I walked into The Eagle, a notorious leather bar in Manhattan. As a transgender woman, there are places you know not to go. The bar is inclusive but the men who frequent it are not and being a femme around a bunch of horny, masc4masc types isnt my idea of fun.

The bar was hosting a play that Boundless Theater, a queer theater company, produced called Slap & Tickle. I was there playing the role of Shira, a 40-year-old Jewish transgender woman (which is, give or take, my exact identity). The cast was made up of me and six of the most tender gay cisgender men Id ever met.

From day one, I was smitten with each of them. They wore nothing but tiny bath towels wrapped around their waists to set the scene of an early 2000s bathhouse. I got to wear clothes because trans women were hardly in bathhouses at all.

When I first read the script, I knew I would be performing scenes that were identical to the most traumatic moments in my life. At this point, I had been diagnosed with PTSD and knew that there were things that could trigger anxiety. I moved forward because I believed I could grit my teeth through the inevitable moments of anxiety.

I was used to pushing through pain enduring to prove I was stronger than the demons that were chasing me. I had been doing this as far back as my 20s as an active-duty airman and training for cage fights in Mississippi. Back then, I wanted to be as violent as my abusers were to me.

Now, standing in a dank bar with glossy black walls and dildos hanging everywhere, I was taking in the smell of urine, leather and lube. Somehow, this was my chance to prove that I defeated my demons not with violence but with compassion. The years of therapy and trauma-informed yoga brought me to a place where I could face my past and not crumble.

The bar didnt have a stage, so we set up 12-by-12 platforms throughout the cavernous bar. We mimicked this as best as we could in our producers living room where we rehearsed. As we neared opening night, we memorized our lines and blocking and were starting to move as one. One night in our producers living room, I watched two of my cast mates perform a scene where one was being sexually abused and my hands started trembling. The scene was coming up where my character would find him alone in the bathroom. I played his savior and delivered the line, Are you OK, honey?

Are you OK? Its all I ever wanted to hear in all the times when I was beaten, abused or let down by the world because of my identity. I have been the outlet for so many peoples trauma and just once, I wanted someone to save me. To let me know that everything was going to be OK. Ultimately, I had to become that for myself.

My heart was racing and I was having trouble breathing, but I forced myself into our scene and sheepishly delivered my lines. Why was my body reacting this way? Consciously, I knew I was in no danger but my nervous system felt differently. My heart, breath and nervous system were acting independently of me and I was a prisoner.

I live with PTSD. It took decades for me to say this out loud, let alone begin managing the symptoms. Ive experienced all of these nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks and denied them. I put them in a box, only for them to come up later in the form of ruined relationships, careers cut short and self-harm.

Today, though, theres no shame. I congratulate myself for coming out of so many dark places. I just wish there were a tangible finish line.

On our sold-out opening night of the production, the bartenders looked like they walked out of a Tom of Finland drawing . The second floor was being renovated and any place that wasnt demolished became our greenroom. My cast mates and I all shared mirrors above a metal trough in the bathroom, pancaking our faces with stage makeup and covering any exposed skin with glossy moisturizer. Adam, our director, arrived decked out in a leather biker cap and vest.

If any of you mess up, dont worry about it. Its just a play in a leather bar, he assured us.