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.

 

miss world

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.

 

dreams from reality

Dream sleep is difficult and when it comes, I might as well be awake.  My dreams reflect reality – the constant networking that accompanies the job search.

“Maybe you could do our friends’ makeup, you’re good at that!”

Seems as plausible as anything.

 

It’s been a nightmarish road into this mess and I just hope I see the day.  But I don’t know what it would look like.  I meditate and try and imagine a better world, one where no one has a say over what I do with my body.  Someplace where I don’t feel so alone.

That’s all I could come up with.

 

falling

I promised myself that I’d entered a new phase of my transition, where I don’t need to make any more major decisions, just cruise wherever.  I guess that’s true, but the process doesn’t stop.

An increased dose of finasteride obliterates traces of testosterone derivatives from my bloodstream.  The veins in my hands have faded and receded, and my fingers are noticeably fleshier.  Someone quipped that I might be able to sleep on my stomach again, someday.

 

My nightmares are not so vivid anymore and I can sleep.  It seems too good to be true.

But I’m blindsided by a sudden loss of some component of my identity, then immersed in paradoxical need for both quiet and emotional support.

 

I wish someone would’ve written about this shit in a little more detail, because I did not see this coming.