My first impulse is to write a strongly worded letter. If you ask Swedish anti-racist twitter, I have one of the sharpest pens in the country and I want to use it on these people who I thought wanted to help me.
I hold it back and only write my old regular shrink to ask about resuming regular therapy, as they suggest, and then I hop in the shower and thoughts start falling over me like rain.Maybe I should go after black market hormone pills. Maybe I should open my veins in the tub. Maybe I should stop shaving completely so that my beard can measure the long and elusive process of getting rid of it.
Maybe I should give up all attempts to control my weight and just eat candy until I die from a heart attack at 40. I have a feeling I'm never going to get to fix my body anyway so what's the big deal if I look like a monster. Maybe deep down I want everyone to be as disgusted when they see me as I am.
Maybe I should cry.
I decide to sleep for four hours in the middle of the afternoon instead. In my dreams I'm a flying pirate captain in a world of flying ships, cruel and bold as only a child can be, drunk and afraid of getting close to people after her time on a slave ship, dying to save the sorceress she loves.
And maybe just the fact I'm having these thoughts proves I need the help I think I need. That's why I'm writing them down. For hope.