Monthly Archives: December 2013

Shoveling and Cats and Even a Picture That I Drew

Today I shoveled the balcony – fascinating, isn’t my life fascinating? – and it was kind of nice. It wasn’t actually hellishly cold out today, and the sun was bright, and things were actually melting; of course the warm spell is going to run its course in a couple of days, but at least we get today and tomorrow off from the cold, and we can go outside without our portable microwaves and bearskins. Anyway, I cleared all the snow off, at least three feet of it, and flung shovelfuls off the side and watched them go thump down below. My mom left instructions on a note for me to not hit people. The forest looked beautiful, sitting just to the side of our apartment, which is the last one on the row – I never know whether to call them apartments or townhouses, because they’re somewhere in the middle. They’re not nice enough for townhouses but they’re slightly nicer than apartments. The forest used to stretch away past the back fence, too, but it was replaced a while ago by ugly cookie-cutter row houses, much nicer and also much uglier than the ones that belong to our condominium – but we’ve still got a good chunk of woods left, complete with a family of deer that I’ve seen a couple times and even a stream that flows through the bottom of a ravine. I once walked around in there in the winter, down to the stream, and tried to make a fire with a lighter in my pocket (because I’d been reading too much Hunger Games or something) and burned my thumb. Nothing ever works out like you think it will in your head. Both my mom and my dad are against me wandering around in forests, which I absolutely hate – I’m not breakable, or stupid, and if I ever came across a druggie or a weirdo or whatever kind of (other) people hang around in forests, I’d just walk away. I doubt anyone would go after me because I’m a “girl”, because I don’t look like one, and if they asked, I’d just say the truth, that I’m not.

I had a thought, while standing in the three feet of snow on the balcony today, that it might collapse and I might die. I constantly think things are going to collapse, so it’s just as unfounded and paranoid as ever, but then I wondered what would happen if it did. Probably I’d appear in some little column in the city newspaper that doesn’t give much information and has an air of “we don’t care about a kid dying from a balcony collapse” about it. What would the title be, “16 year old girl dies after balcony collapses”? Or maybe my mom would honor my memory by making them do “16 year old boy dies after balcony collapses.” Then again the newspaper might not care about what I was or was not and do an ambiguous “16 year old dies after balcony collapses.” All I ask is that they show a good picture of me, not my latest school picture where I look like I’m choking on something gross. Well, it’s not really my fault, the lady made me take off my hat – and it’s not like my face flat-out disappears when my hat is on, you can still see me just fine. I thought about rebelling but decided it would be a big fuss over nothing, so I took it off, and that’s why you can see my slightly greasy hair and my bizarre stressed-out expression. Better than the grade eight class picture, though, by a long shot – in that one I stood on the top row with a good foot of space between me and the next guy, staring out at the camera behind the most terrible haircut in the universe with strangely shadowed eyes, as if I became a zombie in that split-second where the picture was taken. It’s awful. My school pictures are a strange progression – I start out tiny, chubby, and girly, and then turn into a boy in grade two, and have long hair in grade four and look sweet and innocent, which is destroyed by grade eight, where I look like I’m going to kill someone right after snorting some cocaine. Grade nine is bad because I look so girly. I guess grade eleven, this year’s, is an improvement over the last good chunk of years – I may look like I’m about to throw up, but at least I look like myself. Sort of – I mean, I don’t perpetually have that “I’m going to be sick” expression. At least I hope I don’t.

So, apparently my mom is going to tell my French grandma that I’m transgender before she goes away to Florida. (Because Florida is a magnet that attracts rich old people. I had a strange image just now of a cloud of old people floating through the sky, led by some part of their body, going in a southeastern direction.) Anyway, my grandma’s going on Monday, and today’s Friday, so that means, if I give the green light, that she’ll know either tomorrow or the next day. Well, shit. A thousand shits.  I love my grandma and I can trust her to accept the Large Uncomfortable Boy-Revelation (also known as LUBR?) but it’s not as if I actually WANT her to know. I’d rather no one ever know. I know they have to, but Jesus Christ. This is incredibly stressful, this process of telling everybody. I wish I was Native American, because I’m pretty sure being transgender is much more accepted in their culture – with the Two-Spirited people, which is what I am, I suppose. I’ve always loved the Native American spirit names; at an LGBT rally in the summer I met a man named Thunder Bear who was two-spirited, and it made me happy. He said he was called “thunder” because of his voice, and that, “When I talk, people tend to listen.” And he told his story, and everybody listened.

My spirit name, let’s be honest, would probably be something like Depressed Pinecone, or Crying Earthworm. Not to make fun of the Aboriginals, because I love their culture – I’m just totally not cool enough to be a Thunder Bear.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do tomorrow. When we went to the library today I noticed that the outdoor rink was open, so very possibly I could head over there, but then again, it’s very possible there’ll be people on it other than me. Maybe I’ll do it anyway, I’m not really sure. Besides, it’s going to be warm, so the ice might be a little melty, and that’s no fun. It’s much better when the ice is hard – and preferably not full of ruts and holes. The best thing in the world is when the zamboni just finishes, and you step on to glimmering ice, still slightly wet, that freezes off and gets this perfect smooth quality after a couple of laps around. But unless I play hockey again, I’ll never get that beautiful moment of stepping onto fresh ice, which is a shame. I really want to play again, but I’m having qualms for two reasons: one, because even if I do my transitioning thing and am comfortably half-boy, physically, by next year, even then the guys that I’ve known for years that have gone up through the levels with me will realize something about me. That I’m not as girl as before, maybe. Even if Devin’s on my team, like usual, and I have him there to protect me and to lean on a little, it’ll still be uncomfortable, without a doubt. The second thing is that I don’t want to play on the Orleans house team, really, either, because that means having to make friends with new people, and also probably sucking, because I’ll be doing year two of midget hockey and people will be better than me. Probably also much taller. I’m infinitely glad that I’m at least a reasonable height at 5″6, but there’ll be boys who are above six feet, and that doesn’t work when you’re so much shorter. Unless you’re some kind of short superstar, you just can’t keep up, not on a physical level. And I’m definitely not a superstar – I’m average, and my wrist shot is so bad that five year olds have much reason to laugh at me.

Anyway. None of that’s very interesting – more interesting than shoveling the balcony? Maybe at least that. I try to tell myself my life is full of things that would be exciting to write about, but I really don’t think it is – the biggest thing is that I’m transgender, and I think I’m starting to exhaust that topic by now. I can mention that my cat slept on my banjo case for a few hours today – apparently it’s his now? – and that earlier when I was out shoveling, he joined me briefly on the balcony. First he stuck his head out to smell the air and make sure that the coast was clear, and then he slowly, gingerly, put one paw down on the snow, brought it back again quickly, looked undecided, and then gingerly put both his paws down, and came fully onto the balcony. He tip-toed his way over to the railing to look out, while I shoveled snow above his head and tried not to whack him by accident. Afterwards you could see his little paw-prints in the snow – I must say, it was cute. You could tell that he didn’t appreciate how cold the white-stuff under his feet was, but he was too curious to not check it out. He’s a bit of a pain – he bites us sometimes, meows at our heads to wake us up in the morning, and bashes his head against my door in the middle of the night to force his way in and sniff my guitar and walk out again, but he’s also sweet most of the time, and has a cuddly side. He climbs on my mom’s belly when she’s reading in bed, and when I get home from school he rolls onto his back and waits for me to come pet him.

I wish I had a dog, though. I want to get a dalmatian, because not only do they look cool, they’re also apparently smart and energetic, which are two things I’d love in a pet. My grandparents’ dog is sweet-tempered, but kind of stupid, and there’s no real connect between her when you’re playing with her or whatever. My cat and me, as stupid as he may be in the grand scheme of things, really get each other – I can call him from a floor away and he’ll run up to say hi (well, sometimes), and when I sit down on the footstool downstairs and leave a little bit of space for him he’ll notice and jump up and lie next to me. I don’t know the specifics of cats’ intelligence, but he’s got some smarts going for him – when he’s not barfing up ribbons he steals from the cupboard, anyways.

So, it’s another while before school starts again, and I’ve got some days to waste doing whatever inane things that I do. I guess I’ll write some more of my fantasy story, or the one about the zookeeper, and maybe go up to the outdoor rink, and see if my friends want to get together. We’re supposed to have  Yu-gi-oh cards/video games day sometime during the holidays, but the way that works is we all just wait around for Josh to set it up, so we don’t have to really do anything. I want to get together with my dad, too, and get a new winter hat, and maybe a new jacket, so I don’t have to go skating in cold weather while my body slowly freezes like it did last time. And honestly there’s a little bit of vanity involved – I feel too girly or fancy or something in my current coat. And I have enough money to buy one for myself, which is an incredible thing, since I’ve never had that freedom before. Any money I’ve ever collected in the past has always been below a hundred dollars, and then I’d go and blow it on a record or a new Pokemon game or whatever – but now I’ve got two hundred, which is unbelievable. I’m probably showing my inexperience, but I’ve literally never held so much money before. I’m tempted to use it on the 2DS and the new Zelda game, which I desperately want, but I’ve done stuff like that before and I tend to end up regretting it slightly. I don’t know. I could get a job, that might be a good idea – God forbid I turn into one of those blank-faced grocery store check-out-boys, though. I am thinking about doing co-op next semester, with animals or something, even though that wouldn’t be a paying job. We’ll see.

I think it’s funny that my blog is called The Cellar Boy. It’s like I’m shoving it your face. I’m a cellar BOY, all right? Ain’t no cellar GIRL, or cellar CHILD. It feels a little self-conscious, now that I think about it, like I’m having to convince myself I’m actually a boy. Which I know I am. So it’s not really necessary. Maybe you need to reminded – I don’t know. How do the spam bots see me? I’m curious as to how I sound through my blog. Hopefully I just sound like myself, whether or not it’s a girl or a boy – although I’d really rather not be thought of as a girl, and if that’s still how you think of me, then I’ll politely and aggressively remind you that you’re totally on the wrong track.

boy brynn green background

So, I drew that picture on my computer in a pointless spurt of whim. If the lightning bolts and the bloody sword don’t convince you then you may turn your attention to the toque and the t-shirt. That is how you can picture me, if you want.

Moving on, now that it’s almost January, the thick of winter is officially looming around the corner, and soon the weather is going to turn into that “wear long johns or die” phase that happens about now. Also my nose is going to be stuffy until June, but that’s just the way it is, I accept it; currently my nose IS stuffy, and it’s been that way since probably early November. I only get about a five-month period of non-stuffiness before the seven months of stuffiness kick in again. It’s cyclical, so at least it’s predictable, but it also sucks. I’ve been waking up with a sore throat for the past three or four days, and I figure that means something ELSE is wrong with me, after almost, just barely, getting over my last cold. Whatever.

I’m always waiting for something, it feels like. Maybe that’s always been true. But now I’ve got to wait for January 13th, where I’ll get to see my doctor again, and I swear, if he just wants to talk again I’m going to throttle him. I don’t want to talk. I’ve talked about my issues for years, I’m tired of talking – let’s just throw some Magic Boy Drugs at me and call it day.

Well, it’s getting late-ish, so I’d probably better go away and do something else now. I don’t know what that “something” else is, though. Lately my evening rituals include checking a million times to make sure I’ve turned the bathroom tap off, so that’s not exactly something I’m looking forward to; I know my gender dysphoria is the most invasive thing for me right now, followed closely by my anxiety, but after that it’s got to be the OCD – I never talk about it to my psychiatrist because it only affects me at night, or when I’m stressed out. I’m not like Monk from the TV show, I can control it to a degree. Just not with the bathroom tap, apparently, or the various things that I have to touch in my bedroom before I go to sleep. Anyway, just add it on to the pile of issues I have already. I’m a walking psychiatry diagram, sometimes it feels like.

Anyway, good night, spam bots. I’ll see you sometime later. ~ The Cellar Boy


Christmas, Hockey, Genies, and 5% Obscurity

I think my last post went over the internet’s head, so I’m going to try and be more normal here. (The spam bots just didn’t know what to do. They were like, “click here >> for free Viagra samples, *confused face.*”) Shut up, me. THAT is not being more normal. That is being weirder.

Well… without the weirdness I think my brain wouldn’t know what to do with itself, it would just run around in helpless circles running into walls. Unfortunately I feel like most of the time my obscure things fly over people’s heads, not because they’re particularly smart, but because they’re just too obscure. Even Zoe, who famously laughs at  a good 95% of the supposed-to-be-funny things that I say, can’t laugh at everything; there’s that freaky 5% that you just can’t make sense of unless you’re me. And even sometimes to myself it doesn’t make total sense. When I’m feeling overwhelmed I’ll start thinking of unfunny, ridiculously abstract things, and then later on when I’m not in such a weird mood I’ll remember them and be a little freaked out at myself. Right now I’m a bit overwhelmed, after the insanity of today and yesterday. On Christmas Eve I went to my French grandmother’s house for most of the day, and it was pretty nice, but added on to a full day at my English grandparents’ house, it feels like too much. I’m glad that I can sit here in the darkness of my room and write a bit, and get away from the socializing and the people, and all that.

I got an excellent haul this year. A banjo from my grandparents, a couple comic books, a gift card for Chapters and a lot of money from the French side of the family. It occurred to me a while ago that I’m fairly well-off, even though my friends are generally much richer (since they live in the richest part of town); but my family isn’t poor. My mom and dad are kind of poor, but both sets of my grandparents have money, and that’s where I get the banjos and things from. I know that not a lot of people get nice banjos from their grandparents, and it’s too bad. Christmas would be better if everybody got what they wanted, or at the very least had a good family to spend the day with. I’m lucky to have both, and as cheesy as it probably sounds, I’m very thankful for it. We’ve got some issues going, but I’m learning that life’s sort of like that, as awful as it is. My dad isn’t doing well. My evil stepmother has totally lost her shit recently (big surprise!!), and their marriage is falling apart, so he’s anxious and upset constantly and I don’t know what to do for him. The other day we walked around the neighborhood downtown for a few hours, got pizza and cookies at the coffee shop and talked, and I think that helped, but otherwise I’m not sure what I can do. My grandpa bought him a little iPod for Christmas and I filled it up with all the songs I know he likes; and I might call him tomorrow to see if he’s doing all right. It’s really strange, because it feels like our positions are switched – a couple years ago when I was hiding in my room for months and hated going outside he was worrying about me, I guess, but now it’s the other way around; he’s doing badly and I’m worried about him. On top of that my mom is really sick with some digestive issue, and she’s been in pain for months – the other day we were driving home from my grandma’s and she was almost in tears because she was in so much pain. I don’t know how to help her, either, but it’s different because her pain is more physical rather than emotional like my dad’s. I’m trying to be better in general with her, less annoying and teenagery or whatever, but I feel like no matter how angelic I force my sinful soul to become she’s still going to be grumpy because of the pain she’s in. I’m happy that she’s going to go get a thingy done to work it out soon, and hopefully that’ll make her feel okay again. For my sake, a little, but mostly for hers.

She got me the Matt Smith season of Doctor Who, and I was really excited about putting it in tonight, but then I realized it’s on Blu-ray. Blu-ray! Holy fucking hell. Do the DVD companies understand that not everyone is rich enough to buy their fancy machines that (in my opinion) aren’t much better than the regular thing? I don’t want the extra features, I just want to watch the goddamn moving pictures. So we don’t have one – and I’ve got this beautiful box-set season of Doctor Who just sitting below the Christmas tree, unwatchable because goddamn Blu-ray. It’s not my mom’s fault, I guess she didn’t realize that it wasn’t a regular old-fashioned DVD set. I feel even worse about it because it must’ve been expensive and we don’t have any money. Now we’ve got to return it, or I’ve got to go take up residence in my grandparents’ house for a week or so to watch the episodes. They’ve got one of those infernal Blu-ray players, but I’m not at their house all that much anymore and, spoiled though I may be, it’s no fun watching TV when my OCD aunt is sitting across the room talking every three seconds – neither do I like having to do things I like with other people, unless it’s a thing specially done with other people. I never had any intention of watching Doctor Who with anyone else (excluding my mom, but she has a special place in this matter) – I intended to lie on the couch like a vegetable and marathon my way through the season on lonely Christmas holiday afternoons.

So, please forget my whinings. Christmas has been great, mostly because this year is the first in a really long time that I’ve been able to spend time with everyone without feeling like I’m being roasted alive by my anxiety. I’ve had some anxiety over my aunt’s (not the OCD one’s) new boyfriend, a slightly untrustworthy-looking French fellow with a large thick beard. His daughter, who’s ten, is nice, which may give some insight into how he is himself (I’ve noticed the attitude of the kid often reflects their parents), but so far I don’t know how I feel about him. I don’t outright dislike him, which is a good sign, but I’m wary about liking him, anyways. On Christmas Eve I spent time with everybody, played cards with my cousin and his dad, (both of whom I really, really like), and I must’ve done at least an hour and a half of Minecraft on my grandma’s iPad, which was probably necessary for my social anxiety or something, and dug so far underground that I hit the bottom and my eight year old cousin seemed impressed with me. I also built a three-story wood-and-stone tower which I’m proud of. None of that, of course, was worthwhile, but at least it was fun and kept my mind off being stressed out.

Today was busy, too, what with the English family getting together. It’s strange how I haven’t felt excited about Christmas for years – I look forward to it, but I don’t get excited anymore. It’s a little depressing. I woke up around seven this morning, and stayed in bed  being sleepy for about an hour, and had time to reflect on how when I was little, if I woke up after five I’d be running down the stairs for the Christmas tree and its presents, regardless if anyone had actually woken up yet. Now I don’t care as much. I like the family part more than I used to, and especially now that I can handle it all again.

After supper (which was delicious, and really British: roasted beef, mashed potatoes, vegetables, Yorkshire pudding, gravy), I went out for a walk with my uncle and my grandpa, and the dog. It was extremely cold. I also went out in the morning, and my grandma wasn’t sure if it was a good idea for me to go out again, in the coldness – but my grandpa said that it had warmed up from earlier, which, if you think about it, is a ridiculous thing, because it was at least -20 this evening. You know it’s bad when you’re at -20 and the temperature has actually gotten warmer. 

I need a new winter coat. This is completely uninteresting, I fully expect all the spam bots to skip this paragraph. But the thing is the one I have is not warm enough for the post-apocalyptic cold around here, and also, it just looks kind of silly. I’m sorry. That’s completely vain and stupid, but it’s true – it’s a dress coat, so it’s kind of fancy, and not made for standing outside for hours, or for going to skate on the rink, or anything. It’s a man’s coat, so at least I don’t look girly. I really like it for just walking around or going to school, but I’ve made my plans to monopolize the rink next to the library this year already, and I don’t want to have to do it in a not-warm-enough dress coat. Plus if anyone else is there (and here I’m getting vain again) I’ll feel stupid wearing it, especially since I’m not one of those terrifyingly competent hockey players that often show up on public rinks. I played hockey for about four or five years, so I’ve got reasonable skills, but for one thing, I’m five foot six and about a hundred and thirty five pounds, and for another I just can’t keep up with those guys who have been playing their whole lives competitively, skill-wise. I’ve got the worst wrist-shot in hockey history and I can only do good crossovers from the right side. I can skate backwards pretty well and I’m reasonably fast, at least, but that’s small potatoes next to the people who can do everything: the backwards, the forwards, the perfect crossovers, the incredible wrist and slap shots, the checking, the stick-handling, the everything. Besides I’ve got asthma and after about five minutes of skating I tend to wheeze and feel a little pass-outy. Playing hockey, I did pretty well, due mainly to my insane desire to not suck – by the end of the last season I had to quit from my general anxiety, but I was doing good. I’ve got great spacial sense (oh, thanks, Asperger’s!) and I can pass better than most other players, and not to mention my body checking (although it’s hard to body check teenage boys or men when you’re five foot six and have the bone structure and strength of, oh, wouldn’t you know it, a sixteen year old girl), but still! In the grand scheme of things, I probably suck!

So there! What was the point of that, anyway? I don’t know. I need a new winter coat. That’ll magically turn me into a five foot ten boy with a great wrist shot. (That’s what I would have been, anyways, had the universe not screwed me over at birth. Except minus the great wrist shot. Yes, minus that.)

Is this the part where the inevitable transgender crap finds its way in? God, I hope not. I try to keep away from that part of my existence for as long as possible unless I’m desperate to write about it. I don’t know. Lately, I guess, I’ve been just as desperate about it as ever, but there’s nothing, literally nothing, to do about it until the next time I see my doctor, which is in a few weeks. (Shit, a few weeks. Feels very long right now.) That’ll be after I get back to school, which is maybe a good thing, I don’t know, so I can tell my friends about it. But do I have to? How about I get a magic lamp and a genie comes out and says,

“You have thr-,”

“Yes!” I shout back, grasping the air in excitement. “Here’s number one -,”

“Wait,” he says, holding out a wispy-looking hand and staring at me with sparkling, narrowed eyes. “Think about it first.”

“Fuck you. Boy, boy, boy. All right?”

Now I think I’ll get my banjo, tune it, and go downstairs to play it for my mom. I hope my cat doesn’t run away and leave a dust cloud behind like he does when I take out my guitar. Anyway, merry Christmas, or Hanukkah, or whatever you celebrate (they’re all the same to me), and I hope that you have a good couple of weeks off work or school or whatever, and that the new year is a nice one.

The Cellar Boy’s Tolkien-Inspired Version of What Happened at the Family Christmas Party

* See legend below for possibly much-needed explanations

Yesterday at my grandmother’s palace many folk from all around the land gathered to talk, drink, and eat tourtière made from meat that is found in no grocery store, which is, rather, hunted down in the wilds by the brave uncles of the family. Me and my mom (from the race of Men) came up to the great, sparkling white house, clad in our better garments. She went on ahead proudly, ready to deploy her social powers and prowess in the strange language of Quebecois French, as I lingered behind her, staring out past my helmet with one hand on my Sacred Book and the other stuffed into my pocket, where I hid a bit of elvish bread just in case the supper was too gross, or the meat in the pie was too moosey. We came into the grand entryway, where a forest of boots sat on the rugs beneath clouds of winter coats, and were greeted with a warm swell of conversation and the bustle of people. All sorts of folk were already gathered there. An old halfling woman, known for her odd ways, bustled up to me and stuffed a paper Christmas tree in my hand, telling me bossily to engage in the party game that I didn’t really want to engage in. Nonetheless I took the token, and then moved through the crowds to find my cousin, The King of Pistachios, tall and familiar, soaring above the heads of the French hobbits and even of some of the Men. We sat by the great fireplace and traded tales. Then we moved on to an alcove near to the grand kitchen, where hobbits and Men alike bustled to and fro among the enormous stoves, where full pigs roasted over flames that leapt higher than the heads of giants – and somewhere in that bustle of fire and food was the Hostess herself, that which Men call Grandmaman. No one knows if Grandmaman is hobbit or Man – she seems to be from the same kin as Tom Bombadil, mysterious and strange, but magical and wise to the land and its people and its laws – as well as its food.

I, who can give myself no title, and the King of Pistachios, and my fair mother sat in a quieter corner of the bustling palace, watching the hobbits, the Men, and the odd Elf go past. For the most part the gatherers were unknown to me, folk from distant places indeed, mostly hobbits, who take family connections very seriously – but there were Men among them, stout of heart, and a scattering of Elves who were somehow related. At one point in the night, while I stood near to the glittering Tree hung with its array of ornaments, and white birds cleaning their feathers deep in the musky pine branches, the door opened yet again, and looking up suddenly, I saw the Pale Queen enter, flanked by her two Men; her skin was even whiter than snow, and almost dusty, while her eyes gazed powerfully and her blue clothes caught the eyes of all who saw her. She was the sister of the Gentle Voice, who came after her, and was even more great; and after him, her lover, who has no title. They joined our party in the quiet alcove we had chosen for ourselves, and the Gentle Voice talked with my mother and with me, while we quietly went to get our food and eat it. One of the hobbit children ran past endless times with an unfathomable energy, and put pistachios (most of which had been already eaten by the King of Pistachios) into my hand as a game. Then he ran off again, and came back later; some wondered if there was Elf magic at work, which would explain that particular hobbit’s frightful energy.

While we sat there, the hobbits and Men conversed gaily, and glasses shattered quite by accident, caught up as people were in the spirit of Christmas – and Grandmaman whirled around, offering snails and melted cheese, which our company politely refused; in the air was cheer and fun and the careless happiness of such a momentous gathering. I talked some with the King of Pistachios, who, much to his misfortune, knew not the language of French. I myself spoke it little, and was more inclined to listen to the strange tales and  conversations that seethed in such a lively way in the air. I ate good food and talked just a bit with some other Men and hobbits, and so the feast passed in its gentle whirlwind.

At one time there was a whole lot of us gathered in the alcove, and we were talking. Even I was somehow caught up in the conversation, though I felt in danger of being foolish, with so many ears turned my way – and the lover of the Pale Queen, at one point, called me he. I am, of course, a man, though few can see it past the terrible curse that was bestowed on me at the time of my birth, when I was cruelly made a “she” – though, possessing some insight that the others didn’t, the man did call me so, much to the chagrin of one of the hobbits, who quickly corrected him. My fair mother, as fair as always, said that it was quite all right, a fine mistake to be made (for she is one who knows of my curse), but I am not sure the others heard. In any case, the issue was immediately dropped, and at that moment, overcome, I stole away from the table and sought a quieter place. In one of the enormous mirrors that line the great front hall of Grandmaman’s palace I looked at myself, and there saw a boy in his simple dark garments, with his Sacred Book still in his hand, and his eyes staring sadly from beneath his helmet, which he wore at all times to deflect the world’s unkindness, and the arrows or stones shot from above. Recalling the unknowing words of the man, I smiled, but it turned into a grimace, and I had to stop looking.

So the night then came to an end, and the hobbits, with  bellies full of bread, wine, and tourtière, shrugged on their winter coats and headed out into the night; the Men too, followed by the small number of Elves. I left with my mother and the King of Pistachios – we rode our horses out into the snowy nighttime, back into our small house upon the hill, next to the cold and perilous forest, and slept softly through the hours until the dawn brought snow and brightness to the land once more.




– French people hunt various wild animals and stick them in a doughy pie crust, and we all eat it and like it.

Hobbits/halflings :


– are these.

Merry Christmas.

Thinkings About Seeing Dr. What’s His Face and Coming Out (in video)

Long, emotional, and kind of embarrassing, but here it is. I don’t have enough energy to write today, so I just talked all my thoughts out.

Apparently Head Colds Make Me Feel Existential

Due to the tremendous amount of snot in my head, I stayed home today. Also I woke up completely congested and feeling like somebody had been sitting on my bed stuffing cotton balls up my nose all night and giggling evilly to himself, thinking ‘He he he, when he wakes up he’s going to be so pissed!’  After my mom saw me coughing snot into a kleenex I asked her if I had to go to school, and she looked at me and said, “God no. You can stay home.”

Thank goodness for that. I would’ve lost all my friends if I’d gone to school today. Luckily I think the worst of it is over – my nose is still stuffed up but at least I can taste things just fine, which is all I really care about. My grandma came over earlier today to drop off the blessed Tim Hortons chicken noodle soup and a bagel, and I think that pretty much stopped the cold right in its tracks – not because there’s anything particularly magical about Tim Hortons’ soups and bagels, just that my mind THINKS there is. Mind over matter, you know.

I’m in a good mood, despite my cold, because I got a call from the hospital today saying that I can see Dr. What’s-His-Face on Friday. I really wasn’t expecting them to get back so soon, but they did, and the lady even sounded pretty sorry about it. She told me that he feels really bad for missing my appointment and she even offered that I could show up tomorrow at three, but suggested that Friday would work a lot better. As desperate as I am, I agreed on the Friday option, and so, if all goes well, that’s where I’ll be in a couple of days. I am pissed off, but the doctor doesn’t deserve my hate; I get that annoying things happen sometimes. I don’t get why they always happen to me, but I get that they happen.

Today I almost literally did nothing. I blew my nose a lot, if that counts. I just sat on the couch watching the news and reading Lord of the Rings, while my cat slept across from me for, literally, the entire day. It’s too bad that I missed school, but hey, at least I have a good valid reason besides that I just didn’t feel like going. And anyways, it’s the last week before the holidays, so I doubt we’re going to be doing much, especially in English. The next big thing in English is the summative, which I’m more or less prepared for. The only thing I need to do for that is be confident and try to remember the main parts of my monologue – most of it is just on the fly, so I won’t actually need a script. I find it really hard to act off a script, it’s better when you can improvise, and I think I can improvise pretty well, at least for this. I think Zoe’s still doing her boxes thing for the summative, which should be cool, although she’s so shy that I don’t know how well she’ll be able to explain it to the class. To me she always explains things really well, but I think she gets really nervous in front of other people. Which is odd, to me, because I don’t have that kind of social anxiety – my social anxiety is just one big mess of paranoia, and fear of silence, and fear of the entire class privately thinking something along the lines of ‘Wow, this kid is really weird, and her sweater is full of holes, and she’s such a prissy snob, and what is she, a lesbian?’ I have no idea what people are really thinking, though. Could be it’s ‘Wow! This guy is extremely handsome! I love the holes in his sweater! I’m such a well-adapted and accepting individual that I understand, on sight, that he wishes to be referred to as a he instead of a she! I should ask him out for butter chicken, which I somehow instinctively know is his favorite food.’

I don’t know. Wouldn’t that be great? The thing is you can never possibly know what someone is thinking about you. More often than not I’m pretty sure people just don’t care – and I know for certain nobody’s ever silently praised the holes in my sweater. I think I just need a new sweater.

Ah, but here’s a thing to discuss! Clothes v.s Me. It could be like an old black and white B movie, where my clothes leap out of my dresser and try to strangle me to death while a blaring chorus plays dramatic music in the background. (I can picture that with unnerving clarity.) Meh, I was going to write a thing about this but I’ve lost the will to do it. I’ll just leave you with that image and you can imagine my war with the clothes to great detail if you want.

So, Friday. Good. I’ll show up at Dr. What’s-His-Face’s office in my plaid shirt, hiking boots, and toque, with a glued-on lumberjack beard and a chainsaw over my shoulder (which is my recurring way to make fun of myself) and get him to hand over the Magic Boy Drugs (now they’re capitalized because they’ve become a thing.) I’m sure I’m not the only person who’s ever worried a lot about the MBDs, even before they got them. I know it does all sorts of crazy stuff to you, but that’s the exact point of the whole thing. Do I want a lumberjack beard? Heck yes. Or at least the ability to grow one, if not an actual lumberjack beard. Also I want that half-millimeter that’ll bring me to 5″6 (but that’s just vanity), and I wouldn’t mind actually liking my body, for once in my life, which isn’t as much vanity as it is just a thing that everybody ought to be able to have. Being miserable about yourself really starts to get awful about sixteen years in – and given the chance to be happy, what idiot wouldn’t take it? Again, I say, give me those Magic Boy Drugs.

But I’ve still got a while to wait, probably. You know what, no, I refuse to meander around ticking off the seconds until Friday – it’ll come, just like it did last time. If my doctor is in Mexico, I’ll just curl up on the floor of his office and refuse to move until somebody tosses me my Boy Drugs, and then I can go home happy. That’s all I really want out of the meeting – that and some info on when I can get the jiggly things on my chest removed. None of this is a question of “if” – it’s going to happen, I’ll hike up Mount Everest and then make a snowsuit out of lamas if that’s what I have to do, but it IS going to get done. I would like my short life on earth to not be painful and aggravating, thank you very much – actually that goes for everyone else on earth. Real nice job you did there, universe, making people’s lives so awful. Why couldn’t you have put us down in a hot spring somewhere with some good books and called it an eternity?

Looks like I won’t be able to help a small spiel on religion, so, I don’t believe in God, I think I’ve said it before; I’m not totally opposed to SOME higher power or whatever, but most of the time I really do think it’s just us and the stars, alone in the universe. Why things felt like they had to exist in the first place is completely beyond me; and how something came from nothing, that especially goes way over my head. One problem I have with evolution is why things even want to evolve. What’s the final goal? Is there none? I feel like the goal of existence and evolution and life itself is just to live, and survive, for a little while until you die. And when you die, that’s it. Splat. Dead. End. If God is real, (which I doubt), then I’m going to go right out and say Screw you, God. Because he or she or it put me in a body that doesn’t match my brain and that’s really one of the shittiest things you can do to someone. If it’s just nature being weird, then I’m even more confused; why the heck would nature think it’s a good idea to put people in the wrong body? What possible evolutionary goal does that achieve? If you’re trying to create new genders, then you’re failing miserably, nature; I know there are some third gender people, but personally I’m very much a guy and you screwed up big time with me. I really don’t understand the whole gender dysphoria thing; if it’s just God being a jerk, then okay, but if it’s nature being schizophrenic, then nope, I won’t have it. Get it right already, put us in the right bodies to begin with. Merci beaucoup.

Well, I feel like I’m out of writey things now. Got my transgender ramble in, check, got my existential ramble in, check; I guess it’s time to say good night, probably. And after I see Dr. What’s-His-Face, finally, I’m going to write the most detailed description that my brain can churn out, complete with pictures, a storyboard, and I don’t know, voice actors. Whatever.

See you later.

Ranting About the Usual Crap

I hurried home today, half-jogging up the hill that leads into our condo and running up the stairs to the door, where I gingerly took my glove off to look through my bag for my keys. It was indescribably cold out – the cold, given even the slightest chance, clings eagerly to any bare skin, and you feel it in an instant, in this sort of weather – I thought I’d be okay with just one layer of pants, but I was wrong. By the time I found myself in front of the door, rummaging with increasing nervousness through my bag, my legs felt like painful wooden blocks attached to my body. I could barely feel anything but pain, although the rest of me was all right. I couldn’t wait to get inside.

Funny, though. I couldn’t, because I didn’t have my keys.

You’d think the world could cut me a break by now. I missed my all-important appointment on Friday, I’ve got a really bad cold, it’s freaking -30 outside, and next I can’t find my keys and can’t get inside the house. Real nice of you, world. Thanks. Let’s do it again sometime.

I called my mom and she called my grandma to come pick me up. I stood, jumping up and down on the step and swearing, watching the driveway down the hill for her car. Eventually she got there and I ran for the car, jumped inside, and was driven off to Warm Land. I stayed at her house for supper and got to see my little cousins; I sneaked bits of cracker to my two-year-old cousin and played a video game with the older two. They were really into Minecraft a little while ago, but now they’ve moved on to Scribblenauts, which I actually like more. My six-year-old cousin kept asking me how to spell words, so I did, but I tried to get him to figure out the first letter for them so he wasn’t just totally mooching off of my older-person English skills. I ate two bowls of Kraft Dinner because my cousin wouldn’t eat his, and then I had two pieces of pizza, and then I weighed myself, just because I was feeling curious. I don’t really worry about how much I weigh usually, but I’ve actually lost about fifteen pounds since the start of school. I’m kind of worried that’s too much, but I feel better, so it’s probably good. My grandma was excited about it, way more than I was, because she’s a super-exercising health nut and that’s her thing.

Now I find myself back at home, safely encased within the well-insulated walls of the apartment building. The weather up here, as evidenced by today, can get pretty ridiculous. Isn’t it weird, that people actually wanted to settle here? I bet they landed here first in the summer and were like “Hey, this isn’t so bad, is it?” and then, come winter, they were sitting curled up in their balls of coldness next to the fire crying into each other’s arms while the Native Americans stood off to the side grinning. Now we’ve got heating and microwaves and so forth, so it’s definitely more bearable than it was, but STILL – I mean, wouldn’t reasonable people flock down to the US? I know some people go to Florida in the winter, but why not permanently? The only reason people live in northeastern Ontario is because some stupid pioneer decided to build some houses here once and we all just got used to it, to a degree, anyway. You can never really get used to -30 weather. Once you get past -10 or so your body gets annoyed at you, that’s my theory.  Just because we CAN live this far north really doesn’t mean we SHOULD, you know.

In English class we did some vaguely annoying activity on Othello, where we had to choose a theme and find quotes to support it. The groups were random, so I got “I Think I’m Good-Looking Boy” and “I’m Stupid and Smart at the Same Time Girl”. It was kind of annoying because I was the only one out of the three of us that actually had my book, and I could tell right away that I was going to be doing most of the work. (Which is a weird change because usually I’m the one that doesn’t do much.) They had a handful of good ideas, because they’re not stupid or anything, but it was me who found the good quotes and  figured out the theme statement. I tried not to act too nerdy, but I had to, to some degree, just to get the work done – and I can tell that I’m the leader of sorts, only because the other two don’t care enough to want to be. “I Think I’m Good-Looking Boy” is annoying because he thinks he’s good-looking. I don’t think he is, although I’m not the best judge – he has that thing that guys do for some reason where they raise their eyebrows and squint, and he sometimes puts a hand through his hair self-consciously. He was also hitting on Zoe, briefly, which I sniffed out in a millisecond since I was sitting right next to her (and I kind of like her, besides), and I can tell that’s a thing he does, he hits on people. Does he think people are in awe of his good looks? Probably. Are they in awe of his good looks? I’m not sure. I’m not, at least. Meanwhile, “I’m Stupid and Smart at the Same Time Girl” is less annoying, but still fairly annoying, since even though she’s definitely smarter than a good chunk of the class she acts like she’s stupid. That bugs me a lot. I got her to look for quotes in the book, and she found one, while CB (short for Conceited Boy, which is short for “I Think I’m Good-Looking Boy”) leaned backwards to stare longingly at a group of his friends that he obviously would’ve preferred to be with. The thing about CB is he’s not stupid either, although I think SSG (Stupid-Smart-Girl) is probably smarter than he is – but he acts kind of dumb, too, while at the same time thinking he’s handsome and desirable. I don’t know who I got along better with – I detect some kind of uppity attitude in SSG which I don’t really like very much, while CB is a little friendlier and we seem to get each other pretty decently. SSG and I get each other too, but she’s slightly more distant than he is and that’s hard when you have to work together.  I don’t really mind them, though. I could’ve gotten a worse group, and at least I can make fun of them secretly on my blog.

There are very few boys in the world that I find good-looking. Count ’em off: Jake Bugg. Well, that’s one. (And he’s an asshole. Why do I like him, even?) Meanwhile, my list of pretty girls is far more involved and extensive. I find Zoe quite pretty. Also occasionally I’ll pass some pretty girl in the hallway and pull my “look down, think of kittens, and don’t make eye-contact” routine – just so I don’t show any outward signs of noticing that she’s pretty. I feel like I should stare for another moment to properly appreciate how pretty the girl is, but that might be weird, and God knows I never do anything weird.

I don’t know how romance stuff happens, not even a little bit. Partly I feel like my Asperger’s should be blamed for this, but it might also be the gender dysphoria. Or it could just be me. For a while I liked girls without questioning it, and then I thought I liked boys, and now I’m just floating around in some mostly girl-oriented place hanging on to the idea that I might not be completely disgusted by boys. I’m not even sure anymore.  I don’t really think it matters, at the end of the day. I like who I like, and that’s that. Although I’m kind of worrying about if I should like Zoe or not – we’ve known each other since we were toddlers, and our relationship has always been more like cousins than friends, and I feel like for her it might be extremely weird to ever like me back, especially since I’m a “girl.” If I had been born a boy then maybe it would make a little more sense to her; although I wish I could just explain to her that I was, in fact, born a boy, I’ve just never looked like one.

Now let’s take a hard turn right out of here, thanks very much. I’ve written embarrassing spiels about this stuff before, but it’s never been graced with the eyes of other people, and I think it’s probably better that I keep it that way, for all our sakes. I don’t want anyone’s eyes to burn from reading what I’ve written about that. I really do think it is that bad.


cellar boy presents


The following is a paid presentation by (Yodeling Since 1954!)  – the only company in the universe that is obscure and confused enough to pay for a section of some teenager’s blog, which does not exist, although 1 out of 4 Swedish people agree that it should. 

Hmm, is it that time of the day where I lose touch with reality again? Well, I’ve been really sick for days, maybe that’s why. So, you’ve reached the Transgender Crap Section of the blog, which actually does have a jingle and everything (if you scroll down a little you’ll find it) and is now paid for by a completely made-up yodeling website. If you read this far, congratulations: you’ve braved the obscurity, or maybe you’re just continuing to read to see how much obscurer it gets. Unfortunately, not much more – here’s where I get normal again. (Or at least where I’ll try.) I like writing about all my various transgender issues, just to get them out of my head and down in a place where they’ll be clearer and make more sense – so here’s today’s effort. It’s extremely frustrating that my doctor was in Mexico during my appointment on Friday, and that I have to wait even longer for any of this crap to even begin to get sorted out. My best way of dealing with my dysphoria stuff right now is just to convince myself, in my head, that I can pass myself off as a boy. In school, especially, the need becomes pretty strong; it’s that or I feel completely suffocated by my self-esteem problems, and have to wallow through feeling awful and uncomfortable. The best time of the day for that is when I sit next to Zoe in English class – for that hour or so I feel incredibly better about myself, and things in general. She’s so nice that I can’t be upset and sad, and suddenly the girl version of myself is shattered and gone, and I get to pull off that fifty-pound weight that constantly sits on my shoulders otherwise. For that hour or so I get to be myself, which is an amazing thing.

Why couldn’t I be myself otherwise? I don’t know. I can’t. I think any other transgender person will understand that. The world holds this image of you and it takes a lot to make them alter it – for instance, I’m constantly called “daughter” and “granddaughter” and “niece” and “sister”, which are strong reminders that the way I see myself is not how everyone else does.

It’s hard, though, to hold on to that boy image, especially when you’re getting smacked in the face with “she” all day long. My mom knows most of the particulars about me and my transgender stuff, but she can’t switch the pronouns until the rest of the family gets the memo, or else there’s going to be some really confused aunts and uncles and cousins around here. (I think it’ll actually be a relief to my eight-year-old-cousin, though, because he’s always been frustrated with me not conforming to a gender that he can figure out. He’s gifted, so he’s really smart, but gender isn’t a thing that kids get – not because they can’t understand, I think they would actually be able to understand better than adults, it’s just because gender gets shoved into your head when you’re little as black and white, blue and pink, and it’s hard to adjust to the fact that it isn’t really like that.) Anyway, I’m worried about not just the immediate family knowing, but the rest of them, too – all those vaguely familiar aunts and uncles there on the never-endingly enormous French side of the family, how will they react? Like, “Tu sais Brynn, la fille de Shanon? Ouais, elle est un garcon maintenant!” That is truly terrifying. A bunch of Catholic Quebecois relations having to come to grips with the transgender child of Shanon – I can’t even imagine it. I think most of them probably won’t care very much, but I’m worried about the kindly, older aunts and uncles who still live up in rural French nowheresville, and never got out of the 1970s. I don’t want to be an outcast, not just because I’m not Francophone like they are, but also because I’ve done such a “weird” thing to myself that not everybody will understand.

And the English side, meanwhile? I’m not as worried, but I still have qualms. My grandma, as flustered as she can get over things like this, will accept it pretty quickly anyways, I’m fairly sure of that; my uncle won’t care because I doubt he really thinks of me as a girl anyway; my great-aunt will definitely be weirded out at first, but she’ll accept it like my grandma – my other uncle and his wife, I don’t know. I think of all of them my other uncle will take it the most smoothly (that’s just a feeling, but I feel right on that); his wife, I think she’ll follow suit. My grandpa is the only one I’m worried about. We get along perfectly and always have, and I can’t imagine he’d react badly, but I think he’ll be upset. He’ll just keep it to himself, like how he keeps every big thing to himself, and never tell me how he feels. My uncle will probably shrug and say something simple like ‘It’s fine’, and proceed to cast the issue out of his incredibly nice and accepting mind forever – but my grandpa won’t. It’ll stress him out. I think, in the long run, he’ll deal with it, but he’s so touchy about things like that, and I’m worried for him. And my dad, it’ll hit him hard, but we have philosophical conversations when we have issues, and have since I was little, so we’ll probably just have another one about being transgender and I’ll make him understand using my best obscure metaphors and he’ll respond with some of his own obscure metaphors and that’ll be it.

It’s (because obviously you haven’t been able to tell by now) something that’s been on my mind SO MUCH lately, all this stuff. How’s my family going to react? How are my friends going to react? One consolation is that I’m probably not going to be burned at the stake like I might’ve back in 15-whatever because some innocent farmer saw me wandering around the field in boys’ clothes. So that’s… good. No, it is; the society in which I have the pleasure to live is a pretty good one, and the people with whom I live are pretty good people.

So, now I’m exhausted and still really sick, and now that I’ve got that nice long ramble out of me, I think it’s time to say goodbye to the spam bots and one or two actual people reading this and try to get to sleep.




The Non-Appointment, and Fuck Everything, la la la la la

So, today was a teeny bit disappointing, but I shouldn’t be surprised – like I said before, when I want something to happen, everything that could possibly get in the way goes ahead and gets in the way. My mom and I got up at seven o’clock this morning to drive to the hospital for my appointment, and I was all shivery with nerves and excitement, and we sat in a little waiting room and then the sort of room you go to get checkups in – for some reason I thought it’d be a cozy little office like Dr. Flinthoff’s, but it was much more medical-oriented than that – and I perched on the bed for patients and picked the living shit out of my fingernails from nervousness, anxiousness, excitement, I don’t know, really. A nice nurse lady came to take my blood pressure and weigh me and stuff. I hate blood pressure cuffs – don’t they hurt? It’s not just me, is it? My mom was there watching and she said my face turned flushed and my eyes got big because I was so scared of the stupid little cuff. Which I was. Moving on past my delicate wusiness, after I was weighed and the small tests were done I went back in the room to wait. In the main waiting room I’d seen some other kids around my age, and gave them stares out of the corner of my eye, trying to decide if they were transgender or not. (I didn’t get the message that the office wasn’t just for gender dysphoria.) There was a really tall boy who didn’t look like he’d ever been a girl in any lifetime, and so when my mom told me it was also a regular clinic I felt slightly relieved. Plus everyone was getting called in for “breathing tests”, which I thought was sort of a weird thing to have to do before an appointment about gender dysphoria.

Anyway, I sat in the little room with its wall of medical equipment, the blood pressure machine and what-have-yous with my mom, and we waited for the doctor. A woman popped in and said he was running late. Another woman popped in and said they didn’t know where he was and nobody could get in touch with him.


After twenty minutes, another woman came meekly in – she was thin and smallish, with a girlish face and long blonde hair, although she was at least forty – and she said that Dr. What’s-His-Face was actually in Mexico.

In Mexico.

No amount of swear words will do my feelings justice. I can say “fuck” all day long and it won’t come near to the amount of “fucks” that I feel. But for God’s sake, you know? Dr. What’s-His-Face is in God-fucking Mexico. My mom assured me on the drive home that it was a complete fail in the administration process, which it definitely was, but it’s more than that, it’s actually personally insulting. I know it isn’t really, but that’s how it feels; because they pushed back my appointment three times before this, and then when I actually show up at the place they tell me the doctor’s in fucking Mexico. He isn’t just a little bit away – he’s REALLY away, he’s in MEXICO. How the hell does something like that slip through the cracks? You’d think they could have at least called us. ‘Oh, yeah – the doctor’s in fucking Mexico, so don’t come today.’

But, nope – we got all the way there and had to be told that there was no appointment. Not only is that incredibly stupid in itself, but I’m also sick – I spent most of last night lying in bed trying not to swallow because my throat hurt so much. Eventually I had to take an Advil to get to sleep, and by then it was already two o’clock in the morning – and I woke up five hours later to drive out to the hospital for the appointment, feeling nauseous and feverish and everything, and there’s no doctor at the appointment. Fuck times three billion. I hate to whine, but come on – I’m really sick, I’ve been waiting over a month, and on top of that I’m transgender and it’s just, I don’t know, a LITTLE BIT important, you know? And imagine if I had an eating disorder or something, and was actually really physically sick, and I have to wait a month or more for an appointment that I initially thought was only a week away. That’s not okay, for God’s sake. I am so pissed off, I can hardly express myself.

After the non-appointment we went to visit my little cousin at my aunt’s house. I thought I’d be to tired and depressed to have fun there, but I was wrong – it was nice to see him. He’s only two, but he already knows a whole bunch of letters, if you can believe that, and it’s amazing to watch him figuring things out. We drew pictures and he sat on my lap and made me peel off stickers for him. Afterwards I did feel better about things, and I went home and we watched Doctor Who and I took a nap. Right now I feel that aching tiredness that comes with being sick, and every time I swallow it hurts. I feel that I at least deserve to whine, I dunno.

So I don’t know when I’m going to actually get to see the doctor. Preferably before the next ice age. Because you know, if humankind has to deal with an ice age, at least let me have started hormones by then; if I have to be stuck as a girl during the ice age SOMEBODY’S going to get shit for it, I don’t even care.

It’s just super disappointing. I’ve been waiting, technically, about a month and a half for this appointment, but it’s more like twelve or so years, when I began to realize I wasn’t happy. I’m not asking for a whole lot here, not like a bionic arm with cannons and lasers in it or something – I just want to be able to feel better about myself and about things. I understand that appointments get pushed back sometimes, that’s fine, but three times, and then on the fourth the doctor’s in Mexico? No, I don’t understand that. Naturally I’m grateful I even get to have an appointment about this in the first place – but at the same time I feel like the universe is dangling it over my head like something pretty just out of reach. Like ‘Here, you want it? Huh? You want it? Jump! Ha ha ha!’

That’s not very fun. And I keep jumping for it, because how could I not? It might sound cheesy, but literally all I want is to be happy, and I don’t know if I can be if the medical/physical side of this whole thing is never addressed. I know it will be, probably soon, but it hasn’t happened yet, and that’s enough for my super-anxious brain to convince me that there’s a possibility it might actually never get done. I couldn’t imagine living the rest of my life as I am now, so things have to change, and the doctor has to get back from Mexico, all right?