Liam

Pacing my room. It’s Thursday. The sun fills my room, enhanced by the yellow below the chair rail. A prism sticker casts rainbows that so so slowly sweep the room as the sun moves across the window. Pacing my room. An unfinished project in the basement directly under my feet. I wonder what it sounds like to be in the basement while I’m pacing above. “You should get to work.” “This is how working from home goes, you have to have better boundaries about productivity.” “Finish the thing, you got this!” Yeah, but, we all saw Alex Pretti get shot to death. I went to work this week already. I left my home to go to work. I’m tired. I know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m doing. “Don’t become the people who hurt you.” Yes, well, they had fewer people who would ever question them, and I’m tired. I know I will never treat another person the way they treated me. Taking my time, that should be a thing I allow myself, and that just so happens to resemble the people who hurt me.  I want to ...

Before our timelines split, before my mind cracked open and my heart fell to pieces for my younger self who leaned in a natural direction but was turned away, I might have stood at the wall of doors and let the world around me pick for me which door to walk through, once again. I might have stayed with her. I might still be a three hour drive from my niblings and I might have seen them more frequently than I do now, living only 20 minutes away. I might not have stood up to him for spending fundraiser money meant for queer kids on his personal bills. I might have waited another 4 months to see him put the money where it was meant to go, never complaining so I would not disturb the peace, same as when I was young and they hit me and put me in isolation over and over again so I would stop saying “I am a boy.” How many more years before that pain resides? I might have never had top surgery. I might still be called by an old name. Maybe I wouldn’t have ever kissed or slept with anyone but m...

Nothing like crying at work. It happened unexpectedly while I was on my knees painting stair risers and listening to Caroline Rose’s album “The Art of Forgetting” which I have listened to probably a hundred times now. When I first listened when it was a new release in 2023, it helped me grieve the end of my marriage. It is relatable start to finish - I cried through some deep, crummy feelings that have been hard to connect with other people over. I thought I had done all of my grieving with this album, and have listened calmly many times, but it struck me (and not for the first time) that there’s one thing I can’t relate to on their album. Throughout, there are voice message recordings of their grandmother checking in on them while they were in a period of isolation. Something about it today just made tears pour out of my eyes and onto the stair treads. There was no stopping it. I’m feeling really sad that I don’t have family like that. I don’t know many people who understand this pain...

If you know me even a tiny bit, you probably know that I love the Simpsons. Two years ago, I made my own version of a Valentine’s Day card that Ralph gave to Lisa when he had a crush on her. “I choo-choo-choose you.” I made this version, which is self-centered and sorta cynical. I remember where I was mentally and emotionally. Not much has changed, to be real. I still strive to take care of myself above falling into dynamics that place me in the role of a doormat so that I can receive love. However, in looking back at the connections I’ve made and my attempts at dating post-separation with my wife, I see that I have been a scared animal - I actually knew this all along. I am extremely picky about who I want to try dating, and even more picky about who I will be intimate with. It’s a hard thing to balance while I explore my sexuality as a trans person who doesn’t want to be used unless I want to be used (does that make sense?). And when I decide to lean in, all these other things come i...

The path for finding comfort in your body after learning there are solutions is lit up by ads. As you research what worked for others and what didn’t, you can tap “yes” or swipe those ads away. You can decide if you have the means and the time to pursue comfort, health. It feels strange to be living with a torn rotator cuff for over a year and not having the financial cushion to take 6 weeks off of work unpaid after surgery, so for the time being, I tap yes on more affordable ways my body needs to heal. As for my shoulder, it only felt excruciating for three/four months after I slipped down the dusty, crooked stairs to the basement in my apartment building. My body has seemed to adjust and compensate, and I’m slowly building muscle around the affected area. It doesn’t hinder my painting work all too much. I can reach, I can stretch, but I learned not to f-in rotate my arm while doing any of that. Ow. I had top surgery in July 2023 and about 3 months later, I could see that my chest was...

I hope I look back on this time someday and see how it linked me to better things. I mean, I can already see that my friendships have deepened, and new people have come into my life who validate my experience and show me the gentleness I’ve been needing. But it’s been incredibly painful to let my family drift from me. They’d say it’s my fault, or the “fad” of transness is to blame. They miss “her.” The old version of me was self medicating with alcohol most evenings and deeply disconnected from knowing what’s best for me. I relied on other people to tell me which way to go. I couldn’t trust my gut because I was trained not to. This benefitted the people who needed me to be small and compliant. I’m still crawling out of a hole at this point in my life. Being financially strained for three years directly after being left by my spouse who apparently bragged about the power she had over my business - having given me pep talks for years about how bad I am with money and giving the cold shou...

Last Friday, my parents wanted me to meet them in Bennington for lunch. I had a rough time mentally preparing in the days leading up. I don’t see or hear from them much. They wanted to know how business is going. It’s not going well. My mom particularly latched on to the idea of hiring me for some painting at their house. I went over there two days this week to take down and paint shutters. The conversations I had with my mom while she helped me organize and label the shutters showed me that she has an interest in learning what my life has been like since I started distancing myself from family. Some of the unsurprising and gut-punch things she said: “Your siblings don’t know where they stand with you. They say they miss their sister, Lydia. They blame the distance on your new identity. They just want to know you care.” I explained that I called them each individually to tell them my new name just months before my surgery, which only one of them took any part in (which was muddy and qu...