Becoming Fifi - 20

March 26th

Dear Journal,

This morning, I visited a medical centre to see a so-called specialist - someone Annisa had apparently pulled some strings to get an appointment with on such short notice. I arrived in a white maxi dress that floated delicately around my ankles, making my stiff, shuffling movements feel even more ridiculous. I was running on no sleep, barely functioning, and completely lost in thought - but still clinging to the faint hope that there might be a way to fix things.

However, the second I slipped off those absurdly tall heels - the only shoes I can even stand in now - and saw the look on the doctor's face, I knew there’d be no easy way out of this.

He ran a few tests, poked and prodded, and asked a string of questions before delivering his terrifying verdict: the tendons in my ankles had shrunk, pulling the muscles in the backs of my legs tight to lock my feet into this grotesque en-pointe position.

There’s no instant cure - just daily massaging, patience, and a whole lot of wishful thinking. It could take months, perhaps years, to fix, and even then, there’s no guarantee I’ll ever return to my natural, flat-footed position.

He mentioned surgery, but between the risks of nerve damage, permanent loss of movement, and even the word amputation, I think I stopped breathing for a second. If I’d eaten breakfast this morning, it would’ve ended up all over his polished floor.

So, as ridiculous as it sounds, I’m left with one brutally impractical option: if I want to go anywhere on foot, I have to do it balanced on a pair of stilt-like heels I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

It honestly feels like the universe has it out for me - conspiring to trap me in this feminine role, sealing off the exit just as I get close to finding it. Annisa, ever the optimist, tried to cheer me up by announcing that we’d soon go shopping for new shoes and pick out a whole selection of styles and colours - something for every occasion. I responded with a polite smile, then turned away, doing everything I could to hide the rising panic in my eyes and the resentment building inside.

Everything I was told in that doctor's office now feels like a heavy weight to bear. And with words unable to truly describe how I feel, I pulled out my pencils and began to draw. The image that appeared on the page is of a ponytailed fool tiptoeing awkwardly across an examination room while a gawking doctor looks on and scribbles notes. In that moment, all I could do was try to keep it together. My expression was as blank as the numbness in my feet, the only sensation I felt was the coldness seeping into the balls as I fought the urge to collapse in a heap on the ground.

(See image 20)

Now I’m back in bed, and exhaustion is starting to set in. My body's begging for sleep, but my mind has other ideas. I mean, how can I relax when all I can think about is the fact that I’m stranded in a foreign country, bound to high heels, and living someone else’s life? I don’t look like David anymore. And worse still, I’m starting to forget what it felt like to be him.

I’m struggling to make sense of it all. That I might never walk the way I used to again! That high heels might be my new normal! It’s a lot to take in, and I honestly don’t know how I’m meant to live like this.