My ascent from madness (present)

I want to write this next section in “Breaking Bad” style; with the ending first, and then the long story that leads us there.

It’s 3:49pm on a Thursday. A female cop just dropped me off in front of my house. She had me step out of the car after a 2 1/2-hour drive, and unlocked my handcuffs. I made my way back upstairs to an already-preheated Volcano, and I wasn’t even in any particular hurry to kill my final bowl. I got my phone and laptop on chargers, flipped through some papers in my bag… I thought I lost Johnny’s number when I transferred everything into my purse, but I found it. If that’ll turn out to be useful…

Goddammit

On Sunday, I wrote emails to my childhood church, Paul, and Vickie; just like I said I would. I wanted to let my words simmer for a couple hours, so I decided to put on some music and probably bob my head to Weezer or something. I eventually slid off my headphones, to only-somewhat-unexpectedly hear in the mid-afternoon yet another heavy knock on my door.

Ugh, it’s them again. I guess I’ll go down and talk to them this time.

I immediately saw a few of these Durham HEART people, at various positions up and down my driveway. A woman who was the closest to my door spoke up first.

Hello! So… We, uh… decided to move forward with involuntary commitment.

My heart just sank.

Nononono…

Look, I, uh… I’ve been writing these emails to all these people. I was about to email my old boss, and my childhood church, and my last therapist…

It was no use. It was already done. Nononono…

Look, I, uh… really don’t want to do this. I’m fine now, really. I’ve got all these people I’m about to talk to, and… like, I’m emailing them like right now, okay?

The magistrate has already signed the order. We have to take you right now…

Nononono…

A cop walks into view from left field (relative to my front door), and shows me the piece of paper. I am going to make sure they dotted their “I”s and crossed their “T”s; at least as much as I can muster while panicking over what I know is about to happen… again.

The cop follows me up to my room while I change. I only briefly think about what to do with the soft drug paraphernalia on my dresser; before telling myself it doesn’t matter, and he doesn’t care. I think about whether I want to change my underwear, before concluding “no, I really don’t”. I pack my laptop and a USB-C charger, as if I’d actually be able to use any of those things.

They asked whether I wanted to ride in the police Dodge Charger, or the HEART minivan. I thought the cop car was weird, so I chose the latter. We parked in the exact same place, walked through the exact same door… I found myself in what might as well have been the exact same room as when this happened three years ago.

They made small talk with me on the ride to Duke regional.

You have a lot of really important things to tell the world…

Okay… I guess you, uh… read my thing?

Well, we read the part that’s called “Fin”…

They were just trying to make me feel better, for all I know. I don’t think anybody “gets me” in any sizable community, and my views are probably just tone-deaf like usual.

Decompensation station

The TV was off this time. Unlike three years ago, I wasted no time in defeatedly remembering how to adjust the bed to my liking.

I lay there; somberly and blankly staring at the wall or door or ceiling or something, it doesn’t matter. They brought me what might as well have been the same little baggie to put all of my personal belongings in, and gave me what might as well’ve been the same green hospital gown and pair of slipper socks.

Somebody in a room nearby is singing arpeggios and repeating the same word over and over, like they have Tourette’s. I thought to myself, “I am on the funny farm…”

(Holy shit; off-topic, but this chapter alone is at like 58,000 words.)

A doctor came in and asked what brought me in today. I took a deep breath; and, channeling the same energy I used when I told them to call the Grand Lodge of North Carolina all those years ago, I started by saying

So, the story starts in the year 2021. I was having trouble focusing at work, and my doctor prescribed me methylphenidate.

Partway through, she cuts me off.

Okay… So… I’m just the medical doctor; once we get you cleared on the medical side, we’ll transfer you over to the psychiatric side, okay?

I got this expected transfer within a couple of hours. They talked to me as they walked me over to the psychiatric part of the hospital.

So, have you been here before?

Uh… yeah. But, I’m not, like, a frequent flyer or anything…

They showed me into a different room, the style of which was yet unfamiliar. It was larger, yet somehow more spartan than the first. There was no desk, and there was no “garage door”-esque opening in the back of the room. There was a TV, and I never figured out how to use it. Not that I tried very hard. The bed was simpler, flat, very low to the ground, and lacked the hydraulics of the now-familiar first bed. A camera mounted to the ceiling inside a tinted-black dome watches your every move, like you’re the playable character in Portal. I laid down in the bed, probably removed my slipper socks, and waited. As if there was anything else I could do in this room.

Eventually, a woman came around to feed me dinner. It was served on a disposable paper tray, the same composition as those things they hand you in the drive-thru when you ask for more than a couple drinks. It had… I don’t remember what was for dinner that night. I think a salad was involved at least, and it was decent.

Eventually, a doctor walks in to talk to me.

So, what brought you in today?

(deep breath) Okay… So, the story starts in 2021. I was having trouble focusing at work, and my doctor decided to prescribe me methylphenidate.

I went on, getting to probably mid-late 2022 before she stopped me and said,

I think you’re avoiding the real reason you’ve come in today.

(sigh) No I’m not, it’s just a really long story. But the short version is, my doctor gave me ADHD meds, I lost my goddamn mind, and my support network appeared to feed into my delusions; at least at first.

I was already wishing somebody would just read my thing cover-to-cover. Yeah it’s really long, but like… it explains everything that happened. I wrote it for a reason… I mean, how many patients come with their very own manual?

I eventually found my way to the end; I destroyed my life during what seems to have been some kind of psychotic break, I realized that I can’t just go back to a restore point where we’d all laugh about this little goof-up of mine around the water cooler soon; and ergo, I began taking the possibility of ending my life seriously. I guess I trusted the wrong people with my suicidal ideation problem, and yadda yadda I’m now IVCed to the psych ward.

I mean… “trusted the wrong people” was an understatement, by at least my standards at the time. I realized I basically called the cops on myself.

And, “suicidal ideation problem” is also an understatement, by at least my standards at the time of writing. I basically played Russian roulette with a nickel, and somehow managed to still be alive after several rounds. I guess I’m still an atheist in terms of who I worship; but, I don’t think I can tell you I don’t believe in God after the serendipity of what really feels like a finely-tuned life experience.

I forget if anyone else came to my room that night. The psych doctor or psychologist lady, whatever she was, acted like I’d probably be out in a day or two. Realizing I can’t go home tonight, I eventually fell asleep on my safe little twin-sized bed.

I woke up early in the morning (probably around 3am), and I was honestly falling apart.

The halls echoed with the amplitude of an empty school gymnasium. You could hear every footstep, every beep, every announcement over the intercom. It. Was. Maddening. “I’m losing cohesion”, I thought to myself. The environment felt like it was meant to drive the sane insane, and to render the insane decompensated.

Do you know what you can do in this room? Fuck-all nothing. Unless, I suppose, you get the TV to work. Maybe you just have to ask them for the remote or something.

There’s no desk. There’s no clock. There’s constant noise echoing through the corridors at all hours of the day and night.

You can’t use your phone. You can’t use your laptop. You can’t have your hoodie, or your anything for that matter. Whatever you came with, it’s locked up in little baggies with your name written on them. They won’t let you have a goddamn pencil, for christ’s sake.

I’m already losing my mind. I flipped off the camera a couple of times. I don’t like it here. I feel like I’ve been sentenced to solitary confinement for being sad.

Daylight comes; not that you can see it in this room that lacks exterior windows; or know when sunrise is by looking at the clock. You hear the shift change. You hear some of the doctors or nurses engaging in small talk and horsing around. “I’d be nice if someone would stop playing around and read my thing”, I selfishly thought. “Is anybody reading my entire thing? I wrote it for a reason… Maybe they won’t let me out until somebody reads it all. At least somebody smart will know what happened…”

A woman comes by to give you your morning snack. You’re starting to accrue paper cardboard-esque trays of food by your bed, which is the only reasonable place to sit, lay, or eat.

A different doctor comes in. He’s visiting from ECU or something, and he seems like more of a hard-ass than the chick I talked at length to last night. This guy’s all business.

So, you’re in here because you wanted to kill yourself.

Well… I mean, yeah, basically… Like, my doctor started me on ADHD meds, I went crazy, and I totally wrecked my life.

This guy made it sound like I wasn’t going home anytime soon. And, he was correct.

I decided to ask about my hormones. Because, I am in a perilous situation, being DIY now and all.

We can’t give you anything that you aren’t currently prescribed locally.

Okay… well, can I see someone locally so I can get them prescribed?

No… you’ll have to wait until you’re discharged to do that…

Okay, so, how long until I’m discharged?

Well, it could be a few days, maybe 7–14 days, sometimes more… it just depends on how well you’re working with the group.

Okay… I’ll just… try and make it without them, I guess… Can I at least get my laptop?

… No, we can’t give you your laptop, and they won’t let you have anything like that upstairs.

Okay… so when am I going upstairs?

That depends on where there’s a bed available. We may have to send you somewhere else, it just depends.

I left my room to take a bathroom break, punching the wall on my way. I couldn’t make myself go, though.

I went back to my room, slamming the door as hard as I could.

This caught the attention of one of the security guards.

This would’ve been an excellent opportunity to practice deescalation. He could’ve asked me what was wrong, or why I was so upset. He… did not.

Hey, you can’t do that! What do you think you’re doing?!

I did not appreciate this guy’s tone; and was seeing nothing but red at this point.

FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING NIGGER YOU WON’T RESPECT MY RIGHTS I WON’T RESPECT YOUR RIGHTS I’M NOT GOING TO LET YOU FORCIBLY DETRANSITION ME I’VE BEEN ON HRT SINCE 2017 YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE I’VE BEEN DEALING WITH THIS SHIT SINCE AT LEAST PRIMARY SCHOOL YOU FUCKING PRICK I FUCKING HATE YOU I FUCKING HATE ALL OF YOU GO TO HELL GO TO HEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLL!

I threw leftover food at the rent-a-cop on the other side of the door; which he was holding shut at this point. There are scrambled eggs stuck to the window… milk and tea running together on the floor…

After I was done, this young black woman whose attention I’d grabbed said

You know you’re gonna have to clean all that up, right?

FUCK YOU!

They gave me what I can only assume were benzos; and I laid back down on my safe little bed, looking at my newly-soiled room. And I thought to myself,

This is the proudest moment of my transition.

I’ve talked a lot of shit about Marsha P. Johnson lately. And, maybe I’ve forgotten what she did and why she did it. She wasn’t trying to be a hero. She and everyone else was probably just seeing red like I was; angry at an inflexible behemoth of an organization that wouldn’t just let us be ourselves, when it doesn’t even involve anybody else. Sometimes, it’s bricks thrown at the NYPD. Other times, it’s a carton of PET milk thrown at a rent-a-cop on the other side of a window. Or a trumpet case banged against the roof of a bus. Any of us might be called to be our own Marsha P. Johnson, at any moment. And, that’s us. Fighting dirty with a system that often fights us dirty. Sometimes metaphorically, sometimes literally… sometimes both.

I decided I’d tell them “Sure, I’ll clean it up. But you have to take a picture of it first! This is my proudest moment. This is an act of civil disobedience!”

A couple folks asked what it was I wanted again, and a few times I told them

I want 6 mg a day of estradiol, and 200 mg a day of spironolactone!

Frankly, I knew I’d settle for a fraction of that. But, I’m not just going to let them give me no hormones for some indefinite amount of time. Sure; I probably won’t lose much progress; and not taking your hormones for a few weeks is usually part of the prep for surgery. But, like… first of all, I’ve already dealt with my hormones being jacked up all throughout half of 2022 and most of 2023. Secondly, I know I’m at least going to deal with spontaneous erections (i.e. morning wood) and male B.O. again if I’m off my meds for more than a week. Third of all, it’s a matter of goddamn principle. This place is supposed to be making me better, and reducing my suicidality. Keeping someone with a lifetime of gender identity problems from their often-lifesaving meds is just, both cruel and illogical. Hopefully I can make a stand now, so that the next poor soul won’t have to. Even if my DIY situation is unique.

So, I guess forth of all is that I was already concerned something like this would happen. It was like my worst case scenario was already coming true; and anyone who’s actually read and comprehends my document knows it’s complete bullshit why I felt I needed to order DIY in the first place. I mean, just ask anyone else who provides trans healthcare whether 2mg a day of estradiol with no antiandrogen is reasonable for a normal-sized pre-op adult trans woman. The numbers just aren’t even making sense, and it’s no wonder I thought she was part of some government conspiracy to detransition me.

Given the number of times they asked, I thought I’d actually gotten through to them somehow. I ate lunch; smugly thinking they were at least going to talk to the Duke gender clinic they already have in-house or something…

I fell asleep, and was awoken by these fuckers bringing in the trash can and wanting me to pick up after my mess. I half got my speech out through the drowsiness and the benzos.

Alright… but first, you have to take a picture of this! This is my proudest moment.

We aren’t allowed to take pictures.

I was already obediently picking up the trays and the styrofoam bowls strewn around my room. Fucking assholes.

Later that day, I began to realize the doctors and nurses were probably just placating me when I asked for 6 mg a day of estradiol and 200 mg a day of spironolactone. I needed something else. And I decided, that I would go on a hunger strike. After I was given my dinner, I briefly inspected it, before placing an untouched plate of food right outside my door. This began my strike, and I fell asleep sometime after.

Once again, I woke up in the middle of the night, to a maddening solitary confinement in a maddeningly-loud wing of the hospital. “I just can’t go on like this”, I thought. I started flipping off the little security camera more and more.

I began thinking about my hunger strike; and the fact that they might just give me a feeding tube in response to it. “Let them do their worst,” I told myself.

I soon got another idea.

I need to contact Lambda Legal as soon as I get a communications device.

When it was around 5-6am, I decided to venture out of my room. It isn’t actual solitary confinement, after all…

It was around this time when I met a fascinatingly-eccentric fellow named

Preston

Clearly has schizophrenia or some shit. Like, whatever I had going on with me times a million. The first words he said to me were

I believe you are a woman.
Some women have a more athletic body…

This… wasn’t as offensive or hurtful as you might expect. I mostly just find shit like this funny. I tend to get gendered correctly in androgynous clothing even when my voice kinda sucks; and that is transition goals for me.

He went on to tell me that he was the product of gene splicing. That these people sow the sperm and the egg together, or sow two stomachs together, and they make… a single super-baby! “It’s perfectly legal in America!” He has this long-lost brother who his parents won’t let him meet. They were born months apart, but they’re twins. It’s just super-baby things.

Preston, dawning his general-issue hospital blanket like a clerical robe, soon recited a prayer that was almost normal.

Dear God… Please bless the needy children of the world, father. Please give clothes to those who have no clothes. Please give shoes to those who have no shoes. Please give food to those who have no food…

This went on for a couple of minutes.

Rachael; is there anything else you would like to add?

No… I can’t really think of anything…

And please Lord… grant me my wishes. Let all of my wishes come true. And grant Rachael her wishes. And let all of her wishes come true, Lord. But, grant me my wishes first, Lord. Because I spoke to you first, Lord. Please grant me my wishes first, and grant Rachael her wishes second, Lord.
In Jesus’ name, amen.

He kept talking; eventually about secret societies. The KKK, the Freemasons… what the fuck is it with crazy people and Freemasons? I swear, I didn’t give two fucks about the Freemasons before all of this.

You know… the KKK never jumped nobody… They’re just a secret society, that’s all. If you go to one of their meetings you might get jumped…

He seemed to think the Freemasons were similar. “You don’t never see nobody go to none of them meetings, you know what I’m saying?”

He briefly started rambling something about polyamory. He knows all about polyamory, apparently.

I almost forgot his name; before he reminded me by saying “press it, it weighs a ton”. He went back to his room, as did I. It was a little past 6 am.

In an hour or two, I ventured back out into the little TV nook in our ward. It was the only place with exterior windows. Other people were beginning to wake up. There was this chick Nicole who looked like she had a sock on her head or something, until I realized she was using a surgical mask as a hair tie. Okay – that seems pretty normal, given the situation. There were probably a little less than a dozen of us.

It was eventually time for morning snack, and I stuck with my plan; no food, just juices and the like for sustenance. I asked for “just an orange juice”; though I still hadn’t really had the opportunity to formally proclaim my hunger strike. I just wasn’t eating anything.

This was apparently room cleaning/inspection day, so we had to take our vitals and morning snack in the nook. This is when I got to briefly socialize with the other people on this unit; though I wasn’t exactly very talkative.

This one dude, who may’ve been the same guy who was singing arpeggios yesterday, I’m not sure, started doing more “Rainman”-like ticks. One of the nurses had on Puma shoes, and he just started going “Puma. Puma. PUMA! PUMA! PUMA! Puma. Puma. Puma. PUMA!”

There was this real “I’m on the funny farm” moment; when this dude is standing at the nurse’s station going “PUMA! PUMA! PUMA!”, and the nurses are half-ignoring him while doing some serious shit like keying in vitals, and a few of us who have our wits about us are exchanging pleasantries.

Somebody mentions this phone on the wall and whether or not it actually works. And I’m like “Holy shit, let’s see if I can call Lambda Legal on this thing!” I pressed all the buttons, and couldn’t get any sign of life out of the thing. It might as well have been a Fisher-Price phone.

At some point, Preston starts talking about polyamory again. And, this sane-sounding woman asks Preston,

So, what exactly is polyamory? Because, I’ve heard about it, but I still don’t get it.

Without missing a beat, Preston says

So, polyamory first originated in Africa. These African women, they be having way more female babies than male babies. Like, they might have 20 or so girls, and then only one boy, you know what I’m saying.

It’s all I can do not to start laughing; but something about the grave seriousness of the situation kept me from doing so. This is a real person; with an actual life somewhere in the Durham, NC area. Somebody knew he wasn’t quite right, and they cared enough about him to take him here, to the “Behavioral Health Emergency Department” at Duke Regional. It may’ve been his parents, who allegedly conducted legal-but-unethical gene splicing experiments to conceive him and his twin brother he still hasn’t met.

I started getting the feeling I was about to leave, when a sheriff’s deputy showed up and spent what felt like a really long time in the nurse’s station. I was a bit concerned somebody was going to press charges against me for “attempted assault on a rent-a-cop”; but that seemed awfully silly, given that I’m a psych patient, and I didn’t even lay a finger on him. My suspicion that my time here was coming to an end was confirmed when I didn’t get breakfast. I was led out with my things in toe soon afterward.

We got into the foyer, and the cop asked to see my hands. He was handcuffing me, and I asked while half-giggling if this was about me throwing a fit about my hormones yesterday. He replied “You aren’t in trouble, we’re just taking you to something-Regional”. I got in the SUV, shoeless and sockless after getting some mixture of milk and tea on my slipper socks yesterday and failing to get a new pair.

I wasn’t sure whether to believe the cop at first. I was half expecting him to be placating me, before taking me downtown and booking me for my little food fight yesterday. I was relieved when we got in the far left lane on I-85 westbound, like we were driving into Orange County or something.

And, drive through Orange County we did. Hillsborough, Eno, Mebane… Are we going to Mebane or some shit?

Tangier, Trollingwood, Graham…

Burlington, maybe?

Elon, Gibsonville…

Huh. We must be going to Greensboro. I was once again relieved when we got on I-40 at the split, like we were going into town.

The coliseum, 85 business, Wendover, PTI… Okay; it’s gotta be Winston, right?

I started to panic a little when we kept on 40 instead of going through Kernersville like you do when you go into Winston-Salem. Where the fuck is this guy taking me? Is he gonna take me out into the woods and lynch me for dropping the n-bomb on that rent-a-cop yesterday? I’m just being paranoid, right?

That was about the point when I noticed the guy had a GPS on his dash. And I could make out the numbers 8… 0. And I was like, “Is there a decimal point in there somewhere?” I could soon tell that the least significant digit wasn’t counting down quickly enough for it to be tenths; and that we must still be 80 honest-to-goodness miles away from our destination.

Then I made out the next turn on the GPS screen. It was H-something. H…

HICKORY?! We’re going to goddamn Hickory?!

Lina was from Hickory. Lina, from, uh… the list. From Antijen. We were the only two people from NC for a while. Although I later met this other chick Danielle at Rory’s group. Only time I’ve actually managed to meet another list member IRL. I kinda shat bricks when she mentioned it.

I undoubtedly wondered what Hickory was like as a young adolescent. But, any curiosity quickly faded as I came of age. There are lots of places like that in NC, and if you’ve been to one you’ve been to all of them.

Hickory is, like… the Asheville of the proletariat. Pretty sure I stopped there once years ago to go to the Sheetz.

80 more miles. And, we’re going about 80 in the cop car. So, about another hour of travel past Winston-Salem. Which, is what you would expect, going to goddamn Hickory…

Why are we going to bum-fuck Hickory? I guess there weren’t any beds closer by. At least not any in the Duke Health system, if that was a factor…

1 West

Frye. He said Frye Regional. Like I’m supposed to know where the fuck Frye Regional is. It’s regional for a reason, man!

I was led in to Frye Regional; handcuffed, barefoot, and wearing the green hospital gown I was given at Duke.

I remember joking with Erika years ago when I was still in college.

I hope I never get arrested. I’d probably get a raging hard-on after they handcuff me.

This was not arousing. I had a mixture of a lot of feelings; anger, frustration, sadness, embarrassment, betrayal… more than anything, I was just hurt. I had a little speech ready for this guy once he took them off in the lobby, which I delivered through teary eyes.

Look, dude… I don’t know if you do this for everybody… I don’t know if you’re doing this because of the hissy fit I threw when they told me I couldn’t get my hormones… When I reached out to HEART, I wanted help. Help getting my life back on track after my psychotic break. Help figuring out how to pay my bills after I lost everything. I wanted some kind of hope for the future. I want to tell you you ought to be ashamed of yourself. But, you know… I don’t know why you did this. Maybe it’s just standard procedure.

I enjoyed listening to Biggie with you.

The nurse who was checking me in tried to interrupt my speech. I just held up my left hand at her and kept going.

I immediately felt like things were going to be a lot nicer at Frye. The building was pretty old; but I swear, you can meet the nicest people in old buildings like this. And, you can meet the biggest goddamn assholes in a shiny new grade A office space.

I received a warm welcome, and I didn’t even have to ask for help getting my hormones. They called Dr. Reid for me, and managed to get me a temporarily-acceptable dose of 50mg twice a day of spironolactone, and 1mg twice a day of estradiol. This was enough to ward off spontaneous erections and changes in body odor. I was endlessly grateful that they took the time to do that. I don’t know what Dr. Reid thinks of me now, but it doesn’t matter.

There was an awkward moment when they asked me what my preferred name and pronouns were; as if they weren’t quite sure which direction I was going in or something. I thought that was cute.

I was a little mortified to look at the big whiteboard in the nurse’s station, to see that in big letters it said “Rachael”, and in really small letters at the bottom it said

-Ethan-

’Cause I’m thinking, my name hasn’t been legally “Ethan” since 2019. Where are they even getting that from? But, I appreciated the effort they put in to making it as small as possible. I don’t know what’s going on with their computer system, and they’ve been really nice about calling me the right thing to my face and getting me my hormones. I’m absolutely not dying on this hill.

I was shown to a much nicer room than what I had at Duke Regional. There were two exterior windows, with curtains, and a much comfier normal-height bed. There was no narrow window in the door like at Duke; but there was still a security camera. Not that it bothered me all that much. They just want to make sure you aren’t trying to kill yourself or something. The only thing Duke had that Frye lacked were those TVs in the rooms; we only had a TV in the dayroom. This was hardly a dealbreaker for me. We could also borrow cards and puzzles, crosswords, Sudoku, and coloring books from the dayroom, which I don’t think was a thing at the Duke Regional BHED. Maybe that was a thing if you were transferred upstairs…

They brought me a late lunch in a styrofoam box. I groaned a little inside when I saw that the main course was meatloaf, but there were other things inside that were to my liking.

I prepared myself for awful cafeteria food during my stay, but… I was actually pleasantly surprised. Meatloaf was probably the sketchiest meal they had. They had this really good chicken casserole for dinner that made up for everything.

Now that I’m back home, I’ve found myself weirdly missing “Betty’s Place”. They had the most unexpectedly-good cafeteria food, and you could always go back for seconds or request something unusual, like “Just hold the fish, can I get two rolls instead?” It was certainly no worse than school cafeteria food; and probably more akin to “A&W Cafeteria” food if anything.

The next day, I walked by the nurse’s station to find my name on the board was now just Ethan "Rachael". I was a little more cranky about this; but again, I’m not willing to die on any hills yet as long as they’re giving me some estradiol and spironolactone every day.

I eventually brought it up to them, after seeing that things weren’t going back to the way they were on the first day. “Look, y’all have been really nice to me, but like, my name has been legally Rachael since 2019. It’s on my driver’s license, it’s on my social security card…” They brought my things out in that special office room, so I could show them my IDs and they could fix it in the computer.

Despite everyone’s efforts, my name never ceased to be Ethan "Rachael" during the remainder of my stay. This occasionally caused problems toward the end, when new nurses would call roll, and I’d have to embarrassingly point to my name on the printout, which was simply “Ethan Brown”.

I don’t, for the life of me, know what was so difficult about changing my name to the legally correct one in the computer. Maybe somebody needed admin rights, maybe somebody was a TERF… but they always used my preferred name and pronouns to my face. And I was nice to them in turn.

As comparatively pleasant as my stay was at Frye Regional, I could tell the place was a bit of a revolving door, and many of the staff were overworked. There were all sorts of professionals involved in my stay; a psychiatrist, a caseworker, a social worker, a lawyer… and I’d see them all for a minute or two at a time, when they’d swoop by my room or see me in the hallway. At the time, I was hoping for more one-on-one help with my “flaming life in ditch” problem. But the thing is, they did get me on psych meds; and now that I’m here, I think that was helpful. I’m thinking a lot more pragmatically and not descending into despair; and I don’t really know where else to give credit, other than the countless games of solitaire I played, or maybe Family Feud and Rosanne and CMT in the morning.

I hope you daaaaaaaaa-aaaaaance

Well, maybe I fucking would if someone would teach me the right dance in the right goddamn discotheque, Lee Ann…

I’m on
l a m o t r i g i n e, now. And they gave me a 30-day injection of, I think, Abilify or some shit. That one wasn’t on my discharge paperwork for some reason. I do need to clarify whether I need to keep taking it, because I don’t seem to have a prescription for it.

I’ve experienced no obvious side effects; save for hella-fucking dry mouth when I wake up. I suppose that’s probably worth it. I don’t feel like I have the peaks and valleys in my mood that I used to, and I have more motivation to get my shit together instead of just being sad about it.

My discharge paperwork says I’ve been diagnosed with Bipolar I. I told them I thought I might have that; because Vickie mentioned there was a particular risk of it with ADHD meds, and I do think I’ve noticed peaks and valleys lately. I’ve already written about that. I wish more rigorous testing was done to actually confirm it, but maybe I just have to accept that I have bipolar disorder and move on with my life. At any rate, the Lamictal seems to be helping.

---

I was in what was termed “the quiet unit”. There was this much larger unit “upstairs”, which is where the troublemakers seemed to go. There were maybe a dozen of us in the quiet unit.

My first night, we ate dinner “on the unit”; because someone escaped by jumping the nearly 20-foot fence outside the cafeteria. There were cops out there trying to figure out what happened, and they didn’t want us to see that. They normally don’t let us take food out of the cafeteria, because “That’s how you get ants™”

(I’d insert a YouTube clip of Archer, but I’m too poor to afford anything but sporadic public Wi-Fi right now, so there’s that…)

Nicole

I was surprised to see a familiar face from Duke Regional show up a few days after me. It was this chick, who I remembered as the chick who used a surgical mask as a hair-tie.

Nicole seemed to actually like Duke Regional better than Frye. Why on Earth I haven’t a clue… I fucking hated Duke Regional, for all the aforementioned reasons.

She was usually not doing very well. She seemed easily over-stimulated by even the noise on the “quiet unit”, and often broke down crying. She wanted her headphones to block out the world, but the best she could get were earplugs. Probably because you could strangle yourself with the cord. You see, they won’t even let you have a goddamn pencil in the mental hospital, because you might use that to hurt yourself or others. You can have crayons, and they let us use non-toxic markers in group therapy once.

Yeah, there was group. The schedule had a rigid skeleton, but there was a lot of downtime for you to do what the fuck ever.

Doug

Dude was homeless with schizoaffective disorder, and was the spitting image of either Ricky or Julian from Trailer Park Boys, take your pick.

This was kind of a wake-up call, that… nobody’s going to help me “not be homeless”. I mean… that really is rock bottom. I guess they’d maybe hook me up with a shelter if I were in real dire straights. I didn’t try, because I still have a home to go back to for the time being.

Doug gave me what seemed to be the best advice of anyone.

Sell the house and buy an RV.

I’ve been tossing and turning this advice around in my mind since I heard it. There are a lot of facets to consider.

Nicole attempted a poorly-conceived escape; and was swiftly transferred upstairs. I can’t imagine she liked this any better than life in the “quiet unit”…

Doug also got sent upstairs, after cussing out one of the nurses or something. The quiet unit was definitely a lot quieter once he was gone… Granted, he did add a certain colorful personality to the place.

There was this older dude; who claimed to have all these experiences meeting famous people, and kept saying I reminded him of someone. Some female musician, like Janis Joplin or something. But, it wasn’t Janis. He told me I’d be good at playing guitar because I have small hands.

There was this other dude,

Johnny

I want to tell you Johnny has a mohawk, but it wasn’t exactly a mohawk. I don’t know what else to call the fringe on the front and center part of his head, though. He had the Half Life lambda logo tattooed on his arm. Is that too personal?

We were playing poker (and it was like our one game of poker we played, using crayons as chips…), and Johnny just randomly starts going

Evelyn sits by the elevator dooooooooooor
It’s been thirty-seven years since James died on St. Patrick’s Day
of 1964…

And I was like

… Do I remind you of her or something?

Before pivoting toward

Or is it ’cause Doug is an Irish Catholic? Because his last name is O’something, and I’ve seen him doing that thing where he touches his forehead and crosses his chest before he eats. You know… catholic stuff.

I think I took Doug and Johnny both by surprise. I’m still not sure whether he identifies as an Irish Catholic or not.

I think I might’ve been the only atheist on the unit; either staff or patients. Religion came up a lot, and like everyone was a Christian. And, they were all the nicest people. So…

Maybe I need to soften my views about religious people. Just a little bit.

I guess I’ve been hurt a lot. By people who are invariably Christian.

There are shades of gray (heh). I should maybe try and notice them. I think having the almost-worst case scenario unfold after I came out in high school soured me more than a little, and it led me to feel like I could’ve had a better life if it weren’t for religious people. And, skimming through my high school journal reminded me of how Emma would weaponize Christianity and feminism against me. That left a really bad taste in my mouth regarding both of those things.

That dude kept insisting almost every day that I reminded him of, like, Janis Joplin or something. Eventually, I just started saying shit like

Look; you’re just thinking of Laura Jane Grace or something…

I found myself at a lonely lunch table with Johnny; with everyone by now presumably knowing that I’m Ethan “Rachael”, if it wasn’t the voice cracks or something else giving it away, when he asks

Do you know the band, “Against Me”?

And I’m like “Heh… do I ever…” (I forget what I actually said; but I definitely brought up the time we were playing poker and he randomly started singing “Pints of Guinness”.)

This is the way to do it, folks. Because, lots of people want to know the sensitive politically-correct way to talk to trans people about being trans. Fuck asking a visibly-trans person their preferred name and pronouns. Just ask them if they like Against Me.

You wanna know what my favorite Against Me! album is?
It’s As the Eternal Cowboy.

What did you think I was going to say?
You can’t put me in a box. Dick.

It’s because the second half of the album is subtly about being trans. If you get it, you get it. It’s like the difference between U2 and Christian rock.

I want to make up one of those Budweiser “real men of genius” commercials about this.

Mister socially-sensitive mohawk guy…

Just likes “Against Me!”…

---

I was eventually discharged from Frye Regional on day 9 of my stay; and day 11 of my total involuntary commitment.

The day? You guessed it (maybe); March 13^th, 2025.

Why does the number “13” follow me around like this? I figured out I was trans right at my 13^th birthday, then I started medically transitioning 13 years later, at the age of 26. I started HRT on April 13, 2017, I graduated college in 2013, I have mailbox number 13, when I went crazy I thought I caused Friday the 13^th… And the only time I’ve been held against my will for any significant amount of time, I was let go on the 13^th. Do you understand why I feel like my life is “fine-tuned”?

It’s like the Greek letter “lambda”. I added a Half Life clip earlier in this story because “Dr. Breen”, the lambda design rules, Lambda Legal; the guy self-immolated, and then I was about to call them if I didn’t get my hormones… now this guy Johnny has a lambda tattoo, bringing us full-circle back to Half Life.

After hearing that I was slated to be discharged, Johnny gave me his number and his email address. He’s a contractor apparently, and said he might be able to help me with my house. I’m going to take this at face value, and assume he wasn’t coming on to me or something. I am an idiot, though. Plus, I’d rather not kick the football at all than miss every time like Charlie Brown. He’s a nice guy, whatever his deal is.

(I mean; he has kids from some current or prior relationship, so…)

They gave me blue balls when the lawyer chick came by that morning to tell me “it could be up to another seven days before you leave”. But I talked to a nurse during morning snack, and she was all like “No, you’re definitely leaving today…” And leave, I did.

They took my vitals again, one last time, and they gave me a 30-day intramuscular injection of… something. Abilify, maybe? I think it was some kind of atypical antipsychotic.

I was at lunch, when they told me “The deputy will be here in five minutes to take you back.” But it was more like fifteen. I asked if I could have some time with my laptop before I’m discharged, but they wouldn’t let me. You see, I knew I only had a couple days of phone service, when they snatched me up and took me to Duke Regional. So, I was bracing for having no phone, no internet, and almost no money for gas. My only other option was to hopefully find free Wi-Fi close to home once I got back. I already knew my neighbor’s have their shit locked down.

The deputy, a woman this time, somewhat unexpectedly handcuffed me for the ride back. I don’t really understand why… I’m being discharged, not taken in. They didn’t handcuff me on the way to Duke Regional, and even let me ride in the HEART van.

This does seem to be standard procedure, though. Everyone else who was IVCed on the unit had a similar story of being taken in with handcuffs. I do still think it’s shitty, but maybe things are substantially safer that way. I guess I’m a certified lunatic.

Unlike the last guy, she didn’t put any music on. The back of the cop car got pretty hot, and I almost asked if I could roll down the window. I managed, though.

Well… there wasn’t any music until we were driving through Greensboro, and she put on Christian… rock, I guess. It started with this “I’m gonna be okay” song. And I sat there thinking, “This is whiter than the music I listen to. Can’t she throw on some Biggie Smalls like that last guy; or like the Fugees or A Tribe Called Quest or something?”

(I mostly like 20^th century hip-hop, if I’m going to listen to hip-hop. Is that a white people thing?)

It was followed by this “I want to be chaste” song. I’m starting to wonder if she read my thing and has feelings about it or something. But let’s face it; nobody wants to read this whole thing. I don’t even think most of my friends have read the whole thing. I don’t know why I’m even bothering to write it.

Anyway; we eventually made it back to my house, after a twinge of uncertainty regarding whether I was still going to be taken downtown for attempting to assault a rent-a-cop. I had to help her with directions after we missed the usual exit that I take. It was all okay; I was paranoid that the neighbors would see me getting un-handcuffed and think I was some kind of criminal. I’m not sure that they did, but everyone has cameras and shit now.

I mean, it’s still technically illegal to smoke reefer, but like… I mean an actual criminal, right?

When somebody asked what the first thing I’d do once I was home was, I said

Probably take a shower.

While thinking to myself, “probably kill the bowl”. The very first thing I did was actually to get my electronics on their chargers. And then I took a shower. I didn’t have that strong of an urge to smoke; but I did get a little sweaty in the car.

I did a lot of… writing this document up to the part where I went to Fry Regional. I was out of time, needed to go to bed, and

Oh, that’s right. When I was discharged, they wanted me to check in with Carolina Outreach like, first thing in the morning. And I’m thinking “I have no money, no gas in the car, no telephone or internet… I am scraping the bottom of the barrel here.”

I managed to find three dollars cash and 8 quarters, which I used to put what I can only assume is the last $5 of gas into my car that I can afford. I drove to Carolina Outreach early, hoping to use their Wi-Fi, and it was WPAed, unfortunately. I waited until 8:00, was let into the lobby by the employees who were just getting there, and… the Wi-Fi password was posted right there! Yasss! I got to work sending out those emails and updating my site with everything I’d written so far.

When I talked to someone, it didn’t seem like a problem that I had no money. I expected them to kindly tell me to fuck off when I didn’t even have a copay for my medicaid that I still don’t think has gone through yet. They even hooked me up with a free prescription of lamotrigine at Gurley’s. I just had to find a goddamn parking space at high noon and drop some nickels and dimes into the meter to make sure I didn’t get fucked or anything. Given the short amount of time, I probably could’ve gotten away with it. As panhandlers asked me for money, I thought about how we aren’t so far apart. But, I do still have home equity locked away. That’s, like, my ace in the hole right now. I just need help with that, because I don’t think I can do it all on my own.

Carolina Outreach is very queer. I think half of the people working there that morning had “pronouns”. You might think I was rolling my eyes at that, but… no. I just felt comfortable. I’m just a little concerned they’ll read my thing and hate me for being a low-key transmedicalist now or something. But I mean, we’re all in the same boat now. I’m just thinking ahead to when the number of transitioners inevitably drops off, and Republicans will try and tell people “See? Gender dysphoria isn’t even real, this was just some kind of weird fad started by Tumblr and Caitlyn Jenner. Look at how dumb liberals are…”

Jade immediately started talking to me after I made the group chat on Discord, because I guess just doing that dings your phone. I started frightfully pasting my message in, having to break it into three or four pieces because it was too long. I also sent the email to Paul; but held off on sending the email to my childhood church for now. I flipped a nickel, and that’s what it said.

I’m all coin flips, baby! I ought to be dead from the coin flips by now.

I got sick again that evening from not stretching. Fell asleep, still had a splitting headache, and it ended with vomiting like usual. I felt a lot better after that, though.

Now it’s late Saturday morning, and I’ve mostly done a bunch of stretches and finished writing this thing. I’m all caught up now, so I just need to find some Wi-Fi to upload it, and maybe send the email to church. Maybe I needed to write the part where my views on religious people had softened first, idk.

Carolina Outreach gave me a whole folder of resources, and I need to look through it all. Employment help, medical help, mental health help, food help, housing help… it’s all in there. I should probably do less writing and more reading.

Toodles! What a month.

---

Okay. I’ve read through all the discharge paperwork and nastygrams I’ve gotten while I was away. I finally sent the message to my old church yesterday, I haven’t heard back from anyone yet, and now that I’ve done my reading I’m back to writing again. I mean, I should probably proofread what I’ve written more carefully, but… I kinda just want to journal right now.

I have like $-5 in my checking account. I have about $25 in my savings account that I can’t move. I’m literally insolvent, I owe $150k on my house, and the tax valuation that came in the mail while I was in the mental hospital is for just over $300k. So, that’s my Bob Barker moment. I’m guessing it’s realistically a bit lower than that because of necessary home repairs; but it can’t be too far off.

I imagine a realtor would tell me I’m better off just selling it “as is”, but I’m kinda embarrassed to do that for some reason. This used to be such a cute little house. And, the fact that it’s pretty small means that even something “big” like redoing the upstairs bath shouldn’t really be all that expensive.

I wonder if I should try contractor Johnny? I mean, I can’t give him anything but IOUs at the moment. I know if I was him I’d work for real cash; especially if we’re talking about some dumpster fire of a human that I met in the mental hospital.

You know what I did this morning? I did a, granted, minimal amount of trimming down my overgrown flowerbed situation, and then I successfully resized my LUKS sparse image for my home directory using nothing but man pages because I have no internet. And everything went perfectly. I was scared because I really don’t have a full backup of it (I’m a dumpster fire of a human, after all), but… I know what I’m doing. And, it really isn’t that hard. Then I made a little script for when I inevitably will need to do that again.

It must be the psych meds, right? Lamictal is a hell of a drug, I guess. It’s either that or the Abilify; or maybe just smoking less pot, but I’m not so quick to give credit to that.

I thought the idea that I needed psych meds instead of boots-on-the-ground help getting my life together was complete bullshit when I went into the mental hospital. Now, I feel like this is life-saving medication.

I wonder what’ll happen now that church is involved? I mean, those people have known me since childhood. I still feel like this happened to me for a reason. The coin flips, the insanity… it’s all just a little too perfect.

For that matter, Jade said she could come over any day after Tuesday. But, that was before I sent the part about me being kinda truscummy now, though. But I mean, not like the weird neo-Blanchardians on r/transmedical, though. Just, like… an old-school transsexual from the 2000s.

I’ve said enough about this. I don’t know when I’m going to pinch off this feature-length book I’ve written and start just keeping a blog, but… hopefully I’ll get the gumption to do that soon. At this rate, I can’t be too far off.

I’m at least able to take baby steps now. A little bit of yard work here, a little bit of getting my computer right there… I found my screw extractor set, which I could maybe use to fix my computer.

I left this note in the 2ship2harkinian repo on my computer, in a file called IMDEAD.md. It kinda explains why I hate Dell right now.

Are you looking through my shit? Sorry I killed myself, btw.

There’s a lot of stuff that needs to be cleaned up. I’m probably not going to make PRs for any of it.

• BetterFasterBankTeller dialog gets stuck when the moon’s about to crash. I probably just forgot to handle one of the message IDs or something.

• BetterFasterBankTeller I think I forgot to add {CVAR_BETTER_BANK_TELLER || CVAR_FASTER_BANK_TELLER} (or something) to the new ShipInit() call or whatever. This is really simple, but I probably won’t do it before I die because it already works just fine.

• New hook types I don’t necessarily like all of them, and I know there are at least one or two I wanted to rethink. I made one early on for BetterFasterBankTeller to end a message dialog prematurely (and show a square instead of a down arrow at the bottom), but it should probably go somewhere else, like after that big loop.

• Touchscreen Still a work in progress, and I’m sort of in the middle of refactoring shit. touchscreen-debug at least works pretty well if you want to play around with it. touchscreen-refactor is where I’m blowing shit up.

• Is this good? I’ve never actually written C++ until now (as opposed to C, which I’d consider myself at least decent at) so there might be weird things about it. I’m also recovering from psychosis, so…

Do you want to repurpose my computer now that I’m gone?

Well, too bad. This computer sucks. It overheats, the fan buzzes, the screws are made of putty, and how look at how easily it scratches up. You want to know how I dinged the top lid? I dropped a mason jar lid on it from four feet. I want a Yoga. Oh, and now the headphone jack’s fucked up.

I mean, I won’t stop you from trying. I’d buy a screw extractor and a new set of screws to put on some Arctic Silver and lube the fan if I wasn’t out of money. I bought the Ubuntu version of the laptop, so it didn’t come with a Windows license.

---

Dude; my psych meds are amazing! It’s like wearing glasses for the first time or something.

I’ve been doing stuff, happily around the house. Picking up trash… I leafblew half the deck, just because I was downstairs and looking for something to do before I went back up to my room. I feel like I have twice as many hours in the day; but not in a bad way or anything.

Is this what it’s like to be normal? I’ve clearly been running on three cylinders, probably long before my little psychotic break.

I thought Lamictal was just a “mood stabilizer”. It’s, frankly, better than Concerta was. I hope I don’t develop a tolerance to it…

It’s only a quarter past 10. I’ve been waking up around 5:30 like I’m still at Frye, I might take an afternoon nap, but like… I’m infinitely more productive, even with a midday nap.

I started working on my resume yesterday. Well; I wrote a foreword to it. It’s a bit unconventional, but I think I need to do that now; between the 2 1/2-year gap in my employment history, and my little detour to do IT work in the late 2010s.

Like… goddamn. I grew kind of cynical about psychiatry after I was put on Zoloft in middle school and it did fuck-all nothing. But this shit is real. Hopefully it stays that way.

The conquest of Wi-Fi

So, I leafblew the porch, just like I mentioned… Later this morning, I decided I’d drive to the same spot as last time to check my messages, update my thing, and do whatever else was on my internet to-do list.

I parked a little further out from the hill to try and steal the mechanic’s Wi-Fi again. Still unable to get a good connection, I resorted to the “Spectrum free trial” again. And it was all like “You’ve already used your free trial.” Really? That was almost three whole days ago!

I felt discouraged about where else I might be able to get free Wi-Fi. Oh right, the coffee shop.

I parked outside, and I got… usable Wi-Fi. I felt weird about going in and not buying anything, so I didn’t.

I tried to upload my update to this, but it wouldn’t go. I did manage to get a map of other hotspots, and I retrieved the LaTeX code to build my resume off of Google Cloud.

I got two phone calls, in really quick succession. One was a robocall from Gurley’s. The other was someone calling about a follow-up appointment with a different agency, after my appointment at Carolina Outreach. I credited my ability to receive both of these calls to my being on Wi-Fi; though I’ve since learned that I can apparently receive calls and SMS messages, and I just can’t send them. I’m not sure about RCS messages, but I’m just assuming I can’t get those.

I told the lady calling about the appointment that I’m a dumpster fire with no money and no ride. She hooked me up with a Lyft to our appointment later that day, which was free. Well, shit. Sign me up!

While I was talking to her, a sports car pulls up in the space beside me. Two young men wearing “Porsche” blazers step out and enter the coffee shop.

I went back home for a short while, before questioning whether I should bother driving back to a hotspot to try and receive the call for our appointment. She didn’t want to send a blind ride-share in the afternoon without calling me right before. I decided to try McDonald’s, and their Wi-Fi was even a little better (other than loading the captive portal slowly). I managed to deploy my update, stop my VM that I started earlier in the day, and… I think that was it. I ran out of things to do pretty quickly; except to wait for a call from these guys.

I was about to give up, when I got a call around 2:30. I thought it would be closer to 2 for a 2:30 appointment, but maybe she meant she’d call around that time. Whatever. I made it!

I’m glad there was a Lyft, because this place was clear on the other side of town. I can’t afford to drive far out of the neighborhood; and I won’t even be able to afford that much longer.

When the lady at the front desk acted confused at first and tried to tell me this was an in-patient facility, I was afraid my worst fears were realized: what if this Lyft drops me off at some strange office on the other side of town, nobody knows anything about who called it, and I can’t use my phone to get back. She eventually figured it out. And, the reality wasn’t my other fear: a trap to get me back in in-patient, for my “marijuana addiction” or something.

This was an intake appointment with someone named Katrina, and it went great! They have all sorts of “get you back on your feet” resources, and they didn’t even ask for money! That is terrific.

I got a call while I was at my appointment; confirming that Wi-Fi had nothing to do with it. I can just receive calls all the time with my delinquent-ass Google Fi plan.

So, I guess that McDonald’s trip was for nothing. I flipped a coin, after all; to see if I should really make that appointment, to make sure the universe was sure because I had cold feet, and then to ask if I should wait at home or chase Wi-Fi. If you’re of those who think every one of these coin flips is the universe guiding me… maybe I needed to go to McDonald’s anyway to update my thing. If anybody’s actually reading it…

Oh yeah, I emailed Johnny earlier today. Johnny, from the, uh… funny farm. I did that back at the coffee shop. I gave him a list of home repairs that need doing, reiterated that I am an insolvent dumpster fire, but that maybe if the stars align I’ll have money and he’ll want to do some of that stuff.

Anyway, I’m home, writing about my unexpectedly busy day. Sorry for all the details. I figure I’ll end the “monolithic document” format whenever this saga reaches some logical conclusion; like me getting my life back, or buying a camper van or something.

Or, you know… maybe I’ll do something a little different. I don’t want this document to end with a bunch of boring minutiae about how I had an appointment here, and an appointment there, and I finally got a friend IRL there…

What I want to talk about, is what I’d do if I had my younger self in the room. This was actually a group therapy exercise, maybe in some capacity, for two of our sessions. But, I didn’t exactly need that to know the answer. Because, first of all, I wouldn’t “pimp out” my younger self to 90s rock stars. I don’t even know what to tell the reader about where that came from. Because, it is me. It’s honest to goodness, some weird bullshit straight from my brain during a psychotic episode. And I both know, and don’t really care at this point, that many a TERF and transphobe would gawk at what an “autopedophile” I am or something. But, I know the truth.

If I had my younger self in the room, I’d give her a big hug, and tell her not to let her dreams be dreams. Yeah, you can be one of them! It’s easier than you think, and it’s easier the sooner you start. So, what are you waiting for? Somebody’s approval you’re never going to get? Your mother’s blessing? Your 18^th birthday? This sounds cheesy, but it’s true: the only thing holding you back is yourself. Yourself, your fears, your attachments, your comfort zone. Let. It all. Go, little Wesley Crusher.

There would be no weird sex stuff, with 90s rock stars or anyone else. Not with my younger self, and not with my reincarnated self. That’s. Just. Weird. It’s not good for anyone.

I don’t know what to say about my very real brain, that crafted this very real delusion; except that it was the product of a sexually repressed mind, looking for an outlet. I don’t know what to say about my younger self’s history of erotic crossdressing; except that it was the product of a sexually repressed mind, looking for an outlet. Other girls that age get to fantasize about things and get wet while doing it. Why can’t I? Is it because some transsexuals don’t report any history of that, and they’re usually androphilic? I want to scream, how could I have ever had age-appropriate sexuality in this hairy goddamn body, with this deep goddamn voice, except to imagine I was something very different. Maybe I need one of you “true-trans” people to break down for me what your sexual awakening was like. Were you just a high-pitched, smooth-chested androgyne when it started? Maybe I’m being petty or naive to question whether Blanchard ever asked questions like this. Who’s to say we aren’t real? Oh, I’ve never wanted to mutilate myself over it. It’s just been my biggest dream since elementary school. Can we not all agree on how petty this bullshit is? But then we have 30-somethings going “Oh, by the way, I think I might be trans, too, I just have gender euphoria is all…”, and, I sort of do want to be petty about that. Because, I think adults ought to be able to do whatever they want with their own bodies. But, us trans kids are something else. If we don’t find some way to stick together and show this world what we’re made of, the center will never hold. And, conservatives are going to rip us to shreds.

As I read news bites on my phone with my intermittent access to internet, American politics feels less and less real. Chick deported to Laos despite never having been there, Ivy League professor deported to Lebanon despite judge’s order… It feels like Republicans have become a parody of themselves. Like Donald Trump is really just Stephen Colbert’s personality from The Colbert Report. The thought crossed my mind way back in 2016, that Trump might just be a secret Democrat who’s tasked himself with making asses of Republicans. I realize I might get deported to Guatemala just for saying it.

I feel a little silly going on my little rant earlier about DEI and skidding around on the ice. I feel like, maybe I ate the onion, just a little bit. Everything this administration is doing is almost guaranteed to backslide, horrifically. Hell; we might even find ourselves with honest-to-goodness socialism in the federal government after all this. Maybe the accelerationists were right.

For that matter, I feel a little silly dogging the transgender community for being too far left. I mean, look at Laura Jane Grace. Is her leftist quasi-anarchist ass not truetrans? It might be their time very soon. I guess my thing is, I’m not really all that political. I’m just a trans woman who likes computers and microcontrollers and fantasizing about being a van-dweller, and I pretty much always vote Democrat.

And I’ll tell you one thing… I’d rather hang out with salt-of-the-earth transgender people than those debbie-downer gatekeepy transmedicalists. I should’ve looked closer first.

I seem to have no community for my abnormality, except for the transgender community. And, what problem do I even have with my trans friends? I’ve already said I don’t care what consenting adults do with their own bodies. And, at least they’re fun at parties…

That dude Doug was a huge Trump supporter. He respected that I wasn’t. There are a lot of people like him. People who don’t have a pot to piss in, who think he’s going to turn America into some kind of utopia any day, now. I know they’ll all have egg on their face. A very expensive egg. The best I can hope for is to buy the dip, if I can find the cash. That’s assuming I’m not better off dead.

I don’t know what else to say about America right now. You either get it or you don’t. Doug, Josh… It’s weird to think they aren’t so different. They’ll either get it eventually, or they won’t.

She’s a bad girl
Loathes her momma
Hates Jesus
and America, too
She’s a bad girl
Prefers The Beatles
Loathes horses
And she’s single, too

And, the thought has crossed my mind that maybe the events of the last few years were staged by some higher power; to try and tell me that I’m better off dead than enduring the trauma of the next four years.

I feel like I’m a survivor, though. Even if I’m a little afraid that I’ll find myself running from the gestapo in my camper van.