I can’t eat dairy. For years I had really bad indigestion and heartburn, a GERD diagnosis, and was put on high doses of antacids.

Then one day I tried avoiding all dairy. This is hard to do, they put cream and butter and milk into everything. But the heartburn just stopped. Poof.

Fortunately, vegans are now becoming less fringe, so it’s easier to find non-dairy “cheeze” and fake milk made from nuts and seeds and things. And some of them taste pretty good, but you know they’re not quite the real thing.

When my friend group and I started becoming teenagers at the age of 11 or 12 or so, the girls suddenly stopped hanging out with us. The Change is confusing, it’s understandable. And the other boys all played football and baseball and watched cartoons together. I wanted to hang out with and understand the girls. And I was told that was impossible. They did not accept me. I was told to Keep Out.

As I went through high school this continued. Maybe there were some glimmers of acceptance, but not really. I was called homosexual, and a “fag” and beaten by the bullies. I didn’t even know why. “Transgender” was not really in the lexicon in the 1980s, or if it was it was spoken of like cancer, a disorder to be cured and certainly not talked about. I knew I wasn’t homosexual, but had no idea what I was.

My first girlfriend was the snapping point. I was absolutely locked out of everything in her life. She would have her female friends over as chaperones, and they would constantly whisper and excuse themselves to other rooms and refer to things, and again I was told to Keep Out. This is Girl Talk and you’re not allowed.

And the women come and go, talking of Michaelangelo

For 10 years I was hurt and bitter and absolutely untrusting. I hurt a lot of people through my lack of trust. Maybe even some who would ultimately have accepted me.

Then I spoke to a psychologist who told me about this miraculous pill, the Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor. It wouldn’t solve all my problems, but it would take the edge off. And it did, I felt less angry, and the hurt female part of me faded into the background, like a patient etherized upon a table.

I met and married my wife, and while I certainly felt some insecurity, I mean who doesn’t when entering into a lifetime commitment? She was accepting, and kept the remnants of that part of me soothed. For 22 years all was well. I was in therapy for 30 years, and while it helped a lot, there was always a sense of unease, of incompleteness.

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

Then I saw an article about SSRIs and their cousins, the SNRIs, and a correlation between long term use and increased risk of dementia. Since articles aren’t scientific studies, I searched for actual science. And I found it. On the nih.gov website, a meta-study that covered 20 different studies, and after filtering for various factors that would reduce accuracy, ultimate found 6 studies covering 60,000 people, all nicely statistically separated by class of drug, age, sex, etc. And yeah, Pristiq, the SNRI I had been taking for the past 10 years, is connected to a 1.78x increased risk of dementia.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

I spoke to multiple psychiatrists about getting off the Pristiq. “Oh No”, they would cry, “this is Medically Necessary, since you have Childhood Trauma and will never truly be free”. And “Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet, these medications are Perfectly Safe” Then finally I found a younger psychiatrist who had seen the same and similar studies, and agreed to help me taper off.

At the same time, I discovered to my dismay that our very expensive home renovation actually cost twice as much as even the six-figure price I had originally been quoted. The builder, who had been cc’ing me on all the paperwork, only sent the actual invoices to my wife. She didn’t realize I hadn’t seen them, so thought I was on board and just paid them. I found this out when I discovered the balance of our mortgage was doubled, a year after the work was completed.

We started seeing a couples counselor while I dealt with emotional instability and brain zaps, and eventually I got to the realization that she didn’t do this intentionally, and worked out the rest of the story.

But the woman within me was waking up. After being denied, abused, and starved, then put into a medically induced coma for 25 years, she was pissed.

Once again, I did some research. Found the Gender Dysphoria Bible, and some Discord groups, and finally the Billy DeFrank Center for LGBTQ+. I found that I might actually be non-binary, gender fluid, transfem.

I found a gender affirming counselor who can also work with me on the childhood trauma. Perhaps they can help me through this difficult time and discover who I really am.

My wife, meantime, sees my dysphoria and realized she is losing her husband. I think she’ll make it through and we’ll stay together, but she is grieving, and I need to leave her that space.

I spoke to my AFAB friends, cis female and other, and the response was universal. They will accept my pronouns and my new name, but there’s a part of themselves that’s still Girls Only that they will never share with me, even if I fully transition. There are still Keep Out signs. I am forever tainted by being AMAB. I am transitioning so I can Invade these women spaces, and use my Privilege to dominate and despoil. Even longterm friends and nonbinary women can never accept that this is who I am. Even giving up the white male privilege, being the best ally I can be, and modifying my very body doesn’t change the fact that 60 years ago some doctor looked at the tiny bit of flesh hanging between my newborn legs and checked the box labelled “M” on some piece of paper.

I will forever be oat milk. Cashew-based cheeze. Not the real thing, at best a pretty good simulation.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

But it was only fantasy
The wall was too high as you can see
No matter how he tried he could not break free
And the worms ate into his brain