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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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.