Ending transition is a transition in itself. Most of my effort is spent trying not to show how I feel and controlling my emotions, which seems counterintuitive because that’s what I used to do as a guy, except it’s much more difficult. Others sense this all-important task of mine; of not flying apart like a cold war-era ultracentrifuge, which brings me safety and social status. You can’t make this shit up.
Because I express myself as my self becomes different, and eventually write it down. I do it for myself because no one hears anymore.
As comforting as it is not to have trans problems at the moment, it’s not actually comfortable. But I told my friend that I’m over what happened.
Which is why I claw my clothes off in my sleep.
And why I attack my nightstand in my sleep.
My lamp may never be the same.