When I made the decision to come to Alaska, my family and the handful of friends that know me in my male guise were worried. They were concerned that I would end up alone and cut off from anyone who cared about me. They did not know that I pretty much felt that way already as a consequence of having to live on my own and support myself while stuck in this male body. I had tried to tell them how much it cost me to present as a man, and I had confided that my inability to stay functional made any attempt at maintaining the act over a long period of time a danger to my health. I do what I have to do, but there is a point where I fall apart. If I am lucky, I have a nervous breakdown. If I am not lucky, I attempt to mutilate myself. I'm not proud of that. There is nothing rational about it except in the sense that an animal will chew it's own leg off to escape a trap. What I'm tempted to cut off, to escape from the trap I find myself in... well, it does not take much thinking to know I would probably bleed to death after cutting it off. That makes it a suicidal impulse to me, but if I had the ten or twenty thousand dollars, I'd happily give it to a surgeon for SRS.

I don't have the money and I don't have the stability I need to make that kind of money, and the things I do to cope with this cruel reality only make the prospect of transition less likely. The irony is, I work really hard. I have been going to school and supporting myself for most of the past five years doing IT contracting, office temporary or customer service type jobs. When I have spare time, I try to work on my art and writing--still in the hope of starting a career that allows me to support myself in a less painful manner. In spite of what feels like a heroic effort to make my life better, I continue to hover on the edge of oblivion because I have no time or outlet to be myself. I came to Alaska because I had a friend there who seemed to understand what I was going through, who was going through a little of it himself. We had discussed sharing a place and possible transitioning together, but when I arrived in Alaska, it was painfully obvious that he could not. Gender issues or not, his life revolved around his son and once I was there in person, and not just chatting online, he seemed to have no idea how to relate to me.

So, maybe my family was right, in the sense that I did end up stranded alone in Anchorage. This does not feel like a safe place for me to transition, but even San Francisco did not feel right without a secure job and supportive friends. Now that I find myself between jobs, waiting to hear back from my agency or about the jobs I've applied for, all of the stress and anxiety I pushed aside to get through my days at work has come right to the surface. It is staring me in the face and making me wonder if there is anything to hope for. I've vented and raged about being transgendered enough times in my journal, and I don't expect anyone who bothers to read this journal to have any real answers for me. I know there are people who care, but I also know no one has the resources to help. I am alone, and if that was going to kill me, it should have done so by now. No, it just makes it harder to quit smoking, or exercise properly to lose those annoying few pounds around my waist, or fall asleep, or wake up, or... whatever.

If I wanted to die, it would be easy. Quitting is easy. Not being able to quit, hard is all I've got. It's stupid, it's unfair. It's my life. I used my creativity to give my life enough purpose to live in spite of not being able to transition. I went back to school hoping that a degree would help me get a job that would allow me to save up for transition. I got a job to support myself while I was on my own and going to school. I ended up with no time for creative work, I spend all my money on rent and bills, and every day I get farther away from transitioning, farther away from hope, farther away from my family and friends, and using every ounce of will and wisdom to keep from losing it altogether. I don't think anyone should go through something like this alone. Of course, I don't think anyone who is going though this is in any position to help anyone. People who are not going through this, well, the price for their help has always cost more than I could afford. I have been hurt beyond their comprehension, I need more to heal and recover than I could ever ask for.

I think it would be easier if I wanted to die. The problem with being transgendered is that you want to live and your own body stops you. Instead of living, you lie. When I say I want to die, I really mean that I want to escape from this lie. I would prefer it if there was enough magic or miracles in the world to literally transform my body and make it true to me, and I would consider it merciful if medical professionals fixed problems like this immediately so that the cost is paid by a healthy individual, instead of dropping so much extra weight on someone who is crippled. I wish I could say these things to someone who could actually help me, and I wish I had been able to trust my family when I was young enough that their help would have been enough. Instead, all I can do is fill the silence with the painful realization that the most horrible aspect of being transgendered is that it can force you to isolate yourself.