Becoming Fifi: Chronicle of Change - 20

March 26th

Dear Journal,

This morning, my heart felt as burdensome as the towering heels I was forced to navigate in. Annisa, my unwitting tormentor, arranged for a doctor's appointment. A specialist, she assured me, who could help resolve my predicament. However, as we sat in the sterile, white examination room, the air heavy with the smell of antiseptic and impending bad news, I could feel the tendrils of hope shrivel within me.

The doctor, an ageing man with a disarming smile, examined my feet with gentle care. After a series of tests and a barrage of questions, he finally sat back, removing his glasses as he delivered his verdict. The tendons in my ankles had shrunk, locked in a comical-looking en-pointe position. A chill ran down my spine as I digested the words. The enormity of what he had said left me numb, a sense of despair taking root in my heart.

The cure, he suggested, was regular massage, a gradual process that could take months, or even years to show any slight improvement. An operation was another option, but it held the risk of permanent disability - an ultimatum that sent shivers down my spine. His final piece of advice was a blow that echoed within me, reverberating through the walls of my already crumbling facade. From now on, I would need to wear towering high heels whenever walking. It was as if the universe had conspired to bind me to this feminine guise, tying me down with invisible chains of circumstance.

After the appointment, I was in desperate need of solitude. My mind was a whirlpool of despair, threatening to pull me under. I felt like a drowning man, trying to keep afloat in a sea of femininity. Annisa, understanding my need for solitude, left me with the car and driver, taking a taxi back home herself.

Oh, Journal, if only you could see the illustration I've sketched today. It's a solitary figure, me, aimlessly wandering through an opulent shopping centre nestled in the heart of Jakarta. The air-conditioned ambience of the mall, with its balconies overlooking designer shops, was somewhat familiar, thanks to countless shopping trips with Annisa. Yet today, it felt different, foreign, much like the persona I've been forced to adopt.

In my hand, I held an iced coffee, it's straw marked with the signature of my new identity – lipstick stains. A flared black skirt fluttered and rustled around my thighs, the sound drowned out by the cacophony of clicks produced by the high-heeled monsters that held my feet captive.

As for the rest of my attire, a black vest top adorned my upper body, and a small, designer purse, also in black, hung nonchalantly from my arm. My heart was as heavy as the purse was light, containing only the essentials Fifi needed for her day out – a phone, a compact mirror, and a lipstick, just another part of my disguise.

(See image 20)

The choice of the colour black was hardly incidental, as it mirrored the darkness that seemed to hover over my spirits. Each click of my heels echoed my despair, resonating with the sense of doom that was hard to shake off. As I trudged through the shopping centre, I contemplated escape. The thought of returning to the apartment was suffocating, like walking back into my own prison.

However, as I drifted further into the mall, the enormity of my situation washed over me. I was a stranger, not just to the city, but to myself. This realization sent shivers down my spine - I was lost. Lost in the geographical sense, and even more distressingly, lost within myself. I was no longer David, at least not in the eyes of the world. I was Fifi – the sophisticated, French-speaking, high-heel-wearing fashionista. And from her, there seemed no escape.

Is this my life now? Am I destined to live the rest of my life on stilts? Will I look back on this passage in a few months, having adapted to viewing the world from a position six inches higher from the ground? These thoughts are as strange as they are terrifying. Every step I now take is a bizarre affirmation of an unsettling truth – I’m stranded, ensnared in a world of high heels where men don't belong, and yet, forced to be a woman who can't exist without them.

So, I'm signing off now, dear companion. The ink on the page is as dark as my mood, my thoughts as heavy as my heart. I must steel myself for another day atop those ridiculous high heels, another day as Fifi!

Until tomorrow,

David.