My alarm blares with some song I picked when I was thirteen. I haven’t bothered to change it. I don’t open my eyes because that would mean another day has started. Eventually, and reluctantly, I untangle the mess of sheets and limbs and shut off the music.
I scan myself in the mirror – I’m officially two months on T now, but I haven’t really noticed many visible changes. I brush my teeth, pacing back and forth for… entertainment? The TikTok wellness girly that lives somewhere in my head chimes in, too cheerily for seven in the morning, “Gotta get those steps in!” After washing up, I shove my face into the towel I hang up after my shower and choke down the urge to scream. Testing a smile, I made my way back to my room to get dressed.
As I pull on each article of clothing, I try to see myself from someone else’s eyes. It’s a delicate mix between being comfortable in my own skin or not facing sneers. I usually pick the sneers. Even when I put on my best feminine mask, it’s like they can see through it; feel the transness seeping out of my pores. They’re scared to get it on them and infect their kin.
I try to use the positive self talk my therapist showed me before going out. Regardless of her well-meaning attempts, my head still hangs low when I go out. It’s funny how they’re called transphobes, but I’m the one afraid of even looking them. My mind never stops reciting the statistics when I leave the house, “Lifespan of 31”, “320 in 2023”, and “It’s usually a partner”.
My entire body sags with relief when I finish my trip. I keep my car’s radio at the maximum volume because then my ears ring and I focus on that instead of what could’ve happened. Staying in the left lane, I race back home, keeping an eye out for cops because who knows what could happen if I run into one.
I finally smile for real when I enter the door and see three wiggly tails. My shoulders stay tense, and my mind stays alert, but I’m finally able to smile. Three fluffy bodies surround me as I flop on the couch. They don’t understand, but I tell them about my day anyway. Nothing I say could ever make them hate me. (Well, maybe, “no more treats.”)
Most of my day is wasted by doomscrolling. When I finally check the clock, it’s suddenly time for bed. Heading to the bathroom, I greet the stranger with an amicable nod, we do inhabit the same vessel after all. Instead of sleeping after re-tangling myself in the sheets, I worry about going out again tomorrow. What if it’s the day I don’t come home?
They tell me to stay positive, but call me the scary trans neighbor when they think I’m not listening. I just ask to stay alive, but that’s apparently too much anyway.