Published January 21, 2025

There’s a Jimmy Buffett song from 1985 called “If the Phone Doesn’t Ring, It’s Me.” It tickled me when I saw the title, and every time I heard it.

It’s been playing in my head since the election, and at a higher volume since the hour of the inauguration. I figured out why.

A thing I’ve been saying lately is that “I’m worried about you” rings hollow to me when said by people who’ve consistently voted for the party that wants to eradicate me, to make my existence illegal. It’s not as if it was a secret the past few years.

There’s no room in my life for people who were complicit in what’s happening, who helped put my neck on the chopping block. Whatever they did to help me in the past, they undid by giving aid and comfort to my enemies. If you vote to feed me to the lions, you will not be on my visitor list while I’m imprisoned. I won’t be taking your calls.

If no one answers, it’s me.

Yesterday was a bad day

As you might imagine, Inauguration Day was awful, although it began with love.

My oldest niece, the only person in my family who reached out to me the day after the election (and the only one to ask how I was doing in the first 50 days after the election), checked on me again Monday. She sent me money and encouraged me to have a self-care day.

My brainstorming about that was derailed when the nurse who gave me my B12 injection spilled some of it on one of my favorite tops. The stain was blood red. Fitting. I spent a good bit of the afternoon dealing with that, and then I took a long nap. Several, really. Self-care day, soon. I promise.

My niece says she’ll never stop supporting me or fighting for me. I wish she weren’t an outlier in my biological family, but she is. No one else says such things. Two Canadian-born women who years ago claimed me as their sister, and themselves as mine, have lovingly stepped into that void. I’m eternally grateful.

People texted me on the no-good, very bad day. No one called. Would I have answered?

How could I? I don’t exist.

You need to know how alone most trans people are in their struggles. I’ve read so many of their posts. I’ll be reading more of them after publishing this. I’m one of the lucky ones. More than a few cisgender people around the world have asked how I’m doing. They’re helping me cope with the horror. So are trans people. Lovely, kind trans people.

They’re just not related to me. But they’re family now.

I had a bad dream

The night before the inauguration, I dreamed I was forced to travel to a convention with men’s clothes only. I couldn’t find the floor my hotel room was on, and no one would help me, not even the staff. I felt so awful and alien and started crying in the hall. There’ll be more dreams like that one, I imagine.

There’s no good ending to this story. Just an awkward stop and punctuation mark if I remember to put it there.

If the story just ends, it’s me.

♥

If you appreciate what you find here and feel generous, you can check out the Tip Jar. Thank you for reading. Here’s a butterfly for you.

/”””””\  \  /  /”””””\
\   0   \(  )/   0   /
>       l l       <
/    o   l l   o    \
\,,,,,,,,,/v\,,,,,,,,,/