Published October 20, 2023

Woke up with that Hank Williams classic in my head, a carryover from a dream. I’m not sure whose version it was. Maybe a mashup of Randy Travis and B.J. Thomas, with a sprinkling of the original thrown in. I don’t think it matters.

We’ve been over how much I’ve been in isolation since the start of the pandemic and the orchestrated campaigns against transgender people began to escalate. The world is a scary place right now. When I allow myself to think about the people who survived World War I, then the pandemic of 1918-20, then a depression in 1920-21, the Roaring Twenties make a lot more sense than they ever did to me.

Although Smithsonian Magazine throws water on that as a premise, a big part of me, having lived through similar turmoil, wants to say, “Excellent thinking there, but you might be overthinking it.” Sometimes the simplest explanation makes the most sense. But whatever. I don’t think it matters.

I didn’t wake up particularly sad, not compared to most mornings. It’s all been one big cloud these past few years. I do recall being worn down emotionally late last night at work, but that’s not unusual. Estrogen injection days, as Thursdays are, typically turn me weepy within 24 hours for no apparent reason, although I maintain there are apparent reasons aplenty.

Where am I going with this? I don’t know. I don’t think it matters.

I have a meeting in half an hour and then have to put my game face on for work five hours from now. I will find a way to drown out the lonesome feelings or lean into them. I’m pretty good at all or nothing.

Image of silhouette by iQoncept via Shutterstock.