…And so it’s a struggle to find meaning. Transitioning used to be meaningful and now it’s over. I’m telling people that the cosmetic procedures I’m considering aren’t going to change who I am, which is good, transitioning sucked. But it provided some hope; it was like, ‘Oh, there’s this endpoint where I’ll be okay.’ And I am okay. Just okay, and tired. Very, very tired.
I’m trying to be social and people like me, I’m able to form new relationships. Someone even asked me out half-assed. It’s just that I know, know in my soul that none of it is permanent. That no relationship can be counted upon. It’s all bullshit and lies; exchanging business cards when it isn’t really necessary. And I can’t undo this knowledge. It’s a steep and surprising price to pay in order to be in my right body and my right mind; knowing what my erased life feels like. Like the ending to It’s a Wonderful Life, except there’s no one to wave a magic wand and turn it all back again.
I find that the last shred of meaning is writing about my new life.
Someone shakes up the spacetime continuum every few weeks, changing everything. Leaving me in the same location with the same genome and social security number, and a collage of memory like a broken mirror;
Lost in a daydream, I think of the person I love. She touches my hair, touches my neck in a certain place, and it’s all I’ve ever wanted.
I sit in bed, head to my knees, eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed with the knowledge that I will never, not ever understand my body.
Tonight I’m a capable, charismatic, healthy human being who can do anything she desires, and I just want to go home.