Raw Nerve

I bought a mirror. I put it on my desk to help as I practice my makeup.

Wearing makeup is important because it gives you a good reason not to cry. All that work getting smeared by sadness? The hesitation gives you a good couple of seconds to get yourself together.

I tilted the mirror up and away from my face. It was taunting me.

Earlier tonight, had my first moment of suicidal ideation! Some part of me feels uncomfortably justified by it. Self-harm: the mark of a true trans* person. Or so all those psychologists say.

Now, whenever I lean forward in my chair, I'm worried I'll get a glimpse of myself in the mirror. So I try to artfully limit myself to a certain angle.

I was 19 when I first wrote about transitioning on this blog. I sit and taunt myself, thinking about how much better off I'd be right now if I'd at least been taking testosterone blockers for those three years when I tried to be a man.

It's absurd that I've crafted an arch nemesis out of a $6.99 piece from the Target collection. I lost ~20 pounds in the month since I started being myself again. My makeup no longer has the "clown-in-the-burn-ward" feel that defined my earlier looks. I've got literally the most beautiful, funny, supportive girlfriend that there is. But the reflection in the mirror is still a vicious, well-crafted insult aimed right at my heart.


I worry I'm never going to pass. My girlfriend asks me why passing is such a big deal. It's not even so much that I can't deal with the weird looks and toothless men cackling at me. My problem is that I can't deal with the thought of the people who accept me right thinking of me as a male that they deign to treat as a female.

There's no coda to be had. I try to write snappy endings that recapitulate whatever I've written. I don't have it in me today.

 I'm going to go wipe my makeup so I can cry.