Page 7 - 2019 EMERGING WRITERS FELLOWSHIP ANTHOLOGY1

I think life was about to get to me. The way that mainlining an opiate gives me life, I think

I was about to have too much. At the time, I had shaggy, beautiful purple hair. I had spent
a long time growing it, trying to recreate the hair I had before I put myself through any of

this strange, life-altering science experiment. I spent a lot of money dyeing it, and took
great pride in this aspect of my appearance. I felt it kept me looking a bit softer, hopefully

less masculine. Contrary to what perceptions people attach to my features, I don’t identify
as masculine whatsoever. I felt like my hair was the safe zone, and only comfort I took in

how I looked.

By some awful mishap, I went to a barber who cut it all off without asking me. I watched
it fall around me, and knowing that this was not what I wanted at all, but being the passive

person that I am, the mouse didn’t speak up. I cried on the subway home, and called my

partner hyperventilating, because I looked in the mirror and saw a man. I was out of town
for a work trip, and had already been struggling for a long time. My plan to kill myself

involved shaving my head so I wouldn’t be identified, and now, this step had already been
done for me.

Work was a growing nightmare. As a housing case manager for LBBTQ+ youth, there is

never a dull day. I worked my ass off, and in the evenings I had bi-weekly trans group that

I facilitated, making for an 11-hour day. Landlords hated me, and everyone needed me for
more than a million things. When I entered human services last year, everyone warned

me about burnout, but no one really has a solution.

Last year at a different agency, my boss sexually harassed me with questions about my
genitalia, and played a slew of psychological and emotional mind games with me. I quit

that job, and I received three new job offers. I accepted this position, thinking it was a

unique opportunity. I figured I could work in generalized recovery centers anywhere. I
wanted this new venture. My bar was so low, that anything would have exceeded my hopes

at that time that I started working again. Nearly a year into it, it was destroying me, but I
was stuck. As dramatic as it sounds, death seemed to be the only escape. The only reason

I didn’t end it all was because I held on for this writing camp.

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