Every day I’m more invisible, every week is quieter. I forgot what it was like to be no one, unextraordinary, a blink of someone’s eye. It’s comfortable.
But for a handful of people, I’m family. And family is different now. Among a handful of people I am unconditionally loved; as long as I’m a brilliant, incorruptible badass.
Flat-out, I don’t feel like I’ve experienced this before. Friends were circles of people I would visit with and move on. Parents were people who were always not-quite-sure about me. Everyone was at arm’s length. Now most people are, but some aren’t. I don’t feel the need to have an opinion about it, which is good because I don’t know what to think.
Everywhere I go there are memories – of buildings, people. Signs on walls – I went to a dance here, I kissed my ex-fiancee there. This is where I snubbed the president of the university. I hope he doesn’t remember.
I feel like I had a brother and these are his memories, but he’s gone. We never knew each other, but I have his memories. Sometimes I feel like I’m writing this for him.
I was talking to someone about flaws – things to work on. I said I think I talk too much. I feel a compulsion to say what I think should be said. It’s reckless, and I should learn to be quiet.
I find myself with not very much to say. There’s no context. Everything is new and blank, and I’m forced to move on, to start again. Any attempt to salvage my old life is met with disgrace. There are some things, like my education and a handful of core relationships (absurdly repurposed core relationships) that I’m taking with me. But attempts to, say, utilize my network of professional contacts, are yet to succeed.
My new body is comfortable; it is also unfamiliar and somewhat disgusting. I’m sick of standing up straight.
I want to hate myself, but I can’t find any clear reason to, other than being so consistently out of my depth, not knowing my sexual orientation with any precision, being afraid of random shit, and crying too much. But I can’t bring myself to hate myself for these things.
I feel lost and also without a need for direction.
I would ask myself why.
My jacket hangs on the back of my task chair. It smells like I used to smell; like a guy, like a friend. Like someone whose strength I sorely miss.
At first I was put-off and was going to wash it, but now it’s a comfort to me. I don’t know what that means. It’s probably just nostalgia.
I’m busier than I’ve ever been – which is a good thing.
I’m enthusiastic about nothing in particular and my emotions blend and run, unspecific to any single person, place, or thing. I’m told this is normal.
Guys generally won’t talk to me or are really nice to me – and there’s no obvious reason why.