Catalina R
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Detox Mansion ch. 4
🕑 Added 2022-03-22 11:53:24 +0000 UTCAs June turned into July, the mellow warmth gave way to oppressive heat. These were the days where a younger, pre-disorder Lita would yearn to go swimming at the Y. Lita was not at all a good swimmer and had a crippling fear of being submerged under water but they still loved the feeling of being in the water. Whether it was the icy, salty New England coastal waters or the chlorinated turquoise of a YMCA pool, Lita loved the sensation of water against their skin and of temporarily being able to glide along the waves. Lita hadn’t allowed themself to swim for years. It was easy to come up with excuses. The pools were not close, the beaches even further, and neither Lita’s mother nor grandmother were much fond of swimming. If Lita wanted to swim, it was up to them. Maybe this is the year I swim again, Lita thought, peering from their curtains on a bright sunny morning.
There was the issue of a swimsuit to deal with, which Lita ruminated on during their bus commute to their once-a-week juice bar job. Currently, Lita had a one-piece swimsuit buried in their closet. It was a plain black thing with no frills or decorations. save for some sewn-in padding around the chest area that gave Lita an uncomfortably larger bust than usual. The swimsuit had been bought in a hurry on a family vacation to Puerto Rico when Lita was 14, just about to start high school. Lita had accidentally-on-purpose forgotten her swimsuit but her mother insisted she must have one so that she could swim with her cousins.
Lita idly doodled in the notebook that was also their therapy journal. What the heck does a non-binary, trans person wear as a swim suit? Lita could pick out some mens’ swim shorts at a fast fashion store and pair it with a bikini top. No, definitely not the bikini top. Lita hated any unwanted attention brought to their bust line. The shorts were a definite need, as Lita had always hated the way bathing suits cut into their pelvis and butt. A sports bra could work, though. Lita always felt strong and powerful wearing one, and they liked the way it flattened their chest to barely noticeable mounds. And, of course, the number 1 problem area, the belly. It was Lita’s number one source of body dysmorphia and discomfort. They looked down at their tummy rolls, concealed under a baggy tee shirt. I have to accept the body I have now, and learn to love it. This was a relatively new thought Lita had picked up in therapy and was still getting used to. It was hard to accept that no matter how much exercise they did, that a hard, lean abdomen rippled with muscles like Violet’s was out of reach.
Lita reached out their phone and sent Winston a message.
Do you like going to the beach or the pool?
Moments later, Winston replied.
Not really big on either to be honest. But if you want to go, let’s go! :-)
Lita chuckled at how Winston never used emojis, but opted for the seemingly old fashioned emoticons with a little nose.
This is embarrassing but for the sake of honesty…I never learned how to swim. Winston messaged again.
It’s okay, I can only doggy paddle and I have a phobia of being underwater. Lita texted back, smiling.
For a job, working at Juice Mama was fun (though Lita’s mom didn’t consider it a “real job”). The only other coworker Lita had was an older man around Winston’s age, with an unfortunate crop of white-guy dreadlocks, arms covered in faded tattoos, and always blasted either hardcore punk or reggae, no in-between. Lita could wear their own headphones, and settled into a happy monotony of grinding up pineapple, celery, and beets for hours. It was a messy, physical job and a decent workout. By the end, Lita would return home triumphantly splattered in the bloody red guts of beets, smelling fresh and earthy. If they were lucky they could take home a mason jar of extra juice.
The rest of the afternoon stretched out like a blank canvas of possibility. Lita was near the mall in Cambridge, why not go there?
Entering the familiar fast fashion chain store, Lita felt a pang of loneliness. They yearned to be in a group of giggling teenagers like the one they saw around them. No way they could drag Winston to these kinds of places. No offense to Winston, they thought, but he lacked style. Morosely, Lita scanned the racks of swimsuits. In the ladies’ section, everything was sexy in a way that made Lita uncomfortable. But the mens’ section was an oasis. There were the typical knee-length baggy swim shorts in solid colors and Hawaiian-inspired prints. Among them was what Lita mentally declared the perfect pair of swim shorts: They were shaped and cut like running shorts, going well above the knee, with a drawstring waist. They were a neon yellow print decorated with geometric designs of toucans in bright red and teal. Paired with a sports bra they had at home, the $8.99 swim shorts would make the perfect non-binary bathing suit.
Winston and Lita made plans over text message for a Sunday beach trip. There was a beach Winston heard about called Sand Dollar Beach, that was beautiful and would be quieter than the more well-known beaches. And it was far enough from Lita’s sphere of familiarity so the odds of running into a past bully were low.
Lita was feeling confident in their created swimsuit, and had a large bottle of sunscreen with them. Because self love meant taking care of yourself in all ways. They even experimented with their hair, tying back the thick bangs with a bright red bandanna and showing a bit more of their face. Lita did a brief once-over in the bathroom mirror, swearing not to scrutinize their stomach area. Bandanna, sunglasses, a silly Puerto Rican tourist shirt that they didn’t mind getting wet, sports bra underneath, shorts, sandals, tote bag. They struck a pose. There was a skip to their step, walking to Winston’s car.
They rode to the beach playing music with the windows rolled down. They had been friends for a month and Lita opened up more to Winston on the drive.
“I don’t know if I want to go to college.” Lita mused. “We did a college visit last fall and the place seemed horrible to me, like a prison but with slightly better amenities.”
“College isn’t worth it.” Winston agreed. “I went and all I got was student loan debts, a useless degree, and an ex-wife. Raw deal.”
“What degree?”
“Creative writing.” Winston smiled wryly. “In a sense, I do use my degree but to write instruction manuals for kitchen appliances. I was kind of hoping I’d be a published novelist by 40.”
Lita looked away, saddened. The outlook for their own career as a cartoonist wasn’t great either. Having a stable job making comics was a one in a million chance.
“I have this dream, “Lita spoke, “of living in L.A. in my own place, maybe with some friendly roommates. I want to make my own comics and maybe do some character design work for the animation studios on the side. I want to go into a book store and see copies of my graphic novels there!” As Lita spoke their spirit rose. This was what all the therapy was for, so that Lita could pursue their dreams and not be held back by self-hate any longer.
“The self-hating voice, Ed, tells me that my drawings are ugly and unappealing. And that I could never live alone because I wouldn’t be able to function.” Lita became downcast again.
“No way, you’re very capable.” Winston was gripping the steering wheel tightly, looking ahead sternly. “I remember being your age. I was completely directionless. All I cared about was getting drunk until I blacked out at a frat party, or getting coked out of my brains. I just picked writing as my major because I fancied myself the next Stephen King, writing and partying as much as I wanted. And I was good at writing, so I got high off the praise. I won some essay contests in high school, I was salutatorian, I was published in prestigious literary magazines.”
“That is to say,” Winston concluded, “I think you have a lot of potential for greatness.”
“You too!” Lita added politely, but Winston scoffed.
The beach was almost empty, there were only a few small clusters of blankets and beach umbrellas dotting the sand. The dunes were lush with grass and seagulls ran around scavenging for scraps of people food. The only sign of humanity was a humble snack shack with faded signage, beyond that there weren’t any other houses in sight.
Lita ran ahead on the wooden platform above the sand dunes. Without a pause for self-consciousness, Lita threw off their cover-up shirt and sprinted into the water. Winston followed, gangly and pale with a sharp farmer’s tan.
For the first hour, they splashed around in the water. Lita did a few laps of doggy paddles and instructed Winston, who was happy to simply bob in the water up to his chin and jump into waves. Lita loved how the salt water felt on their skin, making it feel softer somehow, cleansing. They weren’t even aware of their body, not in the way that Ed made them feel anyway. Legs were for leaping around in the water and paddling. Arms were for splashing and moving the water about. Lita’s solid trunk allowed for endless twists and turns in the water. Lita stayed in the water until they were shivering. Winston stayed a little longer, and managed to do a few laps of doggy paddling.
To dry off, they took a long walk along the water’s edge up and down the shore.
“Do you mind if I ask why you don’t know how to swim?” Lita asked, curiosity overcoming their politeness.
“Nah, I don’t mind. I had a crummy childhood.” Winston shook sand and saltwater from his curled hair. “I grew up in the projects and I was in the middle of nine other brothers and sisters. We were poor as shit, the house was chaos and there were no after-school activities or sports to be had.”
“I’m sorry.” Lita hastily responded.
“Hey, dude, you don’t need to apologize!” Winston looked down at Lita, annoyed. “I’m at peace with my life.”
“So—okay.” Anxiety rippled through Lita like a shudder.
They walked on, silence punctuated by Lita finding the occasional shell or sea glass that they tucked into their shorts pocket. As they headed back to the towel pile, the sun was beginning its final descent. Lita looked out to the sea, and everything was perfect.
“hey Winston, take a pic of me?” Lita held out their phone to him.
“Sure!” Lita struck a confident pose and Winston took a few pictures with the sunset as the background.
Ed had made Lita detest photos of themself. So many had been deleted out of self-hate. But that evening, Lita looked at the pictures Winston had taken of them, brimming with love. Lita had a carefree smile dimpling their face and hadn’t thought to suck in their gut until the ribs showed. There was an even deeper feeling—gender euphoria. Lita saw themself reflected as who they really were.
“I love how I look!” Lita exclaimed, hugging Winston. Winston, taken aback by the display of affection, haltingly patted Lita’s salt-matted hair. He mentally marked this day as a major victory.
The drive back to the beach tended to be a subdued one. They split an order of fries for the road, and were quiet in their separate orbits of thought. For Winston, he was heartened by how much Lita was improving. He didn’t have much of the old Lita to compare to, but he saw them coming alive, expressing joy and curiosity. As for himself, he still felt stuck. Sure, he barely felt the desire to smoke any longer. The craving was dulled by the excitement of new experiences with Lita. But he had to admit to himself that he was stagnating in the Program. He kept going to meetings because he was terrified of being on his own without the safety net. He still hadn’t gone to any social events since he quit drinking, hadn’t travelled outside the state and the thought of dating again was too terrifying to consider.
Two years ago, he was making progress by leaps and bounds. There was the intervention, where he realized that he’d have to change his behavior to support his wife now that she was pregnant, carrying what he believed was his child. So he threw himself into the program at Thoreau Center for alcohol addiction. Then, the devastating news that regardless of his sobriety, Peggy was going through with a divorce. That caused Winston to relapse into a bender that landed him into a hospital, and full-time rehab. He was coping with the revelation that the child wasn’t his, however feebly. It seemed like the smallest thing would set him off back to where he started. He was on the road to recovery but the road was made of untempered glass.
Lita, in the passenger seat, was asleep. Their features relaxed, there was still a childlike softness in Lita. Like the kid I’ll never get to have, Winston thought. Because I’m scared to date and I’m not even sure if the baby-making factory is viable any longer. Winston chuckled at his own euphemism. Fatherhood wasn’t something he planned on, it was thrust upon him suddenly. But once he had been presented with the news, during rehab he became comforted by the thought of being a dad. Having the opportunity to give a child a better life than he had, to share all of his favorite things about living, he wanted it so badly. His entire motivation for getting clean and sober was that unborn child. He was realizing now that with that motivation gone, he would be spiraling soon.
