FINALLY GOT ID

Oh hey, good news. Three years after losing my birth certificate in the mail, I got a new one today. Half a year after the state took my license, I used my brand new birth certificate to get a nondriver ID. I’m legal again.

All I need to leave the country now is a passport, which since I’ve obtained the necessary ID documents, will be possible once I have income.

This would not have happened without the amazing people at the Kansas City Anti-Violence Project, the advocacy organization I’ve been working with since May. They are responsible for any and all progress I’ve made on important things since I got to Kansas City. They contacted my lawyer to make her do her job when she wasn’t standing up to the court for me. They wrote a letter to vouch for my character that went into my court file. They gave me clothes from their donated clothing closet to build a court outfit. They helped me find a therapist, and have been covering my sessions with her since June, which is why I’ve been able heal as much as I have in recent months. They helped me apply for food assistance, which is why I can eat now. They gave me access to a food pantry when I needed it. They pointed me to rent assistance programs and a local trans medical clinic (thought I haven’t been able to access it due to lack of ID, but now I can). They helped me work on my resumé. They set time aside to accompany me to the Kansas ID Office when I tried (and failed) to get a Kansas ID. Today, they accompanied me to the MO Dept of Vital Records at the Health Department, then the License Bureau, to have my back and intercept any garbage the clerks may have thrown, which is why I have ID now, and can do hiring paperwork now, and can obtain access to the local trans clinic now, and so much more.

KCAVP does excellent, necessary work that has directly improved and evolved my life. Please consider donating to them to support the work they do.

http://www.kcavp.org/

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The Times on Antidepressant Withdrawal

Glad this issue is getting some attention, from the press and from the scientific community.

I have friends who have gone through monstrous withdrawal experiences from these drugs. I have friends whose lives the drugs have dramatically improved.

Antidepressants have: done nothing to improve my life; improved my life; exacted significant tolls upon my life in exchange for improving it; wrecked my body without improving my life; asked me to weigh their benefits against their costs; led me to stop and restart and change dosage and change meds and abandon them and thank the gods for them over the last decade and a half; been prescribed in informed-sounding ways; been prescribed with serious discussion of withdrawal; been prescribed as if a lighthearted jaunt through a casino; been prescribed as if methodically combing a troubleshooting guide; led me to avoid them for the better part of a decade; made me functional enough to complete graduate school despite not feeling enough like myself to enjoy as much of the experience as I thought I would; made me functional enough to complete my first and last year of full-time college teaching though I didn’t enjoy that experience much either.

There is nothing redeeming or good about depression. I’m glad science has given us antidepressants–sometimes they help. Sometimes they save lives. Sometimes they repair people. Sometimes they make the unbearable more bearable and life more livable.

I have serious problems with how antidepressants are prescribed so often right now that it seems as if our culture would rather medicate away how guts-crushingly shitty everything is than to do the work of fixing the large-scale social problems that make so many people depressed, hopeless, suicidal, and unable to imagine surviving another day.

This is not everyone’s story. There are many depressions, many flavors, many sources, many treatments.

I’m glad we are, culturally, starting to look at the back end of depression and antidepressants, to try and make this thing–treatment, product, drug, addiction, boon, burden, mess–that already asks so much of people one day ask less.

Breasts and New Bras pt 2

K so quick history: my breasts have grown QUITE A BIT since I started taking progesterone in October, and they’ve grown even more since I started consistently taking it as a suppository in December. None of my old bras fit anymore, which made my breasts constantly sore (ball-havers, imagine squeezing your balls into too-tighty-whiteys for months, like, 2-4 sizes too small), so I threw down on some new bras, from Torrid. I was wearing exclusively Maidenform 38B bras for the last three years, except for random sports bras I found at Ross or on sale at Target.

These Torrid bras are the comfiest things I’ve ever wrapped around my girls.

I’m definitely a 42 band size. Everything I ordered was a 42. I measured myself before I ordered and I was closer to 42 than 41 but still in between, so I gambled a little and got lucky. 42 feels right. Snug but not tight. In place but not pinching. I ordered mostly D cups with a few Cs and Bs thrown in there in case I had measured wrong.

Turns out I measured wrong. I followed a few guides, measured around the fullest part of the bust, still got the wrong cup size. Guess my boobs are just reaching for the stars.

After an afternoon of trying on seven bras, I’m returning five. I’m keeping the 42Bs, one demi, one sports, and returning all the rest. Just too much room in the cups in those.

Once things get returned and I get reimbursed, I’m def ordering more. Like, this is a memory foam demi, but I want to try some more basic T-shirt bras in more common colors (this one is a lush dark purple, sale ftw) and styles (give me some lace I want to feel sexy sometimes) (also is probs a good idea to have more than one sports bra, espesh if I’m planning to starts sportsing more). I’ll have more money when my freelancing gig pays up in a few weeks, but can’t order anything now, so I have time to strategize.

Good news: This 42B demi is just THE comfiest thing. There is really no feeling like…tfw metal wires aren’t digging into the sides of your breasts. The underwire (cozily cushioned) points up into my armpit rather than to my shoulders, so I’m convinced 42 is the band I need. Victory!

SMALL DILEMMA THO: There’s still a little room in the cups. Like, when I sit down and lean back, the upper lip (?) of the cup rises off my breast maybe a centimeter, more on the right breast. Again, super comfy, but that’s the roomiest I’ve ever worn a comfy bra.

Fellow boob-havers, does this mean the bra is too big? Should I maybe order a few more bras down a band size and up a cup size to see if they’re too snug before deciding i am def a 42B at the moment? Like, 40Cs and 40Bs? I’d look for 40As but I don’t have the money for custom bras rn.

Also, my girls are still growing, so I don’t want to invest too much in bras–I need just enough underwear to be functional until my girls are finished coming into their own–so maybe I should just stick with 42Bs for a minute and wait to grow into em more?

Anyways, if y’all were in my situation (female puberty), what would you consider? Thanks for any tips!

Flood

Basement flooded with drums in it. Spent the morning moving everything–everything–upstairs to the “dining” room where nobody has eaten in at least a decade.

Shells are ok, I think, unless the kick drum spurs–which got wet–plan to rust, but spurs can be replaced.

Cymbal stands should be ok too, pending also rust, and since I’ve had most of them since I was in high school, probably SHOULD be replaced once I get reliable income/work.

Will probs need a new drum mat tho. That shit got soaked 😦

#springisinthebasement

Bike Seat Blues

Cyclist friends! I have two road bikes and they are great. Trek 1.1 circa 2011/2012, older heavier-frame Specialized Allez. Check the pink leopard print handlebar wraps and the snazzy orange lettering atop the deep blue frame.IMG_20180306_165114_763

I really, really want to get out and ride them more this spring, but there are obstacles.

It’s been a few years since I’ve considered myself an active bike person. This is mostly because

1) I gained weight after I started biking because of the toxic antiandrogen (spironolactone) I was but no longer am taking

2) my belly makes riding road bikes not so great because I have to be bent over on my bikes and my knees are pmuch constantly kicking my belly now
3) my bike seats stopped being comfortable, I’m assuming because
3a) see #1
3b) my fat has redistributed and I’ve shed muscle mass, so my center of gravity has moved into my hips and thighs and out of my upper body, meaning more of my weight rests on the seat than on the handlebars now, so it’s real uncomfortable to ride on my racing seats
3c) by “stopped being comfortable” I mean causes significant soreness on the bottom of my crotch and on either side where my legs meet my hips, which makes me want to turn TF around and go home so I can get off my bike ASAP within a minute or two of riding, sometimes right from the getgo
4) I only have road bikes and nowhere I’ve lived in the last three years has let me feel safe on the roads.

I’ve lost weight in the last few months, and that has helped with #2.

I bought some bike shorts with peri-area padding and they’ve kinda mitigated the discomfort in #3c, but it’s not enough to make biking feel like the kind of activity where I can just get on the road and go–I’m still mitigating discomfort on every ride, and that never used to be a problem.

I stopped wearing panties while biking, thinking the elastic bands encircling the leg-holes might be contributing to the discomfort, and while that has helped some, it’s still there.

I’m convinced I need to get two new bike seats (the ones I currently have are both thin deals than flare near the rear a little) if I am going to enjoy biking again.

In an ideal world, I’d trade one of the racing bikes for a trail/crosstrek-style bike so I could do trail riding, but this is not that world. Far from it.

Are there such things as seats designed for male versus female bodies? I know frames move the crossbar down for women’s bikes, to compensate for the lower center of gravity women’s bodies tend toward, but I’m not about to buy a third bicycle until I sell one and/or get a job. And I don’t want to have to get new frames, though I understand I should probs buy women’s or unisex bikes henceforth.

Not sure what I should consider when shopping around for seats besides getting more crotch cushioning to compensate for the junk I carry in my trunk now, but most of the cushioned seats I’ve seen t look more appropriate for cruisers than for road bikes.

Maybe I just have to accept that I’m a special case here and get cruiser seats for my racing bikes? Idk.

Any thoughts or help is appreciated.

48th? Notes

Today’s most satisfying feeling is tfw you’ve been practicing metal on your metal drumkit for a few days because your jazz/rock drumkit is still packed from a gig last weekend, and without wondering if you’re warmed up for it enough you whip out 48th notes (? so many notes) on your double kick pedal at “Laser Cannon Deth Sentence” speeds and precision for a few bars, then playing slower stuff and just throwing sextuplets on the kick into whatever you’re playing, and laugh at a few things at once: the sense of accomplishment you haven’t felt at your playing in years, wonderment at where those notes have been hiding in your body this whole time, and the possible futures this could open up for your playing.

Still room to improve, but I definitely leveled up today.

Pretty good feeling 😀

Why Facial Hair Removal is Medically Necessary for Trans Women

*knock on door*
*Zoë hasn’t shaved for a few days and isn’t wearing a bra, but she opens the door anyway*
Outside person: Oh hi ma’am
Me: Hi there what’s up
Outside person: Oh you’re a guy, sorry.
Me: Um. I take female pronouns actually.
Outside person: Oh.
I’m in transition.
Outside person: Oh.
Me: It’s great.
Outside person: Oh.
Me: No actually it sucks. Whatcha got?
Outside person: Um, I just wanted to invite you to the celebration of Christ’s death next weekend. *hands over flyer*
Me: Oh ok, thanks, I’ll pass it on to my Mom.
Outside person: Ok, have a blessed day, sir.

Me: Byeeeeeeeee

Me: *goes upstairs, tries to go back to work, cannot focus, cries for a few minutes, writes about it on the internet, resolves to shave before going to therapy in an hour*

Side note: The pink/purple versions of the green Shick ST2 Slim Twin razors suck ass and slice up your face right out of the bag. Everything women have told me about women’s razors being crappier than men’s leaps into my mind, and becomes true.

More to Come

I just quit my facebook account. I’ve been using it to crowdsource transition help and to blog my transition experience. After lightly reading about the Cambridge Analytica data breach, it’s clear to me now that the faceplace doesn’t give AF about my data, so I left. I will probably feel a little lonelier for a while, and I may not have as many people reading my posts on this blog versus as on facey, but this may be a relatively safer place in which to share my life online and invite others into it. I know hardly anything about how WordPress uses my data tho, so I could be wrong. Maybe it’s worse than facey. Difficult to imagine much worse tho.

Anyway, I’ll be posting here a lot more. Please follow to receive email updates on new posts!

Leaving Eorzea, Disc 3

Three weeks ago, I restarted playing a social video game I had stopped playing back in December. This was multi-pronged move. I missed my friends, and wanted to see them. I enjoy playing that game, and I perceived it to be a highly rewarding activity even when I wasn’t actively playing. I had some time to kill between then and my move to a new city.

I was also doing science, gathering data about whether or not I can play an MMORPG when my health is relatively good and things are looking up without it eating up more of my life than I wanted it to–I’d previously used MMORPGs as escape hatches from a life I needed to escape, but then I struggled to close the hatch when I needed to return to IRL. The data suggests I shouldn’t be playing right now, but it’s complicated.

Final Fantasy Fourteen keeps me in touch with friends who live far away, and we have fun and do fun stuff and our relationships grow from the time we spend in game. I get to be a community builder among trans fam in there. I lead hunts against giant monsters and make people (myself included) rich (in game currency). I get to have an approximately female body of my own design. I can get my teaching feels by mentoring new players and helping ppl learn mechanics and overcome obstacles we have a shared interest in toppling. My gender is never questioned or suspect. I can alter my appearance with an ease I wish I enjoyed IRL. I can be out and feel 114% safe about that, and the communities I am a part of are full of badass queer allies who more often than not shut down hate before I get a chance to, though the hate is so rare the allies don’t have much to do. The game validates my effort and accomplishments via simple and intricate systems of growth and reward. Directly, it combats my gender dysphoria (somewhat) and helps other mental health issues I have (somewhat) through socialization, validation of my lived gender, and providing a sense of forward motion when I don’t feel I have any IRL.

But the costs of these benefits is pretty steep. In the few recent weeks I’ve been playing, I’ve felt the game competing with almost every other project I’ve wanted to work on and sucking up precious energy I would otherwise devote to them. I haven’t done anything new to learn how to code since February. It’s taking time away from my freelancing gig and interfering with productivity goals I set for myself. I haven’t been writing (outside of the game). I haven’t been reading (outside of the game). I haven’t been cooking nearly as much as I was before (outside of the game). I haven’t been drumming as much as I was before. I haven’t been sleeping as well because the game is keeping me up late, or I’m already up late and the game keeps me up a little later, but whatever’s happening my circadian rhythm is more chaotic than it is without the game. I haven’t been leaving the house as much, even for short walks. I’ve gained back some of the weight I lost in the last two months, likely from spending so much time sitting and eating processed food out of a box or the freezer instead of stuff I prepare on my own. My back gets sore and sometimes my legs swell up from sitting in my shitty task chair all day, either working on the freelance thing or gaming.

I HAVE made forward motion on some large-scale important-type things while playing FF14. I found short-term work, and I worked it, and I met my deadlines. I cooked some badass soup and some more beautiful veggie quesadillas and saw a doctor about my hormones and went to therapy and returned a pair of glasses that kept fucking up my nose. I real talked with my mom. I packed. I took walks. I planned my upcoming move some more with my future roommie. I drummed. I worked for my aunt. I stop gaming to do all these things, and that felt like a success.

But that’s kind of my insight here:

>>I had to stop gaming to do these things, and stopping gaming to do stuff I needed/wanted to do felt like a success.<<

Doing normal stuff I want to do, that I enjoy doing, and taking care of business I need to take care of, and getting my life back together financially, can all be successes, sure. But I have to work extra hard to do them when I have FF14 in my life. And some things I’ve just stopped doing because FF14 is more rewarding than them in the short-term, like writing or submitting my work for publication or reading challenging stuff or learning to code or being awake in the daytime so I can drum without getting the cops called on me or soaking up horrible karma from being that drummer neighbor.

I love FF14. It is one of the most satisfying things I’ve ever done, and its living world, Eorzea, is so beautifully rendered sometimes that I get goosebumps and have transcendent experiences I usually only have when surrounded by natural beauty in the sandstone and sunshine high Arizona desert or deep in a lichen-dripping old-growth Oregon forest. FF14 honors some of my values, like community and compassion, spontaneity and playfulness, being a healing and restorative presence, building independence and taking charge of my decisions, generosity and reciprocity, and femmeing the fuck out. But it doesn’t honor others, like curiosity about the real world, taking care of my health and body, having new experiences, nurturing my intellect, my allegiance to art and participating in artistic communities, interpersonal bravery, being vulnerable and trusting, or a warts-and-all and ideally fearless self-awareness. It makes doing other things I want to do more difficult, and though, again, it is very fulfilling to play, it’s just not worth the sacrifices it asks of me.

I’d like to be the sort of player where I only play on weekends, or the kind who pops in for a few hours each evening to run a few instances or zerg a few hunt trains. But either I don’t have the self-control for that right now, or the allure of the game is just too immersive for me to play like that. I log in thinking I’ll just water my garden, check if my stuff is selling on the market, and dip out before the top of the hour, and next thing I know the sun has set and I’ve lost half a day and my deadlines are still pressing and I’m kinda hungry but I can’t eat anything I spent the day hunting.  So I uninstalled tonight.

I played other games in the last few months when I took my break from FF14. None of them were MMOs, most were RPGs, and they were all infinitely more easy to put down and walk away from when I had the urge to do other things, or when responsibility demanded I do other things. I healed a lot in those months, in real life, and though I don’t feel my health dramatically backsliding right now, I can see some of the positive habits I developed slipping while I traipse across Eorzea, fingers ticking at my keyboard.

This isn’t a pan on all games. I still love video games, and I’m still the person I am today because I played the games I played when I was growing up. Video games can be high art, even literature. The medium can produce moving experiences and improve people’s lives just like reading or sculpture or graffiti or music can. I’m a better person because of the empathy they’ve helped me develop, the bravery and determination and introspection and self-care and authenticity their characters modeled and invited me to emulate in my own life, the rebellious speaking of truth to tyrannical power beneath overwhelming odds I underwent as part of the normal course of life in those games. They’ve helped me learn to analyze systems, and see chains of influence stretching across the world, between people, within people. Everything we do, this daily dehumanizing capitalist money-chasing, the debt, the income, the ownership, the resource-trading, the resource destroying, the value-making, the politicking, the rhetoricking, the world-shaping, language, is games. My project right now is being very intentional about what, and how, I play.

Right now, immediately now, this girl has other shit she needs to focus on, and in the game that is me building a more fulfilling and more livable life for myself via Capitalist Acquisition 2018: Poverty Edition, FF14 functions as a major distraction from the paths I would put myself on. So I am putting it aside, and doing more IRL again. IRL has been pretty grand the last few months, and I’d hate to sacrifice that for something I know is rewarding, but not as rewarding as reality has been.

~Z

Need Help with Medical Expenses, Good Riddance 2017

TW: depression, suicide, body image

Sorry it’s been so long since I posted last–a lot has happened. Here’s the short version: I lost my job as a university lecturer, then I lost my job as a professional scorer (of standardized tests) and moved back in with my mother, who is a far cry from the best ally a trans girl could ask for (she hung my deadname stocking on the mantle this Xmas, for instance, and told me I probs couldn’t go to a store for a bra fitting because “I don’t think they let men into the women’s dressing rooms” >.<).

I learned the antiandrogen I had been taking, spironolactone, a blood pressure medication not designed to be taken long term by trans women yet also the most prescribed antiandrogen, basically should never be taken by anyone. If you’re trans and reading this, one of the best things you can do for your health (according to contemporary research) is to throw you spiro in the trash, go back to your endo for new labs in a month, and adjust your E intake from there. Spiro causes depression, visceral fat retention, belly fat retention, heart disease, cardiovascular disease, COGNITIVE IMPAIRMENT, heightened background cortisol levels which mean heightened stress response to everything, and some other stuff I can’t remember atm. I was on the highest possible dose of it. For three years. And–here’s the kicker–the entire class of drugs (antiandrogens) aren’t necessary for trans women. You can control your estrogen levels simply by adding E. Of course, I’m not a doctor myself and can’t dispense medical advice, but the evidence was convincing enough for me. It’s pretty clear I’ve been receiving substandard medical care since I began my transition, and that every other endocrinologist I’ve seen since my first one hasn’t known what they’re doing, otherwise I would have been off spiro a long time ago. Had I been receiving the best care, I never would have been on it.

The good news is, I’m taking progesterone now, and have been off spiro for about two months now. I’m starting to feel a bit more like myself, too, which is welcome. I felt the cognitive impairment pretty hard this last year–had been wondering why everything felt so disorienting and difficult to grasp, even accounting for everything happening on the national political scene.

It has not been a good time to be alive. I attempted suicide in February, in September, and around this past Thanksgiving. I’m seeing a therapist I like now. Have been for a month or two. We’re making real progress on long term trauma I’ve been carrying around since I was abused as a kiddo, and she’s helping me get plugged in with the local trans scene here, and helping me find affordable medical care beyond that one endocrinologist who isn’t really affordable and was kind of a jerk–I tried to tell him what I had learned about spiro but he dismissed my claims outright. I didn’t bother to show him the articles I printed; he didn’t seem interested in hearing anything new. So I’m filling out paperwork now to instead get treatment from this new endo who practices a bit of a drive from my mother’s house. On the upside, the new endo is apparently trans-aware, does sliding scale appointment costs so I could be paying $20-30 per appointment instead of $150, and does comprehensive healthcare instead of just endocrinology. I haven’t had a general practitioner doc since I left graduate school two and a half years ago, so I have some health business I can catch up on with him.

I am still unemployed. I have been so depressed/nonfunctional/suicidal for the last few months that the prospect of work has seemed beyond my reach. Far beyond it. Leaving the house has been its own challenge, but it’s getting easier with therapy. I don’t want to be/cannot be a teacher in the American education system anymore–it pays too little and works you too much and increasingly doesn’t provide benefits or even a living wage and you can’t turn it off when you go home at night and nobody’s happy with what’s happening in schools atm–teachers, students, parents, admin (maybe admin is happiest), everyone has legitimate complaints about how things are and where they are moving, yet they keep moving in an anti-human, anti-teacher, anti-student, anti-learning direction. Otherwise I’d likely be adjuncting somewhere in town.

The biggest reason I can remember that motivated me to try to die in February was that I just didn’t want to go back to work the next day. I didn’t want to stand in front of a classroom in my ill-fitting trans body sweating through my ill-fitting trans clothes, trying and failing to look like I knew what I was talking about, asking questions I couldn’t answer to my own satisfaction and feeling like a total fraud even though I was/am SO QUALIFIED to be there doing exactly that, talking about literature and gender and writing and rhetoric and contemporary culture with people who at least have to pretend to be interested in what’s happening in front of them, even if one thing in front of them has breasts and a beard and a low-register voice and her pants don’t fit and her rainbow belt digs into the belly spilling over her pants like a squeezed balloon. Teaching as a tran in Tennessee felt like I was going before an alt-right firing squad some days, especially in my gender class, like my existence was on the line each time I made a lesson plan, on the line getting misgendered at the Chipotle for lunch and at the Starbucks in the morning and sometimes even by students in class and then having to go and ask questions like “name one gendered interaction that happened to you today” and watch the girls write a whole page while the boys are chewing the ends of their pencils still wondering what gender is (from week one) (hint: it involves labels and expectations and is actually pretty complicated and varies per culture but ultimately it’s all bullshit and we make it up as we go along and it would probably be a lot easier if we got rid of it because ultimately everybody loses at gender). Wondering which of them would write complaints to the dean because I brought up 45 in class this term, like last, and could I avoid that, and how was wanting to avoid that affecting my teaching, and what the fuck is happening in American higher ed anyway where that’s a thing that happens.

I had gone to a writer’s conference the weekend before, a bastion of all things academic and writerly, where inclusivity and diversity is preached, and everyone is a nerd nerding out and the nerdiest nerds nerd out so hard you can smell it. Yet I felt so obliquely alone that whole conference, surrounded by other writers talking about writer stuff in a place my difference is said to be valued, so alone that I didn’t go to any offsite readings (where the real fun is supposed to be at gatherings like these), so alone that getting home with my crappy luggage I didn’t want to unpack and sitting on my bed covered in cat hair I’m allergic to but I tolerate because it means I get some company from time to time, staring at my wrist, actually alone then, away from the sea of inclusivity that felt like but was not true aloneness, looking at the floor and the vein running along my forearm into the dark and bloody recesses of my hand, that moment felt like I was an echo of myself, cast over a still lake that refused to vibrate with my motion, fading into the anonymous dark of night that would swallow and erase me–terrifyingly alone and woefully inert, so aware of how brief life is and how fragile we all are and how the fuck was I going to face them like this again tomorrow? I felt like an echo of myself, and I had felt that way for years. I didn’t want to feel like that anymore. I didn’t know how to not feel like that anymore. But I had to plan a lesson for the next day of classes still and I didn’t have the energy to, so I went to bed. I woke up cursing and felt like I had already failed everything I needed to do that day, things that used to be second nature. I didn’t know why they felt so difficult now but clearly I didn’t belong here anymore, so I went to the bathroom and called in sick (obvi I was sick) and tried to open my wrist with a kitchen knife, the kind with teeth you save for steak or chicken or a tough-ass baguette. Clearly–clearly–this is not the profession for me. At least not right now. Maybe not ever. Maybe it never was.

My brainstorming for other possible careers has not been very fruitful. The only things I seem to want to do anymore without being prodded to are play video games, play drums, listen to music (sometimes), and (rarely) write.Last I checked, it’s really difficult to make enough money to live from any of those things. I am trying to be really patient with myself–I have a lot of healing I need to do, and this is one of the darkest periods in my life, so I have plenty of reasons to take this slow and prioritize my healing. Capitalism has other plans, though. Bills beckon. Doctors cost money. Food costs money. And the world has plans too. The sun rises and sets no matter when I go to sleep. But I’m still alive, and getting better, so I am optimistic I’ll find something, given enough time.

My new project is learning to cook. Quesadillas to the face. Next up: beans. Want to gain more control of my eating, as a way to get back in touch with my body and exercise more control over my health.

Despite the odds, and despite the prohibitive cost of medical care in America, I am healing. But I need more funds if I am going to continue healing enough that I can eventually find work and get back on my feet and lead a more self-determined life again (and leave my mother’s house for a less-transphobic place). That’s the reality right now. I can’t support myself yet, but I need real support.

I have a gofundme set up for donations to help with the cost of medical care.  Feel free to share the campaign. Please donate yourself if you are able. Any little bit helps.

https://www.gofundme.com/zoestransitionandtherapy

This has been a long and meandering life-update kind of post, and also a soul-vomit kind. My book is due to the publisher in a month or two, and I get a break from an editing project soon, so I may write more in coming weeks.

Health comes first. Thanks for reading, and happy new year.