Rhyannon Styles - Help! Im Addicted - A Trans Girls Self-Discovery and Recovery

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HELP!
I M
ADDICTED

A Trans Girls Self-Discovery
and Recovery

Rhyannon Styles

First published in Great Britain in 2022 by Jessica Kingsley Publishers

An Hachette Company

Copyright Rhyannon Styles 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Trigger Warning: This book mentions alcoholism, drugs and trauma.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress

ISBN 978 1 78775 658 8

eISBN 978 1 78775 659 5

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As individuals we shine, as a community we thrive.

Authors Note: The events in this book are based on my own personal experience and memories at a certain time in my life. Names and details have often been excluded or changed for reasons of privacy. For the individual stories all names and other identifying details have been changed to provide anonymity but the essence of each story has been maintained.

12th April 2020

Im a firm believer in a morning routine. Daily practices help maintain my mental wellbeing and positivity, a tool Ive learned since being in recovery. Today, however, things didnt quite go to plan. For reasons unknown to me, I skipped my morning meditation and prayer, preferring to down two cups of coffee to give me the jolt I needed to start my day. Id also wasted an hour or two by faffing around the house. To clarify, by faffing I mean doing things that dont aid serotonin production manically cleaning, scrolling Instagram and overanalyzing the colour of my hair in the bathroom mirror, probably as a result of spending an hour absorbed in my social media.

Over breakfast, my boyfriend and I had decided that wed take a bike ride together and pass through a new route wed discovered the week prior that wed both enjoyed. With it being Easter Sunday and predicted to be the hottest day of the year so far, my thoughts quickly turned to what I was going to wear. I wanted to look fun and colourful. I wanted my outfit to stand out. I own an odd selection of clothes, and I thought I had clothes for all types of occasions and activities. But unfortunately, on this day I couldnt find the right outfit for a bike ride in 26-degree heat on Easter Sunday.

At this point, I feel you need a brief lowdown of my consumer habits.

I buy what I want, not what I need. I will feverishly overspend one month and then not even think about shopping the next. I can lose hours in vintage stores or markets, particularly if Im abroad. If I have set my mind on something, I will track it down, no matter what. When Im in a purchasing frenzy, I wont pause and consider my choices. Ill always buy more. I never stop and ask myself, When will I wear these sequin trousers? Do I really need them in my wardrobe? Instead, I declare to myself something along the lines of I will wear that when I get invited to an award show on the telly. Occasionally, I will buy a really inappropriate garment, just so I can appreciate looking at it every day in my bedroom. Given the choice, Ill always lean towards flamboyant theatrical outfits: kaftans, flares, catsuits, capes, feathers and sequins. And herein lies the problem when it comes to deciding what Im going to wear for a bike ride that involves dirt, sweat and picnics. I ask myself: What am I going to wear?

By midday on Easter Sunday, Id decided that I couldnt see the contents of my wardrobe clearly enough. But I had a solution. I emptied out all the drawers from underneath my bed and frantically grabbed everything off the clothes rail in big swoops. Then I loosely piled all my clothes together and categorized them by colour on top of my bed. This way, I could easily see what Id amassed, and what my choices were for the afternoons activity.

It dawned on me very quickly that I wasnt very prepared for this. Id already begun to well up emotionally with the anticipation of having to piece together an outfit that reflected who I was from this textile rainbow strewn across my bed. The important phrase here is who I was remember that. Because, obviously, my clothes serve the ultimate purpose of communicating to the world everything about me: gender, class, aspirations, interests, occupation, lifestyle, religious beliefs, music tastes, food choices and, most importantly, beyond anything else, that Im an individual!

From my colourful mounds of clothes, I chose a pair of acidic-pink wide-legged trousers, a pastel-pink sweater, fuchsia-pink socks and salmon-pink adidas trainers. FYI, Im big on pink. Its a kooky outfit, perhaps suitable for joining a 1980s Easter parade in Miami or for running local errands. But not ideal for my activity. Of course, I knew this; I just wasnt prepared to admit defeat yet.

A while later, my boyfriend asked me, Whats wrong? Youve gone quiet. He could sense I was chewing on some kind of resentment and knew better than to comment on my outfit. Nothing, I said. Im just thinking about something! And it was true: I was thinking about something; I was overthinking the whole situation. In my warped mind, unbeknown to me, Id given away my power to an external source my clothes. My clothes were my identity, and by this point, they were in control of my emotions.

It sounds ridiculous, and it is. But if youre unfamiliar with these disturbances, let me explain. Events like this happen to me occasionally, and when they do, my body is a very painful place to be. Steadily, I began slipping into unhelpful thoughts that start to define my actions and behaviour. Fifteen minutes or so later and about to leave the house, my boyfriend asked me again, Are you sure youre OK? I replied with a question. Why do you keep asking if Im OK? My response clearly indicated my behaviour was off. He continued, Youve just gone really quiet and absent. Whats going on? I was unaware that my big black expanding mood was noticeable; of course it was I had a face like thunder, an outfit that screamed Help! and I wasnt talking. Obviously, I was in pain.

By this point, I didnt want to go on the bike ride. My emotional high jinks had zapped any enthusiasm or excitement I was feeling before I got dressed. All I wanted to do was curl up on the sofa far away from the sunshine, scroll Pinterest for images of Florence Welch and Kate Moss at Glastonbury Festival, and sink deeper into comparing what I didnt have to those that did. I didnt admit that, though how could I? It was Easter Sunday and the hottest day of the year. I had to soldier on. Instead, I quickly replied, I need some fresh air and exercise; Im feeling cooped up lets go! I cast aside my feelings, didnt communicate my thinking and tried to find another solution.