City On a Hill

An Excerpt from "Eggxistential Crisis"

A significant contributor to the delayed end of that relationship came when I found the ability to express personal desire — namely, that I was done with Texas, because, for me to transition, I needed to be somewhere I felt safe; not one hostile to my very being. I’m so glad we had that falling out tho, because things have gone wonderfully apart, and the opposite would have been true had she come. Things would have gone horribly, and our end would’ve been a nightmare. Instead, we parted ways; I went alone, and we’ve hardly spoken since. It was what both of us needed. While I won’t rake her over the coals, I was left with a lot of traumas from that relationship.. I couldn’t’ve transitioned staying with her. There was no way to undo the damage done. There was no way for us to rebuild any trust. We separated, and I stayed behind for a few months, working through as many of my personal hangups as I could, and working up to leaving on my own. I’d never done I mean, anything like that before? But I put myself in a position that had to change, so it wouldn’t end in inaction, since that literally wasn’t an option. The moment I felt I was capable of leaving, I got the wheels in motion, cleared all hurdles, and fully committed.

So, I rented an SUV; I loaded it by myself, and I left. I couldn’t sleep, nor wait until morning. As soon as I finished loading it, I tried lying down to nap; but I had to get out. I drove out of town, the same way I went on most of those drives I loved so much, and I didn’t look back. I drove 21 hours, just to get distance between myself and that place. It suffocated me. That first stop, even in a hostile place itself, already felt tremendously liberating — that I had the ability to take myself that far, for myself, was a revelation.

I spent that night in my hotel room, almost unable to believe I had done so well.

The next morning, despite the previous long day, again, I couldn’t wait to get out. Skipped breakfast. Skipped coffee. Just had to go. After a stop for petrol, counting down the miles, I finally crossed the bridge into this state. I cried — hard. I felt at home, right away. I knew I’d done the right thing. I felt peace. I felt surety. This was me, helping me. Shortly after, I cried again seeing The Mountain, and again when I got to the forests. I’d never realized how much trees meant to me; until I drove through so much countryside without them. It was jarring. They make me feel … safe. So did the skyline, crossing that floating bridge into the city. I cried so hard; I missed this place so much. I went straight to my hotel, went for a walk, and was blown away by the clarity of the air. Looking down onto The Sound, feeling the breeze off of it, I did not have words. I still don’t. I got back in my rental and headed off to see my new apartment and neighborhood. I hadn’t been there during my first visit, so I was genuinely blind. It was overwhelmingly beautiful. I couldn’t believe that I thought highly enough of myself to put myself in such a place.

The next morning, I moved my things in, and headed out around the city to visit some places I remembered from my first trip. Being there on my own, vs. with my last partner, was night and day.. Back then, I just worried about what she thought or felt at basically all times, and never really let it be known what I did. It meant I wasn’t ever in a place of comfort. By myself, though, I allowed myself to find a place, and to just … sit. To be. I understand how little that sounds, but for me? That’s literally unheard of. First time in my life I could do such things. A few hours later, I dropped the rental off, took my first trip on the train, walked back to my apartment, got myself settled in, and for the first time in my life, actually felt at home. Like, for real. A place of my own. Mine.

I can’t get over how clean the air and water are. I can actually breathe here. I can drink the water. People take care of the world around them. What a truly novel concept. Everything is just so beautiful and so interesting. There’re trains and trams and trolley-busses, and ferries that look really cool I want to go on someday. (realizing I could just like … go whenever I want to. I’m still learning I have agency, okay?) I’ve been an utter flood of creativity since the moment I got here, or, well, the moment after the first few days I spent in bed, finally able to rest, in a place I felt safe. I literally slept for days, as means to catch up for all the restless nights I had leading up to that moment. Being in my own place, feeling safe, surrounded by things I picked out, that are here just cause I’ve picked them? Bliss. Which I can now say I hadn’t felt at all before recall. It’s new.

I cherish every moment here, wrapped in a blanket, listening to the rain outside. It’s a coziness I’ve never allowed myself to experience before. It is so beyond who I am. You wouldn’t believe how good this stuff makes me feel, and this is my life now? Every day? I can pick out decor, and have my plushies right here, out in the open, and no one is going to hurt me for them? When I walk up to the burger stand, rather than shame, I see a smile, and they treat me like a human, which makes me feel like one and even to smile back? I don’t have to put up an internal shield every time I go out now? Furreal?

In the first week, I left my apartment more than I did in the first eight months of the year in Texas, one of those trips to a park, with a simple mission, to sit down. I had always struggled with this and knew tackling it head on is the best course of action. The first day felt like a fluke, since it was far from home, so I needed to keep it … closer. It is so nice being some place people don’t bat an eye at me, much less go out of their way to make my life more difficult, as if it isn’t bad enough, being born in the wrong body, then having to take care of yourself, since many people won’t even acknowledge your issues as valid. What makes this place home? I can walk down the street and not one person the entire time I’ve lived here has even looked at me sideways, much less made me uncomfortable; while before, it was literally a 50/50 crap shoot every time I left?

Here, it’s assured I’ll see other queer people every time I go out, and they’re all happy and smiling, just like me. It’s funny, the city has a reputation for being socially cold, but for trans people — it’s one of the few places in the world where we’re likely to see other trans people regularly. The life we can live here exists basically nowhere else. For us, this is about as good as it gets. Everything is relative — we live different lives.

Beyond that, I can walk to basically any place I’d need. I can live a completely normal life without a car. That, too, is unheard of in most parts of this country. Hell, that’s not all that viable in many parts of this city. When it first rained, I gotso excited. That has always been my thing, especially at night. Getting out there when other people won’t, so I can have the world to myself. Doesn’t quite work out that way in the middle of a dense city; but I wasn’t expecting it to. When I got to the park, the skyline opened up, framed by trees, dripping gently, the soft rain falling all around. Instant love, and immediate, deep peace. I stopped periodically to take notes, something I’ll do often. I’ve basically texted this book to myself, as it’s come to me, over the past three years.

I had this moment of clarity, seeing myself as I actually am, rather than this worst possible image I’d become accustomed to. Not a list of flaws - but as a work in progress. “I’m actually here. I can’t believe I made it here. This key in my pocket? It’s for my own apartment. I have an apartment. I don’t feel like I am taking up space in someone else’s space anymore; I have my own. For the first time in my life. I did this by and for myself. I didn’t think I could do any of those things my entire life, but I did, and it worked out.” The person who thinks of herself as nothing, and is still so unsure of herself she has to say “the person,” rather than “the woman,” which can feel a step too far, did all of that.

That was the first time I felt like a writer, too. Until that point, everything I’d done happened in private; just doing it around others made it feel so much more real. Having to stop on the sidewalk to jot something down I’m utterly enthralled to expand upon is a feeling I didn’t know existed - but fuck, I love it. It’s evocative. Finally, good evocation. Up to that point, I thought of myself so lowly, I just thought of myself as “someone with a book,” rather than “a writer,” despite writing every day prior for years, even stopping to write on the side of the road on day one of my move. I wrote sat on the floor before unpacking anything else, and yet, each day, I beat myself up for not writing enough.. “You’re not making the manuscript number go up?? You’re a goddamn failure.” Not gonna acknowledge I need to do the things to write about, or learn these lessons.. I didn’t expect to get to a point where writing literally made me jump for joy, or led to moments of discovery where I find out what it really means to be or feel like an artist.

I wrote this for a lot of reasons. One that has been a constant, but has so far gone unsaid, is because I knew no one could accept my story in pieces. It had to be coherent for anyone to believe it. I knew that, because I lived that. I needed it to be coherent to accept it myself, so of course someone else would need the same, as they do not have my lived experience. While I knew that, I also “knew” I couldn’t write a book, since I didn’t know how, and, well, that was true, too.. until it wasn’t. Until I freaking did it.

And I mean that. Like, I didn’t believe I could do it until I had over five hundred pages complete. I doubt myself so much, I can’t believe I’m doing something, even as I’m doing that thing ... I was going to say until it’s done - but even once it is, I deflect credit, as it is far more difficult for me to accept any praise than the harshest criticism. Though, I had good reasons to believe I couldn’t write a book. Like, I don’t know what an adjective is … evidentially I did not need to, because I still wrote it, and like, I don’t know how electricity works either, but I wrote it on a laptop, so, guess that checks out.

By the way, I know I used “adjective” in a sentence earlier (editor Kady reappears) but like, I used a search engine. I havethe internet. I do not need to know what it is to use it. I had to look it up again while writing this. I’m not lying to you, okay?! and I’ve already forgotten what it means. Something relating to a noun, but I have to stop and consciously think about what a noun is.. This is something my brain just does not do..

Breaking that monolithic task up into smaller pieces, until they were manageable was how to write a book. For me.. This chapter is too overwhelming? Work on a single thought, or paragraph, or sentence, or figure out a word you’ve been hungup on for a while. Go smaller, until you find traction, then build from there. You don’t start at the destination. Go small, find W’s, and stack them together, using them to reach higher.

I went so small, like I said, I texted most of it to myself. I gathered the texts into notes, and sorted those into fragments, then built chapters from them. This was both inefficient and useful. It forced me to interact with the same note many times, though each time, the note had to stand up to make it through the next sort. I basically created an assembly line to manufacture pieces of the manuscript, somewhat organically. I also added layers of complexity, recalling more each time, or thinking of new, better ways to explain complex issues. All writers draft, but I had to do it for different reasons. For me, often, the first time I wrote something, I didn’t fully recall it; often I was so dissociated, so triggered, what I first wrote barely made sense. Or, as you saw, I was not yet ready to accept it. I had to go back, time and time again, re-living that pain, to understand that pain, and those times – it was simultaneously both awful and completely necessary.

So, too, was just learning how to write.. To do that, I had to make mistakes, so I started out with Part 1. That was more recall and less complex. I made mistakes in my writing there - so I wouldn’t make those mistakes here - and I could focus on learning about expressing these complexities, in Part 2. Sometimes, I read what I’ve written and think “wow, this is sad as fuck … but, also like ... kind of light, all things considered?” I made my story more palatable for your consumption, because I had to do that for me.

Another thing I did for myself was to write out of order. I didn’t force myself to adhere to any schedule, and allowed myself to write whatever I was comfortable with that day. If I couldn’t do it — I didn’t make myself do it. I banked the day off and made up for it whenever I could. I learned to give myself space to fuck up, like with trafficking, that was, frankly, awful the first time I wrote it - and the second - because, as you would imagine, it was incredibly upsetting to recall, much less write about. But that helped me find compassion for myself that I lacked. I learned a lot, about.. a lot, by doing this, and that is really cool. I learned a lot about how my mind worked, too. If I struggled with a chapter, or series of chapters, I pulled them out of my manuscript, and put them any other place. If they are in the manuscript - they might be in the right place, and my brain got hung up on that - but if they aren’t even in the manuscript, they cannot possibly be in the right place, so they must move, which made them easier to move..

That’s something fundamental I can leverage with loads of other things beyond.

That is the kind of thing I wanted to accomplish with this. Along with finding me.

And that is a goal I had, at the start, that I did not dare speak of out loud, because … idk ... there was a part of me that thought uttering such things would make them all but impossible, I guess – or it felt too stupid for me to think I could do anything like that, as I am nothing but an incompetent little shit, according to the loudest voices in my head, that left the most lasting impression. A voice aided by others who seem to think trauma is some sort of privilege, because of the perceived ability to create art that comes with it.

In the same way some people ret-con my trauma by somehow implying I deserve it because I’m destined to grow up to be an abuser, they ret-con it by acting like trauma is some kind of super-power. And like, look, there is truth in that, too. There are times it’s like a super-power, where I can get through things that others plainly cannot. But like, literally every other time - it is a hindrance. It is a huge, debilitating weight someone has hung round my neck that robs me of all joy, and makes everything more difficult.

But, I guess, there’s more truth in that – trauma leads to art – for a simple reason.

You want to know why trauma leads to art? Because traumatized people need to be deeply introspective to deal with whatever has traumatized us, in order to get over that thing, and to live again. We have to do work for ourselves, learning fundamental truths that we can then share with others, to help them deal with their own issues, traumatic or otherwise. Would that mean it is “good” to traumatize people, then, if those results may be beautiful? I would say no; others, though? Fuck the fucking journey, member?

But we’re breaking this down. What is art? Art is truth. Art is simplicity, and also complexity … art is understanding; and understanding is essential for survival. I know some stuff about survival. Before fully embracing my transition, during that separation, I alluded to; I asked myself a question. Did I really want to risk everything in my life, as it stood then, all that I knew, to pursue myself, something I’d never done before in that life? The answer wasn’t that I wanted to, but that I had to if I wanted to survive. I knew, then, I could keep existing another two years, at most, before finally succumbing to the weight of my untreated and then yet un-diagnosed, and utterly misunderstood issues.

Well, that was two years before moving here. Transitioning saved my life. Literally.

So did writing this. There is no way I would have gotten this much better had I not done it. I likely wouldn’t have gotten any better. There are so many things that weighed me down for decades that I only came to peace with through the process of writing. But, too, I wouldn’t be this authentic if I wasn’t trans, because I have so much motivation to explore aspects of myself others just … don’t. I’ve learned to find and have compassion for myself, purely because I’ve explained to myself, much less anyone else, I am worthy of those things. You don’t need to write a book; but if you’re struggling with anything similar, you need to get that out of you. Into a journal, or friend, or a therapist. You’ve gotta get it out, to get over it. I feel so different once I can state something openly I’d danced around for years. That’s what healed me, and what I now do by nature without thought or question. Before doing that, I did the opposite, and why I’d always suffered.

Never concerned with what came; only when. What is important; when comes as it does. I wanted to finish before I moved, if I’m honest, and I could’ve done - but there is no way I could have written this while trying to meet a deadline. Nor would I have come to anything close to as good of a conclusion, or finished product. That would’ve been an entirely different, and much worse, book. The same goes for my continued recovery and transition. I would love to be further along with both, because duh, but I cannot rush it. That will come. I enjoy coming to terms with these things, and showing myself that I’ve changed, by changing, and exhibiting that change so openly, that even I can’t deny my ability or achievement. Which is hard, since I’m still terrified of success. Even if I want it.

That is a hard truth to swallow, but again, art is truth, and no one said it was easy.

Reading what I wrote while dissociated is so frustrating, it’s like I stood beside my goal, and circled around it, holding up a map that I thought was showing me the way to the destination, that obscured the fact I was next to it all the while.. But I mean … I was dissociated. That’s all dissociation is. I can’t get upset at myself for that anymore than I can blame myself for my genitalia. I didn’t ask for any of this shit - I’m trying to make it better, and you’re telling me that is wrong, and that I should suffer for eternity, because you chose to, by buying into a religion that told you not to improve yourself, because if you did, you would not need it anymore, and that truth is no more palatable than mine.

You must accept truth to heal from trauma; and you must heal from trauma, as it will persist until you do. It controls your life, lest you control it. So, if you control the trauma of another, do you control that person? Unpleasant to broach, sure, though, I mean, apparently so. That is all that happened to me, and that is why I can see here..

Again, an unpleasant truth to accept, and one that I resisted until the bitter end. Believe me, I wish I could continue to identify as an unassailable big-strong, but what truth is there in that statement? It is patently false, and that is okay. It is okay that I’m not “the best.” I have never been the best, so it better be okay. There’s more to art, tho.

Art is beautiful. Because of everything above and a million and one other things.

Art, too, is tragedy, or, it is finding beauty in tragedies, to salvage even the surest negative, and finding positivity within that thing. These trues coalesce into the truth.

“Art is beautiful,” because someone did the things to make it beautiful... Oh.. these things look like they’re perfectly aligned? Because they are ... someone took the time to do it that way; that makes it art. That person did that thing until it was right. They took the time; did things properly. “But anyone could do that.” They could; but they did not, except for that person, who did, who you are dismissing for doing. Wonder why no one else does it, then? Art represents life, and thus, the true tragedy may be that life does not more closely resemble art.. Things could be right if we did what was necessary to make it so; but we don’t, and we didn’t, so it isn’t; and that tragedy is real and true.

I am nothing, if not tragedy, and that, too, is okay. And again - it better well be.

This may go without saying, but writing this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. This was so much harder than living it was. I mean, I didn’t live it … Not then, anyway. Opted out. Hung around long enough to determine I was safe, then noped the fuck out, dude. I can clearly remember what that felt like now, too.. It was like looking at an older electronic device, where the screen is below a thick layer of glass, or maybe even has an air gap. That was how it felt to look through my eyes – there was a gap. Literally. I was air-gapped from reality. I had to be. I did not feel at all. They could hit me, or cut me, and I could not feel it. I could see it, I would watch it happen, but there was no real feeling, and, if I couldn’t feel it, maybe it wasn’t real? It had to be unreal for me to survive, because I had no other way (that I knew of) to affect change in my reality.

Writing this initially made that gap increase. I may not have lived this then, but doing this made me live it now. Every day I write, I must face the realities of my past. I do all this while watching the world around me crumble in the ways those people from my past told me it would. What in the actual fuck is this world? The “land of the free,” calling for “mass deportation now?” I’ve read their “plan.” I know what they reserve those “camps” for once they have worked through their first batches of “differents.”

There’s a bookstore I walk by nearly every day that has a display out front, and I catch myself sneaking a glance and thinking, “I’m gonna be in there someday.” That’s literally the most hopeful I have felt in my entire life. I have aspirations, I believe I will achieve. Unpossible. I’ve spent my whole life thus far wanting to disappear; and now I sit here thinking about how many people will know me, and I think that’s great? How could I have come this far? I did all this by myself? After thinking I couldn’t do shit?

Another thing that fell into that category was walking. I didn’t give myself / have much of an option, and while I definitely worried about how inactive I’d been for years, I had walked a lot as a kid; I liked it back then; but I was worried it would be triggering. Thankfully, that fear proved unfounded. No one hurt me on a walk. Even if they might have done in proximity to one, I didn’t have bad memories there. They were the best times. No adversity. No pain. No suffering. Jus’ placing one foot in front of the other. Say less. Actually; don’t, because, you mean I’m acknowledging I have some positive memories from childhood that aren’t tainted in any way? Yeah, sure, the context of plenty of those walks was sad; but they were still peaceful. Better than alternatives.

Walking home by myself, in the fresh air, and quiet, was far preferable to being home. No screaming. No pressure. No pain. Just one foot in front of the other - keep going. Press on towards that objective. It was so preferable to the alternatives, it felt like absolute bliss. But now, I know what real bliss is. It might have taken a Herculean effort to move into a 270-square foot apartment I sleep on the floor of — but I love it. Never before have I had my own room, much less bathroom, or kitchen. I have always shared; and if I’m sharing, that means I’m deferring. Not anymore. This is all me. I’ve heard people describe this kind of life as a loss-condition. The kinda thing that would make them give up. For me? This is everything. It’s all I could’ve dreamed of and more.

I do not care about quantity; nor do I have nothing; I have just shy of everything.

Moving here has been almost as good for me as transitioning and I can’t believe I just said that; or that it’s true. I really did not understand how out of place I’ve felt my entire life until I didn’t feel that way anymore. Let me illustrate what that looks like – my average daily calorie burn increased 500% the first month living here. That is what depression and suppression look like.. The day I moved here, I was so out of shape and sedentary; I was afraid of walking a whole of four blocks home. A month in, I managed four miles. All recreational. Just for me - because I enjoy it. This, too, is a framing thing. “I should leave the house,” or “I should work out,” sounds scary; but “I should go to the park,” doesn’t. Then I have a specific goal leading to a payoff, rather than an obligation.

On my two-month anniversary, forget four miles, I went on four walks of four miles each. Most in a cold, driving rain;that led to a gorgeous double rainbow, a breathtaking evening in the park, and wonderful moments of broken sun illuminating the fall foliage. I love it. It’s so special to me, and it is something you won’t ever see if you don’t go out in the rain. It’s so quiet. So peaceful. No one bothers you. Cars stop for you. Only thing better is snow. Just put on my coat and go be in peace – it’s great. That reputation as a rainy city is partially true. Tale of two years. One with bright, long, warm days; and the other with the exact opposite. By the end of one, you definitely want the other, and I’ll be real by winter’s end when the sun returned I wondered “what the hell is even that?”

But hey, I like the night, too. I’ve been through a few “long darks” myself. Subject-matter-expert. But, that’s kinda why everything here is so beautiful; the land is volatile. There are wildfires, volcanoes, tsunamis, floods, earthquakes, droughts. The constant is a lack of constant. Turmoil, change. That too, is why people with trauma can make such beautiful art. We’ve lived in turmoil. We have sharp edges. We’re unique. Different. The darkness makes you appreciate the light. Analogy for me, and here. The rain does, too.

I’m dark; but there’s still beauty within me. Wait, hold tf on — did I just say that?

I’m over here ready to give myself shit for this digression — but it got me there?

And that’s the thing about the rain people don’t get. When it isn’t raining, it’s so nice. First off – you enjoy that time more. But also, you don’t let the rain keep you from doing things. If it’s a constant, you have to deal with it. You can’t opt out, and you learn how to deal with it as a result, so over time, it’s not a big deal anymore. It’s only hard to live with when you aren’t used to it.. Hmm, think I’ve learned that lesson a time or two before. Anywhere else I’ve lived, if it’s raining, that means we aren’t doing anything. I love things are different here. People adapt. And like, on so many of those days where there is rain; it still gives way to sunshine, like I said, and that’s even more beautiful than sunshine in isolation, which I can say confidently, since we get those times, too.

But uh, this was a digression, and I didn’t finish the initial point. On that day, I walked sixteen miles, for 33,000 steps, and 745 feet of elevation gain. Do you have … any idea how great that is for me? (okay, it was 15.97 miles – get off my dick, bro) Now, you know why I pushed that hard? Because I’m used to pushing to a breaking point, and if I don’t, I feel like I’m almost not even trying. That’s how I wrote, too. Never enough. I always feel I can do more, even if I know I can’t. That’s how I did everything in life, why it was all such a struggle, and yeah, no shit, that stands to reason, but again — I didn’t. If I don’t feel dead; am I alive? Well, that mentality mostly gave way to depression, but existed beneath it, so any time it came out, it saw how bad my life was, and dipped out.

There were times my dissociation tried to break, but it was clear I just wasn’t ready.

Depression worked as a substitute for trying, since it made me feel effectively dead.

Something that helped when I hit the 7.5 mile mark, which was my previous high, I asked myself “how far do I want to go?” and immediately “16 miles,” came to mind with a smirk, “ya; no, you can’t do that, what about 12?” I got to 12, went home, and a couple hours later … headed out the door to go for 16. I usually know what I want; I just rarely indulge in it like that. Or, well, I didn’t — I do now. After successes like this, doing that.

And look, was I ready to walk 16 miles? Yes, in the sense that I did it; no, in that I’d taken some damage along the way, as a few minor injuries, but is that a big deal for me? Not really, no. Getting hurt is cost of doing business, imo, but many people carry fear of that, to the point it discourages them into inaction, which, again, used to be me; unless it wasn’t. All those times I was this person who pushed. That’s what they took from me. The irony isn’t lost either that I turn a literal walk in the park into a challenge, but that is just me, and my life. I’m built in the fire, and I need to burn. And I am. There are life goal hikes I’ll be able to do this year. That’s how far I’ve come, in really very little time.

One thing I still struggle with is anxiety, and it manifests in some … unique ways. I have a really hard time riding the bus. Wanna know why? I’m still dealing with so much, just self-hate and loathing; I don’t feel worthy of requesting a stop. No, I’m not kidding. I know it’s stupid. I know that’s why the bus exists. I like it in every other aspect — but I can’t deal with requesting stops. Even understanding it - I can’t get over it - because my problem isn’t actually pulling the cord - it’s theanxiety. It’s what I’m making it be, which I don’t even understand. I don’t get why this makes me anxious; but it does. Very much so. I feel like such a dysfunctional failure getting upset about something so simple. It’s just another thing reminding me of how far I have to go — regardless of how far I came.

But it’s okay, because I’m still getting better, and I just haven’t gotten better about this issue yet. That’s fine. I’ll take the train and walk a little further. It really isn’t a very big deal, just some extra time, burn some extra calories. That’s not gonna kill me; kinda the opposite, in fact. I go for walks every day anyway, this is just that. I don’t need to sit here and optimize everything in my life. It never did me any good. No one’s judging me. I can chill. It’s okay. And it’s okay to be confused by things, like bus tables and routes. I just don’t get them. I like the train. It’s simple. Color coded. Clearly defined. Smooth. It stops at every station. There aren’t questions. There are no concerns. Just board, stand on the right side of the escalator, ezpz.. Clear expectations eliminate anxiety before it has a chance to take hold. I don’t have anywhere else to be — this is what freedom is.

Instead of min-maxing every moment with activities, why can’t I enjoy each as it comes? Why do I have to bend it to my will? Can’t it and I just … be? Maybe I didn’t feel peace, because I wouldn’t let things sit. Shocking concept. I have made peace with a lot, including some things I didn’t know I could do without, like driving. In the past, with all those issues, there’s no way I could’ve done without that cope; but now, without them, I can. I don’t miss it nearly as much as I thought I would. I do miss driving - however, I do not miss fuel, maintenance, parking, tires, traffic, or unrelenting condescending bigot pricks who call themselves mechanics you have no choice but to interact with. I miss being in my little metal shell, own little world, winding down a twisty back-road, tho.

I just find new ways to take care of myself.. like, the other day, I got a tattoo, and I’m so proud of myself. Not for any like “conquering my fears” thing, or at least not with pain, I am way more anxious about the social interaction than anything, but doing stuff like that, purely for myself, nothing but my enjoyment? That’s the kinda stuff I’d hoped for that I never thought would actually happen. It helped me be present too, just having part of my body to focus on for a bit. The pain was helpful too, since it gave me context to other people’s pain, since many fear tattoos; but for me it was a “oh, this is literally not even registering for me.” On the downside, those lingering “maybe this isn’t real” thoughts fell in the face of that, considering I remember much greater pain, and have skills to process it without a thought. Sorry to break it to you, but it is all real, dear. I know you don’t want it to be, but that doesn’t change the truth. This is how my life -works, I guess? I have different terms, different metrics, a different good for me than others. No matter what I may wish, I’m different, but that doesn’t need to be negative.

People seem to think it’s natural to dislike things that’re different, but I am going to prove otherwise. The thing that makes a place feel like home is what’s unique about it relative to anyplace else. Whether that’s your home, or your region, the difference is the attraction. I live in a building where basically every unit is identical. The thing that makes my apartment mine are the differences from anyone else’s.. And while our units may be the same; none of them are the same. Differences make life worth living. But it doesn’t have much of a place, in most of this country, where everyone endeavors to be the same, and chastises anyone who steps out. My space isn’t worse because I choose different things than others do; and theirs isn’t worse than mine. We’re just different.

I mean, why’s your best friend the best? The bits that make them different from anyone else, be that person your friend, or a complete stranger. Uniqueness is good.. People see it as bad only when they don’t see themselves as it, so they do not have to lose any face they don’t even have, or have to admit they don’t have it. They prefer lies. One of the best things about transitioning is giving myself the space to just … be. It can come out in some strange ways too, and I have an example. The other day, I tripped and fell crossing the street in front of a bunch of people, and dropped my groceries. Past me wouldn’t have been able to deal with that. Current me just picked up my groceries and crossed the street. I didn’t berate myself. I didn’t tell myself I was stupid or I deserved to die in the street. I did not act like I was somehow better than making any mistakes.

I accepted it as a thing that happened — and immediately tried to recover from it.

The thing is, I tripped, cuz I’d just bought new boots I wasn’t yet used to. I bought them since my last shoes cut my heel since I didn’t take care putting them on. So, given that context, I’ll actually take the acute trauma of the fall, which was quite minor, than the accumulated trauma of shoes that don’t fit, which hurt me always. And like, things like this serve as lessons for my trauma, and help me heal abstractly. Complex trauma really is like those ill-fitting shoes, causing small amounts of harm at stupefying rates.

I refuse to feel shame for being myself; and I haven’t, btw. Nothing I’ve ever done made me feel shameful; I’ve only felt shame at the thought of being myself; not doing the thing. And like, that’s not even accurate either. The shame comes mostly from the thought of them shaming me, so I don’t act, so they can’t shame me. That’s the whole reason they’re using shame, tho, and I am no longer interested in conceding to people like that. But again, good to learn, however you can, and to apply it whenever possible.

Earlier, I mentioned a constant in my life is gaming. As a kid, one of the first games I got into was a city-builder. I liked to escape there, since he always said we were not city people, and I wanted to be whatever we weren’t.. There were a couple of landmarks that I liked so much, I put them in every city without fail. They were my constant, in the way that escape was constant, too. And now here, I see one of those buildings whenever I go outside, and I changed my name across the street from the other. This place has always been my escape. It was home — long before it was my home. Gaming still helps me, too.

I struggle with a lot of modern games, as I find they lack what I’m looking for. They tend towards this optimized system that just … takes the fun out of it. Someone’s going to data-mine it and min/max everything about it before you even get your feet wet, and that’ll be that.. And like, yeah, is it stupid to complain? Sure, because I want some stuff to be that optimized, too. If I’m playing like – a racing sim, I want physics as realistic as possible, with a laser-scanned circuit; but almost everywhere else, I want the opposite. I want something that feeds the sandbox in my brain, and awakens those things I’ve lost, not just a sandbox to consume on my screen. It’s especially depressing for me since like I lost that sandbox myself. That is what I see as tragic in me; so I see tragedy there, too. It’s not like those games don’t exist; but they aren’t mainstream anymore; meaning no one will be exposed to them, and people will no longer appreciate those things. There used to be so much love and passion - it was an art. Now is only business. Depressing.

And it feels like this is everything. Quality directly correlates to time in space, or those things can certainly contribute in a way that’s just utterly lost in this world that demands instant-gratification. Case in point, multiple re-writes early-on in the process of writing this is why I’m now able to write as I am. I put in the time and effort to learn; I didn’t turn to someone to do it for me. That allowed me to develop my own voice, not adopt someone else’s. Today, everyone is adopting someone else’s voice in the name of speed, which they claim is efficient because they have to measure in money. Depressing.

That too, is why a confined, century-old city has so much more than any sprawling, new suburb. There’s been enough time for it to develop a sense of place, through a wide variety of parties contributing to that shared identity, which develops a community that just doesn’t exist in a cookie-cutter suburb designed to be convenient to a corporation’s bottom-line. Focused effort over time allowed people to make this place special. Now, it feels like no one puts time into anything, as they’ll move onto the next thing before it’s even released, much less finishing the first, because doing as much as possible is valued more highly than doing one thing well, because we are a society obsessed with quantity. We actively dis-incentivize good at every turn, then turn around and wonder why things are this way? I had to do so many re-writes early on, because I wasn’t allowing myself to speak. I was trying to fit my words into someone else’s framework - and that can’t work. But that’s everything. We are a society of people trying to fit into someone else’s frame.

All because the people who own the frame factory desire demand for their product.

One thing I always knew about me, that plays into this theme, is my love of a small space. I love it, because there’s no excuse to keep stuff you don’t actually want, and yet, there’s this ability to focus on everything you have, since you have so little space, and it matters what you fill it with. I like that. I like the limitation giving me an incentive to do better, to focus on these things other people don’t care about anymore. Most everything I have now has a purpose or meaning - and I love it. I love putting time into picking out the right thing, and finally both caring enough to, and letting myself focus on caring for and decorating a space that’s just mine. I thought I did these things before, but I didn’t.

I’d put a lot of effort into picking things, sure, but they were things fit into another person’s frame, like I said. I’m not getting this for me, I’m getting this because it’s x, y, z and those things mean a, b, c about me. Or, more likely, I am picking something because if I had any initiative, this thing would enable me to do something else … just don’t ever acknowledge I don’t have that initiative, or won’t do those things, and keep consuming. Moving to a smaller space is another way to force a break to that cycle. It forces you to focus, so if that’s your goal, this is a means of achieving, or working towards, that end. This is how I would like to live my life. I’m not here to even tell anyone else to do that, much less to force them to conform to my way of thinking. That’s the actual difference between me and those who despise me, and why I’m here putting this effort in. So I can live freely as an individual, despite their desire for collectivism and safety, cause of fear.

I’ve felt so bad for so long, the littlest things feel like the biggest accomplishments, but, it’s also hard to give myself credit for uh … anything? This is what “having multiple personalities” means in practice. Holding entirely opposing views with equal conviction at the same time, and unfortunately, no matter how much I’d like to deny that truth, this describes me for most of my life. It still is, as I just said, but every day, I feel another bit of those alts disappear, and more of the real,underlying me come back. Any time they rear their head, I confront them. Not with anger or frustration, but a simple “uh, no, I don’t think that way, actually.” May be simple, but it’s been tremendously effectively. Life changing, really. No wonder those who’d like you to be miserable tell you not to bother yourself with such things, huh? If you did, how could they keep hold of you?

For a long time, I thought my win condition was doing the opposite of what bad people said I should do, and honestly, I’m pretty sure I was right about that; I was just wrong about who the bad people were. So, now that I’ve corrected my targeting system, think I’ll revert to type and go back to doing the opposite of them, again.. Works for me. Do you have any idea how much shade I’d get from my grandparents for taking the bus, or living in an apartment? They’d hate that as much as my gender, or autism. Anything that signaled you were different than their idealized version of the world they met with swift, stern condemnation; and I don’t even know why. I don’t get it. I don’t understand at all. Even if you want that for you; why do you have to force it on others? Why do you even care? I’m not here to tell anyone else how to live. I am expressing how I choose to live, and what those choices have done for me, that I think, has been for the better. Theend. You’re the ones who wish to invalidate my experience and very identity/existence.

Is it actually just a desire to force conformity so you feel comfort within your own?

Need everyone to act like you so you can believe you’re doing the right thing by all them doing exactly the same as you, so you don’t have to ask questions you cannot bear answered? That you find safety in similarity, and see anyone who’s different as a threat to your world(view). That if you had to acknowledge different as valid, you’ll then admit to yourself that you aren’t actually superior, and lying to yourself is the part that really matters? Everyone else knows you aren’t the best. They don’t believe that. The lies are for you, and it’s just another lie to believe otherwise. But if everyone behaves like this..

I have metrics that make me know I’m doing right that others just wouldn’t get. For one, I’ve run from a camera all my life, because in the past, I didn’t represent me, and to have that ingrained in a photo forever, kinda just drives that point home. Now? I take a selfie on a whim for myself … pretty regularly. And I like it, and them. I’ll even edit them. I edit most pics I take now, since I actually care about them, and I have never done that before in my life, either. And while that means a lot to me, if I explained that to another person, they’d be like “who gives a fuck?” They’d likely think I’m making it up if they’ve never felt a similar thing themself, which I know, since that’s what I’d have done, and is usually what’s going on when one attacks another. Projection’s 9/10ths of the … damnit, that joke was going somewhere, but I just don’t have the skill to land it. Maybe next time.

That I can look at these pictures and not want to cry, or, specifically, that I will cry good tears rather than bad ones? Are you kidding me? Are you actually fucking joking? I take pictures, think they’re cute, and like my face? Wouldn’t have asked for that in my wildest dreams, cuz I would’ve thought it impossible folly, and not worthy of the effort. I can’t put into words how good it feels to be present in a body that feels like mine, in a place that feels like home. I can’t believe I’ve never had this before in my life. I cannot believe I survived so long, never feeling like this; how I imagine many other people do, always? Surely not always, but most of the time? Enough that this is a normal baseline?

If I realized how bad I felt back then, I doubt I ever would’ve made it back here. The ignorance of the extent kept me safe. I wouldn’t have set off on a journey that looked to be so long and hopeless. 1124 days passed between that initial recall and my legal name change. I simultaneously can’t believe it’s been so long; or that I’ve come so far in such a short period of time. It feels like it was only yesterday; but also that I’ve lived a whole other life. Feels closer to three lives than three years. No part of me would’ve thought I could come this far, or do this well. I didn’t think I could do any of it - much less all of it. I didn’t think I’d ever accept I was trans, much less what happened to me, or to be able to come to peace with those things, and fix them. I thought my life simply ended then. It almost makes me sad that I’ve done this well, but had done so little up to this point.

But I know there’s no point in dwelling on something I cannot change. Focus that energy on things I can, since I know what kind of result comes from that sort of effort. There is no sooner, there is only now, and yes, maybe someone wants to take away my tomorrow, but that doesn’t change if I don’t act. It might change if I do. That calculus works out for me. At least I started when I did and didn’t just remain laid in my grave. There were all these things I wanted to save for later, that I didn’t want to do “until I feel better,” “so I can appreciate them.” I never acknowledged that I’d never get any better if I didn’t do anything that might lead to me getting better. I didn’t do these things that I knew I wanted, so I didn’t get better. I’ve always been my own enemy.

Moving was the catalyst for all this change, since, as I said, I had little choice. I have to lose weight. I have to adapt to a new lifestyle. I have to exercise. I have to take care of myself. I can’t deflect and defer to others. I can’t put these things off and kick it down the road. I have to confront it and deal with it. Nothing’s been the same since my move, and I am sograteful for that. I could always acknowledge doing things might be harmful, and use that as a reason not to do them, but I never acknowledged they may work out well, cuz I just wanted an excuse not to. I didn’t want to admit inaction led towards anything that wasn’t unquestionably good, cuz if it was questionable, then someone probably should’ve questioned before basing their life on it, but I digress.

Since I can’t go anywhere I can’t walk to, I go to the same places pretty often. It means the experience for me isn’t in finding new things, it’s finding the difference in what I already know, day after day. To exist in a place like this is truly experiencing it. I love watching the passing of the seasons, the impact of weather, the ebbs and flows of other people. Big-picture pattern clashing with short-term circumstance – an allegory. Seeing the ups and downs that define a place, how it comes to be, what leaves its mark. Those undulations make something unique, and those shared experiences are what life is. That is what I missed for all those decades, a flat line trending endlessly downward. Undulations make this city special too, framing unique views of landmarks and nature from places you’d never expect, encouraging you to push, explore, tread on a new path each day. The commonality of these views or looking for The Mountain, and sharing a space with others, rather than transiting a series of boxes, makes me feel like I’m alive.

I didn’t think I could accept my downsides, so I never pursued any growth. Downs can’t be avoided. They are a necessity, and something we will never eliminate. To think otherwise is folly and breeds inaction. These things consume us, unless we respond. We can stop that process if we act – and the first step toward recovery is ceasing to make it worse. The moment things stop getting worse, they begin to stabilize, and then, you set off down the path of improvement. You can’t always make bad things better — however, you can make goodness from nothing, so ceasing bad, and replacing it with nothing? It’s a step forward, and that’s what we do around here. One foot in front of the other. Those who’d like you to believe otherwise are either hurt themselves, or those who cause hurt.

I can’t put into words how happy I feel dancing around my apartment, lip syncing to songs I actually love, just like I can’t put into words how impossible I thought that’d be, which is the entire reason it was foreign to me. I believed, to my core, such things, I don’t know, were collective lies? I don’t know what I thought they were; but I was damn sure they weren’t an option for me. I would have ridiculed someone else who said that, saying they’re childish or dumb. (as if calling them dumb for being happy isn’t childish but like, accusations are admissions and uh, still don’t have a landing for the projection joke, sorry) The thing is, I did that, because everything had confusing baggage tied to it, and rather than figure out why all that was the case, I just kept my distance – don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to. I might not know why; but I’m pretty sure it ain’t good. Just build a wall around that question and attack anyone who gets near to it so I don’t have to acknowledge any of my problems even exist, since I’m stuck in a stupid ideology that tells me to hate myself and shows me how to do it implicitly so I don’t actively question it and step out of line. This way, I don’t have to think. I just attack others any time I’m uncomfortable to deflect that discomfort and pretend it’s fine.

But, genuinely, I can’t blame myself for that. It’s what my brain wanted/needed.

I sure was right about this being my ideal life; though, I couldn’t have imagined it being quite this nice. Actually came in greater than I expected. Part of that is cause I did the same with hope as anything else. I didn’t allow it to exist, much less flourish. Hopes lead to expectations, which then leads to disappointment, so I didn’t allow myself to be hopeful. And like, I kinda couldn’t. Back then, when I was so fragile, I couldn’t stand to take losses like I can now. If you can’t stand the fall, you’re not going to climb. Which stands to reason, so long as you’re properly calibrated - rather than lying to yourself.

Early on, anything “wrong” with me felt like an asterisk, and having anything be wrong felt, well … wrong. It made me feel like I was an asterisk. Unreal. Invalid. Perhaps the biggest change I’ve experienced is now I see those things as “stuff that needs work.” It can be wrong; and that can be okay. It doesn’t have to be wrong, and that’s not okay. I don’t see myself as a failure for having a problem - I see a problem I’ve failed to correct, that can be improved through my actions. I wish I could tell you how that happened, but after acting that way long enough, it kinda just did. I just registered thechange one day. Guess the aggregate of all my work finally caught up. I’ve changed so many little things since moving that nagged at me for years, but went unaddressed as I told myself there were “bigger issues in my life,” so “who cares about this little shit?” Idk - and doesn’t seem like anyone cares about those big issues, but, again, ignore the inconsistencies.

Well, little shit? Matters. The stuff that annoys you every day, those constant de-buffs, is a de-buff all its own. It’s like those broken shoes, causing little pain each time you take a step, which you certainly don’t do thousands of times per day or anything. It isn’t like we have ways of measuring such things. Correcting those issues opens up your capacity for addressing and dealing with those bigger issues. Part of being in a relatively good place, is having the context to fully understand how bad things were, and how far things yet need to go. That can be very hard to deal with, and can make you seek dark. Light, well, brings these things into focus. The darkness obscures if you just go deeper. It’s like picking out any one piece of laundry, if all your clothing is black. Obscure how bad your feelings are by ensuring they all exist on equal ground. Much easier to ignore.

Conversely, now that I have some happiness, I want more. That may have kept me sad, that drive for sameness, but now I can leverage it for progress, too. I was somewhat right to be afraid of good back then, since it is so much harder to deal with bad if you’re in touch with the world, but getting back here was what I wanted, and I accept the pain. If this is what I have to do to get that, sign me up. It’s that good. Hey - least now I know. I can even enjoy music again, far more than ever before, because music is emotion, and mine are no longer my enemy, nor am I. I don’t need to hide, nor will I ever do so again. Now, that playlist is a thousand songs. Plenty of people make art for me. I just had to be. I refuse to ask anyonepermission to be myself. You have no claim to my life, and I won’t cede anything. I’ll be right here, and if you have a problem with that, I don’t give a fuck.

I’m in a left neighborhood of a left city on the left coast. You have no more claim or right to dictate my life than I do yours. The only difference - you have the desire I don’t. If you’re going to argue “people like me” shouldn’t be allowed to exist everywhere, then surely you must concede we belong somewhere, and here would be that place. If you are not willing to concede that to me, why would I concede anything to you? You’re lying to my face, as you claim I am lying to yours, because my proven existence undermines the faith you hold in your unprovable god, and that makes you upset? I’m not supposed to “press your buttons,” or even acknowledge that you are in a triggering dynamic, cause that itself may trigger you, and lead to my demise, as you identity me as the problem?

K - this world is too fucking dumb, and I am so over pretending stuff is above me.

Let’s rip the bandage off, and really deconstruct how I ceded myself in the past, so I’ll never make those mistakes again. I like trains. That’s something I wouldn’t admit to in the past, since it makes me seem like a stereotypical autistic person, and I don’t want to be seen as that, or carry any stigma for what I like. So I am just supposed to ignore or suppress things I like, because others are so insecure they cannot live openly? And they attack people who get over that, which I know, since I used to be like them? Fucked up. It’s so stupid, but that’s how I gave up my life. If someone might make fun of me for it, then I can’t do it. Just make fun of myself in their place, so they don’t get a chance to. Do you know how few things I have liked in life? And I go around suppressing them?

Erm here’s the thing, I’ve liked few things … cause I go around suppressing them.

I haven’t let things make me happy. I kept shooting them down, because some not even real person might make fun of me, so this real person right here just went and did it first. It’s the fucking sauce all over again. Why can’t I ever have new problems? Has to be the same old shit? Gee, I don’t know who I am, because others suppressed me, then I did it to myself, cuz it was all I knew? Okay, well, yeah. That does all check out, I guess.. It’s not so much “finding out who I am” it’s learning to stop suppressing myself. Those are different things, and making that distinction feels pretty important. The more you put into something, the more you get out, and if you understand that thing, you’re far better able to direct your effort, to ensure you get some kind of relevant, valid payoff.

I couldn’t know I loved lox and sushi, until I had them - but it frustrated me to no end until I did, not knowing what my favorite foods were. It made me feel broken, that I didn’t have them; but I didn’t have them, cuz I hadn’t had them. I lacked that exposure. I couldn’t know. As soon as I did, I knew. There wasn’t any question, and the frustration ended. Okay, now repeat that basic process with everything, and you are starting to get an idea of what it takes to reclaim yourself. I now have a pretty good idea of both who I am, and who I’m still building towards being. I remember a few months ago, thinking I knew nothing about myself or what I wanted from life. I didn’t have a place or purpose.

I felt so lost; and now, I feel I have answers to most of those questions – and many more I didn’t even know I had back then, even if I haven’t yet solved all these questions. I know how to, because I can set goals, which allow me to plot a course to a destination. Now it’s just about implementation. While I still can’t believe how far I’ve come, I look ahead and see how far I may go, and it’s crazy. Genuinely, I’ve spent so much of my life doing nothing, and now that I’m not, I’m doing this? There is no ceiling here anymore.

=^-^;;=

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