I don’t understand.  I was plagued by an overwhelming desire to escape from myself, then I discovered my gender dysphoria and transitioned.

Now I don’t know what it means to be a woman, but it’s how others see me, and it’s accurate.

I feel better.  I don’t want to drown my consciousness in science and software; I’m not desperate to lose myself in marijuana smoke and virtual worlds.

I can breathe and be okay with it, I’m okay with my body.  I can live behind my eyes.  I can stand still.


My old journals ask the same questions:

What will make me happy?

What is my problem?!

It seemed normal, to be not okay with life.  I didn’t notice I was repeating myself.

Then I wrote this blog, and every couple of weeks I put the past further behind me.


I can write clearly.  Not only about myself, but about the science I experienced under semi-consciousness; file boxes of notes, notebooks, calculations, programs, diagrams, data.  Records of data, a life’s work on disconnected servers.

I wonder if the cable company sent my account to collections yet.


They don’t recognize me, and I don’t know how I’d explain what happened to me if I had to.  My old name is legally erased, just another word.


I’m trying to trust, and my gut is telling me it’s implausible that any harm will come to me now, somehow.


But again, there’s this – these words, this blog.  A search-indexed transcript of many of my innermost thoughts.  What was I thinking?  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  Then I promised myself that I would continue writing it; my liability, this unique record.

When I’m done thinking about it, I’m certain that perception of transgender people is so bad, so hysterically misguided, that publishing my diary can’t actually make matters worse for me.



modern world

the arcs – outta my mind – yours, dreamily,

wolf parade – you are a runner and i am my father’s son – apologies to the queen mary

wolf parade – modern world – apologies to the queen mary

kodomo – infinity divided – patterns & light

jimi hendrix – hear my train a-comin’ – live at the fillmore east


grand theft personhood

Perpetual motion, an asthmatic commute, outfits lined up like uniforms on laundry day.  I took such great care to avoid the dreaded ‘uniform’ that plagues so many trans women early in their transitions.  A clothing rut, dug through self-consciousness, a maladapted body, brokeness, cluelessness.  No, I will not wear the same shit every day.  Almost, some weeks I almost do, but not quite.  No, I’m going to enjoy my wardrobe in all of its pastel, beginner’s luck, genderfuck, wild fashionista glory.


My experience has morphed and blended itself into something soft, something fast, something that needs not be comprehended.  I don’t need to know what I’m doing on any particular day, it’s all memorized or written down somewhere at my various workstations.  I just sit down and do my job, do my routine, buy my groceries.

Oh, the groceries I’ve bought!  After nearly a year of hiding in my apartment and having them delivered, I finally ran out of money and had to go to the grocery store.  Luckily, I passed by then and everyone at the store is too focused on their food to pay attention anyway.  Nothing emphasizes what I’ve done like pushing a cart down an isle I’ve walked for a decade, after not doing so for a year, and just knowing that I move differently through that space.


I surprise myself.  Almost every night I get home and it’s dark.  I’m half out of my mind with exhaustion, so I hang my shirt on a chair.  Something catches my eye, the many reflections in the mirrors and 70’s-modernist windows of this small, dimly lit place, and it’s me.  Tall, standing there in her camisole, her curves over a militaristically lithe figure.  I am her, and I feel elated through the exhaustion.

But it feels like I stole this.  Like I stole my life and myself from somewhere, someone, grand theft personhood.  And I don’t care.