One year on the pec-king order

I sat between two of the best women I knew — my gf and my step-mom — in underwhelming lobby chairs. The TV in the corner was blaring on and on about how hurricane Irma was about to hit my sister’s city in Orlando. The previous day, my therapist’s stalker intruded on my session with her, which was one of the most intense, Law&Order feeling moments of my life. I had so much on my mind. I took a selfie with gf and step-mom. It was so fucking early in the morning. It was dark out still when we left my house, right?

When it was time for me to go in, they called my name and they were pretty much like, okay get undressed now! I remember being kind of surprised they didn’t weigh me or take my blood pressure or take my temperature or any of that shit. The nurse kinda laughed when I asked about it.

Going through those doors, the hurricane had to wait. The stalker experience needed to be compartmentalized.

And then this nice doc cut my boobs off.

That was a year ago TOMORROW! September 7, 2017, a surgeon drew lines all over my chest, and it seemed so FAST yet so ACCURATE and I was like, “how do you know where to cut?” And she was just like, “lol it’s just math” and didn’t say anything more. I was like, ok cool there’s stinky marker on my nips I’ll just be over here.

I expected to have big pecs by now. Or like, at least a little definition. Honestly there just isn’t much. I got really into exercise and then I had a depression wave I thought I’d die from. So exercise stopped. Yeah, depression doesn’t quit when you have less breast tissue. It just means you have a little less to carry.

I don’t have boobs, I don’t have hot pecs but I have pecs. I have the gut from before, the stretch marks. A lot of people wanted to hear from me that I was EXCITED when I had top surgery. I wasn’t. I wasn’t the opposite of excited or anything. It was just like, okay. cool. I’m finally getting the growth spurt I expected from puberty. Or I’m making more than minimum wage for the first time (neat, but should be a given?).

Recovery was hard in a lot of ways. I had a hard time looking at myself because I pass out pretty easily at wounds/blood/body things. My gf was like, a hero, A+ caretaker. She changed my gross drainage tubes and talked me through bandage changes. I had her describe my own chest to me as I looked away, exhausted and disgusted by the healing process. My step-mom came down too. She’s more squeamish than I am, and she changed my gross healing things too. I have really great supportive people, just saying.

Just like how I no longer have ~7 pounds of chest, I don’t HAVE anything new from top surgery. Am I more confident? Idk I guess? That’s not the best way to describe it. It’s more about what I don’t have. I don’t worry all the time if my binder is working. I don’t have as much sweat pouring down my back because I’m wearing a bullet proof vest. I am not thinking anymore about if people are looking at me, that they see my chest comes out just as far as my gut. I’m still plenty self-conscious, but I feel like I can come forward and not blow my cover (because I feel like there’s less of a cover to blow?).

I kinda wanted to have a party for the anniversary, and that’s not out of the question, but I think just getting up tomorrow morning, getting dressed without having to shimmy into a dehumanizing anti-corset getting some errands done sounds pretty great too. I have therapy tomorrow (the stalker is now locked up) and there’s a tropical storm but my sister will be unaffected. Life is good sometimes.

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Once you say the word “cute,” you can’t take it back

I think about gender all the time, but I have been obsessed with it in the past few weeks. I started a new job, so there’s a fresh office of people who don’t know me, and I don’t know them. It’s a nice place to start. Time to calibrate how I want people to think of me.

People treat me differently when they figure me out. I’ve received feedback from a former coworker before that they thought I was gay, but then heard me talk about my girlfriend and was all confused. And then they found out I was trans (from another coworker who didn’t have my permission, naturally) and said to me, “And it all clicked!”

It was an important thing to hear. It’s something people must believe and think, they just never say it out loud. It’s good to know that stuff sometimes.

I can’t play the hyper masculine game.

I drive a truck, I feel protective of people I love, I grow a tiny beard and that’s pretty much it. I can’t embrace all the tiny social things cis men are supposed to do without concentrating CONSTANTLY. I’m a dude but I’m not any of the dude things I don’t believe in. And sometimes it’s to my detriment, because I find myself needing to straddle both worlds. I don’t even know what the worlds are. Queer and not? Men and people who aren’t men?

An example is the thing called “man-spreading,” where a man takes up way more room sitting on a subway because his knees are like 4 feet apart, whereas a woman will cross her legs or at least be fucking mindful of the space. When I first started transitioning, I kept crossing my legs. I would study the men around me and when I saw they never crossed their legs, I taught myself to stop. And now I’ve noticed I do take up a lot more space than before, but I’m trying REALLY hard to find a balance. I take the space I need and deserve, but I don’t take any more than that.

Suddenly sitting on the subway becomes a moral endeavor and a political act.

But that’s how it is! That’s how it is when you’re trans, because you think of the things cis people have never had to study intentionally. Sure, cis boys learned from cis men that they should man-spread. But they never had to critique that or wonder why they changed their behavior or self-reflected about why the fuck they would ever need that much space between their knees.

Trans people M U S T consider these things. I find myself rejecting most of the manly things. I’m sorry, I just will not laugh at the joke about your wife. I’m sorry. It’s so mean, what you just said. I will not talk over women, I will not get violent when I hear something I don’t want to hear. I refuse to hang a ball sac replica on the tailgate of my truck (this is a very specific example but for some reason it’s burned something horrible in my brain). I will not pretend to like sports or guns or anything I don’t actually enjoy. I simply can’t talk about a woman’s tits over lunch at work. I can’t even fathom it. It was fun being an actor in high school but I can’t pretend to be a shithead.

Things I will do? Despite what my need to “pass” as a cis male says? I will apologize when I’m accidentally rude. I’ll talk about my feelings openly. I’ll laugh and it will be kind of a giggle. I’ll put smiley faces in my emails at work (so shoot me! jesus!). I’ll smile when I pass people in the hallway (apparently if you wanna appear non-queer you need to nod all tight-lipped, or ignore everyone). I can’t help but care about how someone is feeling and doing. I will prioritize consent over my needs and desires 100% of the time, no exceptions. I will notice and correct if I’m taking up too much airtime in a meeting–I can shut up and let someone else talk, or I can notice when someone wants to say something but keeps getting interrupted and push some space open for them in a room of unawareness.

And I will say the word “cute.”

I said the word “cute” at work today and I instantly blushed and melted into a puddle of oily business casual embarrassment. I was interviewing two cis men I’d never met so I could write about their roles later. It was going great, and they are really nice guys, ya know. And then I said “cute.”

It’s funny. If you’re a guy and you say the word “cute” non-ironically around cisgender, heterosexual men, you WILL notice a change in the room. I saw both of them blink. A 4-year silence occurred. They seemed eager to leave the room. I imagined them walking out together and placing bets about if I’m gay or not.

It’s like I blew my cover. I don’t recommend it unless you’re comfortable feeling like you ruined everything. Lol.

The good thing about not being a cisgender man is that I can be aware of these things. The bad thing about not being a cisgender man is that I never learned how to Play The Part, if even only for a short while.

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How to cook the rest of your food so you don’t have to move it

Moving sucks. It has some good qualities, and in some cases, like in my upcoming move, it represents a nice step forward in life, a milestone. That’s all fine. But physically picking up every single thing you’ve ever bought, received or made and bringing it to a new box across town sure does remind ya you only use 10% of it.

I’ve thought about dwellings a lot lately. The word popped up in a poem I wrote recently and I was like, dang. If you go down a road, every house on either side of you is some human’s NEST. Isn’t that wild? An apartment building is a people-hive. Every house in the world looks a little different. New cul-de-sac ‘developments’ are kinda creepy to me because it doesn’t feel like a burrow, since all the houses are identical or little mirrors of each other. Nonetheless, we have these nests, and they are pretty boxy usually, and the nests are neatly lined up with each other.

Some people take a lot of pride in making sure their den is really ~pretty~ on the outside. Make sure the little tiny skinny plant carpet out front is evenly trimmed, and that there are no other plants growing in it. People paint their nests! They arrange boulders outside in a certain pattern! It’s a display.

Idk why that fucks my mind up so much but it’s just not how I’ve ever thought about houses before. They seem so human-specific but they are NOT. Animals have homes. It’s like, a thing. We just have no chill.

So anyway, I’m moving in two weeks. Last time I did this, I was pretty good about throwing a lot of shit away, actually GOING through all those boxes I move over and over every year and never look at. It was great. That helped. But I still have so much stuff. I don’t even like, shop much. I don’t buy gadgets very often, just a laptop and phone basically. But it’s a lot of things.

Last year, the last thing I moved was my food. And I was ASTOUNDED at how much food I had. I had bags and bags of it. I ran out of stuff to carry it all in. But if you had asked me the week before, I would have said I don’t really have any food at home. OH no.

And I mean, moving sucks no matter what (as we’ve covered already), but for some reason I’ve really remembered that food thing. I was getting pizzas a lot because I didn’t want to buy more food and have to move it. But… I didn’t eat…. the food I already had….

Part of it I think is just being newer to cooking. I found a great deal on an ambitious, non-perishable ingredient and now I still have it. Seven times over. I bought a can of clam chowder from Trader Joe’s and I smile every time I move because it’s like, “oh, you again old friend!” I literally wrote a poem about that clam chowder, too. I was gonna finally donate it (it doesn’t expire for another couple years?? Super Clams.) or something but I think I’ll keep it.

All these ingredients just making a nest in my cupboards.

So this time, I’ve made a goal for myself. I cannot buy anything at the grocery store unless it will help me eat something else I already have, and ideally whatever I buy will be like fresh produce or dairy or something. Not another goddamn can.

For example, I buy frozen shrimp constantly. It’s on sale at Cub 100% of the time, and for meat it’s not expensive at all, it’s lean, etc. I keep up with eating it for the most part bc I really like it. BUT, I have some left. And I have some partial boxes of noodles. And some canned pasta sauce. Boom. BUT, that meal will be way better with a fuckin zucchini. Ya feel me? So I bought some zucchini yesterday. I got tortillas even though they’re shelf-stable because you can put fuckin anything in a tortilla. I have a ton of rice, so that’s easy to work with. Anything I buy should really just round out whatever I can make. I’ll probably run out of protein before I run out of frozen veggies, so I’ll go get chicken or something to eat that up. Etc.

I don’t spend my money very freely, but the one thing I splurge on is buying food out or ordering in. It’s alright. There are far worse habits, AND I try really hard to only eat half of it so I can make two meals out of it.

Despite still going out a lot, I have been doing pretty well at this goal. If it’s something that I’m sure I’ll never eat, and it’s questionable and can’t be donated, I am not kidding myself. I throw it. Everything else is totally usable. I don’t have a goal # of grocery bags or anything, because I have some condiments that cannot possibly be consumed in the next 13 days, etc. But I’m feeling good about it! It’s a good practice.

If you’re in a financial place like I am where you can say “Augh I don’t have any food!” but you can’t see the back of your cupboard, you probably do indeed have food. Unless you opened the wrong cupboard.

I can’t hear one more awful story (but I have to listen)

I remember the day after the trump election, there were news stories of huge spikes in Google searches of “How to move to Canada” in the US. It was funny, but it resonated. The compulsion to want to move away subsided for a while, because ultimately it can’t be that bad, right? We can get through it. If we’d survived what we’d already been through, we can handle anything, right?

Lately, every awful story I hear is another bag packed on my way out of this country.

It feels worse and worse. Then, it feels better way sooner than it should–just a few days ago trump made comments in awe of a present-day dictator. How he wished americans would revere him as much as they revere Kim Jong-un. Narcissists are like that. But we stopped processing dictator-admiration because now kids are being separated from their parents.

(Btw, I’ve decided to not capitalize trump’s name anymore. This isn’t to be petty. trump uses language to manipulate us all the time and it’s more powerful than we realize. We have that option too. I still cringe whenever someone calls something “fake news” even as a joke. That is propaganda! To make you not trust journalists who put their lives on the line. Even when we use it as a joke we are giving honor and legitimacy to that phrase. Anyway, he doesn’t deserve a capital letter. It feels like the only thing I can do anymore.)

Almost worse than the awful news is the people who respond to it. I swore off getting into arguments on Facebook for months and months because it was too damaging. I was getting suicidal over people who I shouldn’t even need to talk to. Now I’m getting back into it, because I’ll literally see people who have kids of their own say stuff like “well coming here was illegal so they deserve it,” and I’m like, wow. We are masturbating over the US/Mexico border and any brown person who crosses it deserves to be in a concentration camp. And that isn’t even an exaggeration anymore! Remember when the holocaust and concentration camps were hyperbole? “Hitler” himself was hyperbole? Not so much anymore.

And the people who comment on it on Facebook are the absolute worst. I talked to a single mom, a veteran, who was like “yeah the kids being separated from their parents is hard, but they should have thought of that before coming here.”

That is a comment I’m SURE you’ve read from someone already. But I can’t stop thinking about it. And I can’t just scroll by that comment and let it sit there with glory, unaddressed. We freak the fuck out (rightly so) at any Amber Alert. And that’s for one kid. And the whole community is out there looking for the piece of shit’s license plate so we can bring that child home safe. All our smart phones buzz in unison. For one kid.

It’s the appropriate response. So then a couple thousand kids kind of go missing. Will face PTSD the rest of their lives. Because we’re jerking off at the nation’s border. Calling walking over that arbitrary line illegal enough to damage someone forever. Our smart phones are buzzing via news story after news story. We raise some money kinda. But there’s no license plate to look for. After all, we know the perp. We just kind of wait.

I keep saying we owe a LOT of reparations as it is, but we have a new set for all these kiddos who will need years of EMDR therapy (especially without a plan to reunite with their parents). Who’s gonna pay for that?

So a horrible news story comes out, something we cannot stomach. Some people who’d previously been neutral realize the toxicity of that and come to their senses. And some people get worse. And defend family separation because what they did is “illegal” even though it’s not!! Asylum, people!! And even if it were illegal, is it the kids’ fault? They’re the ones being punished. And that is assuming we like the law more than we like people (which I spose is proven every day).

I can’t argue with another adult about whether or not children should be Okay.

It’s the comments that are getting me. I can’t have any more hope. Don’t mention his spray-tan, or call him fat, or a cheeto, or Man-Baby. It’s almost dismissive: what we are seeing mirrors Hitler’s Germany so closely. People noticed it a year ago, and it’s getting even more like it. But because there’s another tragedy every 3 days, we don’t even know what to be in despair about. And I Cannot Take It. trump designed it so well–it’s like we’ve been groomed. Our peak despair happened early when trump made fun of a reporter with a physical disability. Or maybe it was when he proposed to make a database to track every Muslim in the US. Or maybe when he bragged about grabbing women by the pussy? Raping women? It’s almost easy to forget some of these things. I admittedly forgot about the Muslim-tracking database. There have just been so many things. And that is by design. That is how demagogues/dictators/fascists win over the people by way of complacency via being in a state of constant crisis. Our normal is our peak. What’s it gonna take to do something? And if we finally reach that point, what do we even do?

I have to stay off Facebook. But I can’t, because I’m camping with depression right now, and isolation is the worst thing for me. I don’t want to know anything else. But I must. I can’t disengage because that’s what fascism wants. When I see people–LOTS of people–defending trump, I lose faith that we will get better until someone bombs us like we bombed Germany. This is hopeless. Millions of people have been brainwashed and will defend trump until they die from their own loss of health care and Social Security. I don’t even want to be on the same internet as these people.

This is kind of embarrassing but when I’ve drafted suicide notes in the past, I’ve talked about trump. I’ve talked about where this country is going. That sounds so dramatic, but it’s true–I don’t want to be associated with this country, this world. But most of all, I don’t want to wait around and see what happens. Because I feel like I can’t do any damn thing. I’ve heard before “like it or leave it” and “if you don’t like it, change it.” What if we can’t do either?

I don’t have a happy ending to this post. I want to move to another country. I’ve lived under a mother narcissist (the personality disorder), not the colloquial use of the word, long enough growing up. And now one is killing us across the country.

But, you know. Happy Pride month.

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3 New Ways to View Living with Depression

My latest depression bout loitered in my life for months. I just got out of it. In bouts so long, whether I’m really low, scary low, or even feeling fine but haven’t yet shaken the bout, it’s easy to find the state of depression permanent.

For me, I even know and recognize the words “it gets better.” Even in the very worst moments I share with no one, I can remember “it gets better” and believe it. However, I do not find it comforting. My answer is always about how it will get better, but it will get worse again. My depression is chronic. I don’t know what would have to happen in order for me to shake it from my life–the only thing that has come to mind has been a brain transplant. Unfortunately they haven’t figured out that organ donor process yet.

SO, it gets better. It gets worse. It gets better. It gets worse. And that up-and-down, that promise of how I’ll be wanting to die again, that’s what makes me wanna go down that road.

My depression causes strain on my relationships, as you can imagine, and there’s usually a kind of debrief that my girlfriend and I do when a bout concludes. The debrief is usually inspired because I have not been a great partner in those times, and there’s some learning opportunity there. Well, this time, my gf asked me to write a list of things to try when I’m sad to help feel better. It feels impossible to do anything like that, especially at its peak, but she reminded me that having a list available will not hurt me, even if I never use it.

So I made my list today. It’s kind of a perfect day for it because the sun isn’t out, and I’ve been kinda melancholy all day, but I’m not deeply depressed so I can still think straight, including trying to think of ways to feel better.

I wrote the list on a small whiteboard I have in my bedroom. It has 7 ideas, all of which have proven useful in the past. With the extra room on the board, I wrote down three messages, and I’d like to tell you about them. I haven’t thought of depression in these ways before, so they represent a fresh perspective about living through my bouts. I distantly respect cliches when I’m doing well (there’s a reason they’re used so much – they’re familiar! And relatable to many! And they make idioms accessible to people who didn’t study literature! be nice!), but when I’m NOT doing well, someone says a cliche reminder of why I shouldn’t die and I recoil like a depressed asshole. These things feel less cliche to me.

Note: some of the things I say below get a little dark, so please note that I will talk about suicide and depression with more concrete detail than I usually do.

Here are 3 fresh ways I am looking at my chronic depression:


One of the things that always makes me feel better (but I’ve chosen to not add to my aforementioned list) when I’m suicidal is researching how I would go about it. I understand that may be difficult to hear. My therapist says that’s pretty common and gives suicidal people something they can DO and feel like they’re more in control.

A big reason I haven’t actually executed suicide (ha, is that a depression pun? wow, I’ve gone too far) is because there is not a good method that meets all the requirements I have. For example, it’d be ideal if it didn’t hurt a lot. Another example, most prevalent to this topic, is that there’s no method that will make the discovery of my body better for anyone else. Can you imagine walking in on someone’s death? Yeah. I won’t say anything else about that. I can’t think of a single way (and I’ve put far too much energy into this) that makes the moment of death/discovery of death easier on anyone else.

A method that will never be on my list of death options is jumping in front of a bus or a train. My empathy is too high, even when I’m insane, to consider jumping in front of a driver or conductor. They would be killing me by merely going to work, being at the wrong place at the wrong time. They would never be the same, maybe live with understandable but completely undeserved guilt for the rest of their lives. I could never ever do that to someone because of my internal misery.

And my therapist is like, “ok that’s nice but any other method is the same. It wouldn’t just be the bus driver. It’d be everyone around you, whether they saw it happen or not. Trauma is widespread. You should know that better than anyone.” And she’s right. There is no method that lacks the trauma on someone else like that of a bus driver. The ‘bus driver reason’ when I’m at my worst feels so real, so tangible like nothing else. But, in the end, everyone is a bus driver.


Depression’s bouts have been compared to a few different things, I think the most common one being diabetes. You always have it, but it gets way worse once in a while, and sometimes there isn’t a clear reason why.

To me that’s not really helpful in the moment. Plus, I’m grateful to not have diabetes, so I cannot compare my depression experience to that very well. And while I’m at the lowest, it doesn’t seem to make me feel any better to be like, “ope, it’s worse and we don’t really know why and also I’ll have this forever.”

Something I thought of today is that depression bouts are much more like camping trips.

Camping trips are varied in distance from your home, intensity of ‘roughing it’ vs ‘glamping,’ how long it lasts, if it rains during your trip, and if you have enough firewood. You’re gone, you’re probably going to see too many spiders, and then you come home, shower off, find a new gratitude for running water, and go back to your life.

When I think of having depression all my life, I feel hopeless. If I get into a bout, and I can think of it as, “Oh, I am camping, and I have a State Park pass so this is how I get my money’s worth,” maybe it will be easier to see as temporary.

Depression and being suicidal is not taking out a mortgage. I already own the house, and it is me, and my mental illness is just when I get away from it.


I’ve resented ‘having to live’ when I’m sad. I’ve heard people say before that suicide is selfish, that the person doesn’t think of others when they take their own life, and they should be ashamed (if they were around to feel emotions).

I fuckin hate that judgment, and it’s been hard in the past to articulate exactly why I hate it so much. Cuz it’s like, yes, I’m thinking about myself a lot but usually through a lens of “my loved ones shouldn’t have to deal with me.” I’m thinking of bus drivers. I’m trying to think about what words I can say in a note I leave behind that will bring some comfort. (spoiler, there are none. but I do think of it).

And so I survive every bout, and it feels very unfair because why is my existence so hard when other people can exist without trying, and maybe even wanting to live 100% of the time? (I cannot comprehend that btw??) And I’m the selfish one if I fail?

So, I’m going to try and take the “suicide is selfish” thing and frame it to something that is actually helpful. Living through every bout of depression is an act of kindness. It is the peak selflessness, because although others will never understand the death you dodged from your own self, you still do it. And a lot of acts of kindness aren’t really all about recognition for your selflessness. If you want credit, take it up with spirituality, but you surviving your violent mind makes sure everyone around you avoids pain. Years of pain! And suicides often trigger other suicides. You’re somehow saving lives when you save your own. It’s a thing of incredible graciousness.

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How much does a chest weigh?

When I weighed myself after surgery, it was kind of hard to tell what was what. I was genuinely surprised that my weight wasn’t that different, but there were plenty of other variables–I had been laying around for two weeks, I was still kinda swollen, and it isn’t just a matter of chopping them off; it was about reshaping what was there, too.

My surgery was SIX MONTHS AGO on Tuesday. Half a year.

A lot of people asked me before and after the procedure: Aren’t you just like so excited???? And it’s like, yeah, but also that’s not the first thing I’d list when it comes to reactions. It was more like a combo of relief and peace. My chest today is something I’m a little shy about still–I have two thick scars snuggling my pecs-to-be, and I’m shy about my weight, and also when you’re told your whole life to never be shirtless unless you’re about to bang, it takes a second to remind yourself it’s socially acceptable now.

I’ve wanted to post photos but I can’t bring myself to do it. When I started testosterone I posted comparison pictures literally every week (and you kindly played along to validate how much change had(n’t) occurred since the week prior), but now I’m like, am I allowed? Are the pics gonna leak and be distributed to every employer in the tri-state area? Maybe that’s assuming I’m hot enough for Nudes-level-of-interest content.

My last phase of top surgery has two pieces: I want to feel good about my pecs. I am working out much, much more than ever before (a thing that is possible because of my surgery), and a lot of the reason why is because the surgeon sculpted me but if I even have a LITTLE definition, it will dramatically improve the look. The second piece is to wear a bro tank.

Wear a bro tank? can’t that be done by anyone, at any time? Sure can! But I have this vision of wearing a bro tank and I have a pretty specific idea of how I want to look in one. Stay tuned. I’m hoping I can meet my bro tank phase this summer! (my girlfriend bought me two bro tanks as a surgery present and it was the cutest, sweetest thing in the universe).

There are pros and cons to having gender dysphoria be a medical diagnosis. In some ways, it’s like, I’m not sick!! There’s nothing WRONG with me. And since gender is up in the brain, it’s almost like it’s considered a mental illness, which we know isn’t something we respect in society.

(Tangent: then some white guy shoots up a school and then everyones like ‘wow we need to do something about the mental illness in this country,’ as if the only way someone can shoot someone is if they’re mentally ill. that couldn’t be further from the truth, but we are unable to believe that people can be mentally well but outright evil. we are all capable of evil regardless of our PTSD, depression or any other mental illness. That’s why banning AR-15s might be a good idea just sayin)

On the other hand, having transgender stuff be a medical condition helps protect me. My health insurance covered my surgery. It was doctor-ordered, even though I wanted it. If that makes sense.

And it was doctor-ordered because of the way we feel after we get it. I can’t measure it–it’s not like my blood pressure is down or my x-ray looks a little less fractured. It’s related to my anxiety and depression but it’s not. It’s its own thing. And I still have really bad days but I can also consistently get up in the morning and know I’m more in alignment. Being trans isn’t ~who I am~, but it’s one of the scales of my life. I need to be balanced, and if my trans scale isn’t, there is more weight on me again.

In the end, I’d say my chest was 7 pounds. But I think we both know it’s a bit more sPECial than that.

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How to write a 2017 Christmas letter when you aren’t into glossy paint

I used to be very proud of my Christmas letters. My sister, step-mom and dad and I would each have a paragraph dedicated to us with an enthusiastic summary of how our year went. It was something I loved, an assignment. And I got like a strange amount of positive feedback about these letters, just saying it was very well written and engaging. I recall a time in July (read: 7 months later) when an extended family member brought up the prior December’s letter. What the hell. “They aren’t THAT amazing,” I’d say, privately beaming.

But I haven’t written a single Christmas letter since I flew from the parents’ nest. Who has time/energy to pretend they aren’t kept down with debilitating depression, write this letter, gather some addresses, afford the stamps to send them, AND do all this during finals week? Yeah. No.

And maybe one might argue they wouldn’t have to pretend to not be depressed. I hope not. I dunno about you, but when I picture someone reading a Christmas letter, I imagine huge smiles, maybe the whole family gathered around in their Christmas sweaters by the fireplace, laughing a lot or something, reading a Christmas letter from a family who’s doing AMAZING and had SUCH a FABULOUS year, and everyone is happy, tis the season, etc.

Maybe that’s a bit of a narrative that’s my fault. What else is new.

So anyway, I decided this year I’d take the plunge. If anything, it sounds like a good writing exercise, which I clearly need more of based on the fact 2017 was the least prolific year I’ve had in my life since I started writing (12 years). Three poems and hardly any blog posts. Nothing else.  So then I opened my lil Google Doc, cracked my knuckles, and everything is bad. How many letters do I have to write before I can squeeze somethin’ good?

And you know, when I was 15 and I was writing a Christmas letter about my fam, I was excited and honored that my family let me write on behalf of them. (Did I force myself into that role? idk maybe I can’t remember. so probably.) It felt like a noble duty to write a year summary, almost like doing a mini-feature on each member of the family. (It is no surprise that writing features at work is like my fave kind of writing).

So how do I, now almost 25, navigate the fact that I’m writing on behalf of just me, that some cool shit happened this year but overall I’m very scared for the future, and it’s not even 100% driven by my depression and PTSD this time? How do I churn out a Christmas letter that doesn’t make people feel like they need to drink some wine to forget about it later? Maybe I could put a disclaimer:


I think I’ll figure it out. Maybe I could write a fictional Christmas letter from the perspective of someone else, and it’s a game, where people have to guess who it is??? Then I can avoid talking about my concerns about the future of people I love, my true year overview. OR! I could write one version on the front and one on the back, upside down.

Thank you. You’ve helped #inspire me.

Btw let me know if you want one. It’s sure to be a winner, clearly.

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