It’s hardly been more than three months since I transitioned and I’m already feeling the pinch from the hard grind of daily reality.
It’s the, “Your dad…” the neighbor kids say to my kids.
It’s the, “Yes, sir…” I get on the phone.
It’s the, “My name used to be…” when I have to untangle something.
It’s every puzzled and lecherous look.
It’s every piece of clothing I want that doesn’t fit.
It’s every perfunctory conversation with friends of my ex that I have to see because our kids are friends.
It’s every friend that doesn’t respond any more.
It’s feeling the price I’ve paid in loneliness.
It’s the tedium of primping makeup and hair.
It’s the purse I fumble with and the pockets I don’t have.
It’s my broad shoulders, my big feet, my brow ridge, and my big hands.
It’s wondering if I’ll ever be done with electrolysis.
It’s my voice that fails me after a while, leaving me coughing.
It’s wondering what on my body I should have cut, hammered, and sewn.
It’s thinking about detransitioning, and going back to a life when some things were easier.
It’s knowing that would be folly for me.
It’s wondering if I’ll ever really fit in anywhere.
It’s knowing that forward is the only way.
It’s hoping this phase passes quickly.