There are moments in life — small, odd, sticky moments — that lodge themselves in your memory like a shard of glass in the carpet. You step on them occasionally, when you’re not expecting to. You’re not bleeding, not really. But the pain still feels real.
For me, that moment happened when I was five years old. Downtown Los Angeles. Post-war America — which, by the way, has always been more of a genre than a time period. A man stepped off a streetcar with a wooden peg for a leg. The city was loud and dusty. No one else seemed to notice him. But to me, the world went quiet.
And all I could think was: That should be me.
Not “How sad.”
Not “What happened?”
But “That should be me.”
It’s not a sexual thing. It never was. It’s not really even a pain thing. There’s no erotic charge in imagining my body altered. No masochism. No grandstanding. Just… stillness. A sense of peace. Like seeing the last puzzle piece fall into place and realizing the picture makes sense.
I’ve spent a lifetime building things — houses, businesses, family dinners from leftover casseroles and good intentions. I can fix almost anything. But I’ve never been able to fix the fact that my left leg doesn’t belong to me.
I know how this sounds. Believe me, I know. That’s part of the torment. The shame isn’t sharp, it’s ambient — like bad lighting or supermarket music. Always on. Always buzzing just beneath the surface. It was easier when I was younger. There were distractions: the rush of building something from nothing, the chaos of fatherhood, the sheer inertia of life. But as the years passed, and the pace slowed, the thoughts got louder.
The image of a tourniquet.
The hum of a chainsaw.
The bed of a dump truck.
I’ve thought about it all. I’ve prepared. More than once.
It’s never about pain. It’s about precision. A clean line. A specific type of surgical closure, smooth and centered, just above the knee. I could sketch it for you right now.
I don’t want to die. I’m not depressed. I’m not broken in that way. I love my wife. I love my kids. We dance swing in the kitchen, and I still get a thrill when I double-clutch one of my classic cars into gear. But this thought — this absence — is always there. First thing in the morning. Last thing before sleep. A quiet, unending hum that never quite resolves.
My dreams are the worst part. I’m often missing the leg in them. And I’m happy. Until I wake up and it’s still there, like an unwelcome guest at a party that’s already over.
Eventually, I told my wife. I couldn’t carry it anymore. At first, she thought I was joking. Then she cried. Then she said she’d leave me. Then she said she wouldn’t. She read everything I gave her. She tried. God, she tried. But how do you explain that the thing you’ve always wanted is the thing no one is allowed to want?
I know this condition has a name now — Body Integrity Identity Disorder — but that’s cold comfort. It’s like being told the monster under your bed has a scientific name. It doesn’t make it any less real.
There’s a man — they call him The Gatekeeper. He’s been through it. He helps others do it too. I’ve emailed. I’ve listened. I’ve stopped short.
Because here’s the cruel part. Some people have done it, and they say the feeling never left. The obsession just shifted. New targets. New limbs. New ghosts.
And that terrifies me more than anything. That I could go through with it and still wake up feeling broken.
So I live with it.
I sit in the recliner with my leg wedged in the crack, hidden from sight. I keep the lights on when I make love. I pretend. I persist. I provide. I dance with my wife like we’re teenagers at a sock hop. I smile at my grandchildren when they climb on my lap.
And I think about the man on the streetcar. About the empty cuff of a jean leg. About the fantasy that has defined me more than any job or title or even relationship.
I wish I didn’t feel this way. If there was a pill that could erase it, I’d take it — not just for me, but for the people I love. For my wife. For the man I’ve tried to be. For the man I still hope I am.
But the truth is, I’ve lived my entire life with a phantom limb that isn’t even gone yet.
And it aches.