stomach and then the chest. Hits him square in the jaw and knocks him back. It’s worse than any punch he’s ever taken, any knife cutting his skin. It knocks him to the ground and pushes him against the wall. It drives itself under his ribs and gets at his heart, clawing and tearing at it. He’s gasping for breath, trying desperately to get a foothold. It hurts like hell, but he can barely make a sound, terrified of his own voice, afraid it’ll squeak out and make it worse. There’s nothing he can do but ride it out, wait for it to leave him alone, wait for it to get bored of beating him senseless. It takes a while.
He calls Foggy, voice raw and catching. He can’t come in today, picked up something from that girl, he thinks. He’s just gonna take the day off, sit at home, and get some rest. He’ll be in tomorrow, sorry Foggy. Tell Karen he said hello.