abd in the new world

Days turn to weeks, as I sit in a sunny domicile, writing.  Water on the stove for instant coffee.  News on the wire of new world order.

I update a to-do list in my head; update birth certificate, renew passport, check the job postings of corporations offering excellent health insurance.  Because war is coming.

That’s one thing about having lived as male, there are certain instincts.  Like now I feel in my skin, and with every breath that I will give birth, even though I won’t.  When you’re a man you know that war is coming – as it has for the past 200,000 years.  Well, war is coming now.

 

We’re not going to earn our rights anytime soon, not by executive fiat, or supreme court decision, or ENDA legislation.  It’s status quo for the foreseeable future.  So if you were holding out for sunny skies to transition – and know that I’ve been there – there’s no time like the present.

There’s also a good chance that ‘preexisting conditions’ will become a thing again in the insurance world, though they definitely won’t call it that and you might not hear about it until you get an insurance bill or statement.  Meaning, the only way to fund a transition through insurance will be through employer-paid group insurance plans, I’m assuming.  So ima get on that.

And abortion might eventually be made illegal.  Though this doesn’t necessarily affect trans women, except from an ethical standpoint, legally forcing rape victims to carry a fetus to term – through the trauma of rape – is an unthinkably brutal affront to all women.

 

Watching Hillary concede, I realized that she loves the system more than she loves us – all of us.  That’s commendable, but I think it’s why she lost.  She stands there telling me what I owe Donald Trump, waxing sarcastic about her own campaign slogan, and generally baffling me with her personal strength in the face of a textbook crash-and-burn political loss.  My mind reels and strains as a different future appears; but some things you just know.

 

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flight

I stepped out of the sodium street lights of a random night.  Onto a train, into that antiseptic train smell.  I thought to myself, ‘I’m leaving.’  I realized it then, staring down the aisle of well-to-dos.

Ten years after I stepped off of this train into the same street lights; I know in my soul that I will never return here.

 

Leia met me sometime later, at a random bar of well-to-dos.  Fresh from her office, I presented her with the wine she instructed me to purchase in her text message, “Make sure you taste it first.”

She regarded me with the relieved exasperation that only she could provide.

 

I was fresh from the depths of despair, a loss and malaise that made the Great Depression look like Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

I pleaded with her to save me.  We chatted about the election.

I asked her for purpose and place.  She caught the server’s eye – someone she had gone to high school with apparently.

 

She asked if I could set up a cloud server for her work.  I don’t remember much else.

 

It’s been several weeks now.  Removed from the place where I took on a new gender, I feel like a new person.  Perhaps I am.  Completely stealth now, I’ve fallen into a normal life, jarringly familiar from the time before I took hormones and dyed my hair.  I have obligations and new friends, disposable-ish income.  I don’t really wear makeup anymore, and that’s okay.  No one wears makeup every day.

 

Nightmares come and go.  Leia says I cry out in my sleep sometimes.

My pupils have returned to their normal size from antidepressants, which I take with my keys and my phone.  And I’m tempted to thank God that there’s nothing in life that can’t be solved by sex with the right strangers.

I am infinitely fortunate.  I was able to transition and didn’t lose all of my family, or all of my friends.  I didn’t die.  I’m attractive and have skills, I look forward to my life.  My sex change operation was a success.

 

But no one should have to do this.