3 months later…

Wow, I haven’t written on here since February.

I’m doing…okay. Right now I don’t really even know how to phrase the stuff I’m going thru.

I haven’t gotten the vaccine and I’m pretty down about it. I could go into all the reasons but it basically boils down to: 1.) I don’t trust how it would interact with my autoimmune disorder and 2.) We live in a place where we can isolate. I don’t go anywhere. So the whole family is waiting for now.

But that’s just the problem. I feel so fucking isolated.

I’m also struggling with gender confusion and dysphoria.

I wanted to say more but I don’t know what to say right now.

Maybe I could elaborate on feelings of isolation, or the gender stuff?

Isolation: meh.

Gender stuff: Sometimes/often/currently(?) I feel more like a demigirl than a guy but have no energy/confidence to present that way I want to look more feminine but I don’t know how right now in a way that would be comfortable. This makes me feel further invisible on top of the fact that I barely ever see anybody.

If anyone can recommend places I could find support online, that would be awesome. I’ve been trying to find nonbinary support groups this evening. Waiting for approval from some facebook ones. It feels super awkward to just write about my problems to strangers though. I don’t know.

My writing group also ends in a few weeks and I’m wanting to find a way to continue to be a part of a poetry community. It’s been really critical during this past year.

Anyway, blah blah blah. Maybe I’ll write more later or tomorrow or you know, 3 months from now.

Some blurbs from this week

Inauguration eve: If you seriously think this is “just another president” I don’t even know how to begin to talk to you. Is Biden the dream? Of course not. But this is a matter of safety, for some of us more than others, but for us all. Lives are at stake. We are talking about pure evil. I don’t feel in the least bit hyperbolic saying that. We are talking about basic human rights and freedom from 21st century fascism. This will still be a fucked up country. But if this doesn’t matter, what possibly could?


It should not matter what you think of me. And yet, it does. Today I asked Joey in the car, “Do you think I look androgynous?” I knew better.

“This feels like there isn’t a right answer,” he said. “Are you asking if I’d have trouble telling your gender?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You look nonbinary. Or like a feminine trans guy.”

I pouted silently. Why? Now I realize it was, “No, what would a cis person think I am?”

The answer: male.

“I’m feeling insecure in my femininity,” I said.

“Oh boy…” he said, and he reassured me. We laughed.

But what is it I want? This thinking gets insane. I fall into what I call the “gender hole.” Is it about clothes? Make-up? Postures? I don’t want to be a trans man, and I don’t want to be a cis woman…at least not today. I don’t think. But I take so much comfort in our, dare I say, butch and fem roles. I want to be a stereotypical girl in personality. Whatever that means. I love when we are gender stereotypes and we laugh at it.

Like 90% of the time only one person sees me because of Covid isolation. So I guess it makes sense that I started quizzing this person on my appearance. I have fear of coming across as a cis het dude. I worry about my voice, my inflections….It should not matter what you think of me. But it does.

I want to create some confusion and attraction from masculine straight and queer men. Whatever masculine means. Why? To everyone else I’d like to be platonically intriguing or go unnoticed. Either way. Why is this so embarrassing? I guess it fits easily for cis people. They have the same desires to be seen correctly and be attractive to those they find attractive. They just don’t feel the need to articulate it.


In the early January light. Yellow-white sun with an orange halo. The song of the cardinal. Blue shadows around snowy foot tracks, mostly human. But there is a trail of paw prints leading across the frozen pond to the island, where the fox beds down in the tall grasses.

There are spots where the snow is dug up by deer eating the grass. The frigid wind whistles low in my ears. I have cold hands, and the world seems just a little bit fuzzy.

There are tree-covered hills in the distance that are grey, while the trees in the foreground appear dark, almost black. Four black crows cut across between the black and grey expanse, beneath the white-yellow orb and the encroaching clouds.


The body is holding all that is mysterious to the mind. The truth is in your muscles’ memories. You know it in your bones. I know things that I do not know. I remember and then forget again. What I really want to say is, there is a poem I read recently by lucille clifton that says, “every day something had tried to kill me and has failed.” I’ve thought about that line all week.