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.