A Life for a Life

My sisters die, and I can't do anything.

That's what gets me about the recently-past Transgender Day of Remembrance. If I get attacked, that sucks, but fuck me, right? If I saw another trans woman get attacked, I think I would lose my mind and catch a case trying to protect her. I don't know where it falls on the spectrum - is it self-sacrifice, mama bear-ness, maybe a disregard for my own health and welfare?

Back in the mists of history, I met this 16-year-old girl at a therapy thing whose parents had thrown her out for being trans. She had a semi-successful career in the blowjob industry, and not the kind of Tumblr-safe "I do this because it empowers me asshole" sex work. It sucked. It sucked because she really wanted to hang out with me because she seemed so alone, it sucked for my sense of self-importance because I was comfy and middle-class and still bemoaning my problems where she was mostly homeless.

Survivor's guilt?

A couple months ago I was in a total "don't fuck with me" mood when this mixed-up little queer kid with bad nail polish tried to strike up a conversation with me. I shut 'em down, and looked back later and felt awful. Maybe they were a sister or brother reaching out, just like I unsuccessfully tried to back when I was a lil' question mark. E-mailed a local charity that serves queer people, never heard back. I want to claw my way into self-esteem. Practice my love for trans women so that maybe I can get to a point where loving myself doesn't feel like such a distant star.