My therapist calls it post-transition depression. It’s sort of like postpartum: You’ve done something big, something life-changing. You’ve given a piece of yourself away to make something new. Birth hurts; rebirth hurts, too.
The weird thing is you can grow fond of pain. Of the sense of meaning it gives your stress and anxiety. When it’s gone, you drift. There’s no context anymore for why you feel down. You’re just empty. There’s an inexplicable ache, a hollowness that hungers for a cause. There should be something there, a knife, a thorn, something causing you to bleed. But there’s nothing.
You just hurt, for no fucking reason at all.
God, what is wrong with me?
I can’t upload this. I can’t. It’s career suicide. I’ve got a brand to maintain, after all. The Internet pays to hear my oh-so-inspirational story of overcoming adversity. Nobody wants to hear how sad I am—you’re all fucking sad, too. The world is a cold, ugly place and you want me to be the shining light, the warm fuzzy feeling that gets you through the day. The Little Boy Who Could. I’m a trained fucking monkey, and all these likes and comments are the peanuts you throw to make me do tricks.
What a joke. I can’t be real. I’m playing another role, Mr. Happy, Well-Adjusted Trans Guy. Because that’s the narrative. The only story I’m allowed to tell is how much I hated myself before transition, how happy I am now.
I’m alone. One million people are watching my every move, and I’m utterly alone.
Fuck this.
[Reaches to turn off the camera.]
TODAY
VLOG #344: GIVEAWAY!
REN: Hey, Internet! It’s your boy Ren here. Excuse the dark circles beneath my eyes—been a long night. Nothing exciting, I promise. I’m not on drugs. I’m not in love. Still Ren Solo.
That’s . . . that’s fucking terrible. Sorry. Fuck, should I start over? Cut!
[Jump cut.]
So I promised you guys I’d have something awesome for you today, and here it is. Are you sitting down? At your resting heart rate? Okay. Today I’m doing an epic giveaway.
[Ren tilts the camera to show a cardboard box stamped with logos.]
My sponsor, Windy City Fitness, sent this huge crate of goodies to review. There’s way more product than I can use, so I’m gonna share the love. Check this out: whey protein powder, creatine, natural testosterone boosters, the works. Everything you need to get ripped like yours truly here. Shout-out to Windy City Fitness for making what I do possible.
Guys, real talk: You don’t get rich slapping your face on the ’Tube. I earn pennies for every video I put up. And making videos isn’t easy—it takes time, energy, skill. I rely on sponsors to fill in the gaps: everything from the food I eat to the clothes on my back. It all comes from the support of companies like this. So show them some love and hit that link in the description below. They keep my electricity and Wi-Fi on.
Now, let’s get to the nitty-gritty. I’ve been taking this whey protein for a while, and . . .
———
For weeks Black Iris lay low. Laney didn’t want to ping Crito’s radar. Neither of us spoke of my connection to him—it felt tense, furled, like something I had to wait out till it unraveled. So I waited. Ellis and I sat on the roof of Umbra beneath a summer sky molting into autumn, shedding blue scales for silver. Leaves laureled our feet, the green slowly bronzing. Fall cast the city in precious metal, but soon the cold would tarnish away all color. Sometimes Blythe joined us, and it felt like sitting between my sweet little brother and wild older sister. I thought of Mina and Kari, my princesses, till my throat went tight like a wire. How are your sisters? Ellis said, and I could only shrug. In the distance the lake rippled. Somewhere two tiny pairs of pale olive feet would dip into the water, dash through sand. I imagined it sticking to their damp skin like brown sugar.
At Umbra I spotted Cress slinking through the shadows. When I danced I felt the slide of her gaze over my body, sinuous and sly. For the first time in forever I was conscious of my hips, the femmey movements I made. Unlike Ellis, I’d never learned to own my girliness. So in typical male fashion, I overcompensated. Flirted. Drank. Hooked up. My mouth was a mash of musky rum and smeared lipstick. Then I got pissed that Cress could affect me like this, and put on guyliner and Blythe’s fuchsia eye shadow and a spandex muscle tee, because fuck gender stereotypes. I could be feminine if I wanted to. It didn’t make me any less a man. Besides, Cress would’ve seen my YouTube channel by now. She’d know what was in my pants. It didn’t matter.
When a winsome boy put his hand on the curve of my waist, I shoved him away. He fell.
People on the dance floor stared. I hid in a bathroom stall, covered in cold sweat.
Not good.
I needed back in with Black Iris. Another mission, another sexist shithead I could beat the stuffing out of. A male punching bag.
Yeah, I’ve got issues with men.