I was asked what I wished medical practitioners knew about treating non-binary patients, and it merits sharing: "Treat me as a person with a body that has parts that may be troubling me; Don't treat me as a person whose identity is defined into one of two boxes by those parts."

Big mood, because of something @cyrinsong shared: "Don’t tell me about the cool thing you did. Take me to the cool thing with you."

I was in Providence for Pride and there were actual honest to diety trans folks here. I saw them. So like... where are they all hiding now??

It’s killing me that I can’t go bike now, but the lack of bike trails in this area that go further than about 15 miles is... just not acceptable.

It’s not so much that the answers I need have become clear; it’s that the answers have clearly become the opposite of what I need.

Also, the number of trans and queer folks I've convinced it's safe to be themselves is both awesome and worrying. Cuz what if I misled them? What if they're just gonna get hurt now?

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Suicide being thrust to the fore hasn't made my immediate situation any more tenable, but it sure has helped with processing, and given me opportunity to share what I've learned.

I jumped a long time ago. It's just a really long fall.

I realize my internal monologue no longer genders me at all and now find myself wondering what this means more broadly. Or *if* it does.

I got my first tattoo yesterday, a black heart composed of Amelia’s thumbprint, squarely between my boobs.

People ask when you plan to get a tattoo if you worry you might regret it later. Well, this is one I will never not regret due to its permanence. And I’m not talking about the ink.

I had a rough moment this morning, and this poem -- first draft anyway -- was the result. (It's a public post)


I expected my first tattoo to pay tribute to moving to Boston and how I thought it saved me.

Today I’m getting my first tattoo: my late partner’s thumbprint.

Hard truths are hard.

Most likely? Well. Maybe not. Two *frequent* options, anyway.

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Another thing on my mind: feminist men: i always wonder if they're hiding an awful secret, or if they're an egg. those seem to be the two most likely options.

Given the tin man from the Wizard of Oz, a non-binary person with no heart is a tinby, right? An Snby as it were? (This came up over cocktails last night while talking about autism and emulating being a human)

I could live without the 5am anxiety attacks of “I have 10 days to figure out my life”

Recriminations: being femme in a place where femme doesn’t work the same way as you’re used to, and how to signal sapphic tendencies in sapphic spaces

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