Note to a friend: 11/19/16

Today, apparently, is the first anniversary of my legal name change.

I know this only because a year ago a lovely friend decided to enter the date in her phone, which led her to call today and sing happy birthday to me on my voice mail.

It was an insanely sweet thing of her to do.

I kind of can’t really grasp any more what “a year ago” means. Because this whole transition thing fucks with your sense of time. My pre-transition life feels like this weird, non-chronological blob. Everything after coming out feels surreal, impossibly intense, and equally outside of any ordinary experience of time.

In the midst of this I am aware of how deeply settled into my own authentic being I have become. In ways that I could never even have imagined before.

I am myself.

And I remain myself, even in the face of all of my 11/9 dread.

I was thinking about all of this as I got dressed this morning because I was wondering how the Nazi Apocalypse is going to play out in my little corner of the catastrophe. I was contemplating what choices I might have to make in order to survive. Which got me wondering whether, if I were forced to, I could possibly, passably go back to functioning as an imitation male.

That is seriously the kind of shit that keeps coming into my head lately.

I mean, I could bind my tits, I could physically pass. But could I actually pull it off?



The answer is so completely no.

I don’t really even know what it means, that this is my answer.


I thought back to last spring, when I got this idea in my head that I should get out some of my old guy clothes and try them on again.

I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.

One of my trans friends said seriously, don’t do it….

But I did anyway.

She was so right.

It completely fucked me up.

I don’t even know what I’m saying right now. I’m just so, so sad, so scared, so deeply not hopeful, so dead certain, despite all the reassuring things people keep telling me, that the cavalry is not in fact coming, certainly not to rescue a handful of panicked trans girls.

I think it’s all even worse than we are imagining.

I hope to fucking god that I’m wrong.

Outside my house this evening the drunken holdovers from some football game have apparently set up camp. They’re shouting at each other and slamming car doors and blasting music and just generally pretending to continue to inhabit a world that no longer exists.

Or maybe it does, maybe theirs is the frat party we have woken up in. Maybe they are the ones running the show now.

Maybe they always have been.

All I know is that they are going to be out there shouting at each other all night long. While I’m here holed up inside my house, trying to figure out how to keep myself alive.

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