Erase & Rewind: A Memoir

By Anika Sorensen

When I was a child, I struggled with trying to understand why I felt broken, disconnected and suicidal. I grew up in a home marred by alcoholism, and violence, where poverty was ever present and a constant reminder that we were poor. I spent the first three decades of my life trying to deny a very simple truth: I was transgender. Despite the bleakness of my childhood and my 'transness', I managed to carve our a very successful career in the tech industry, and had it all - until I didn't. Upon disclosing to everyone in my early 30's that I was trans, my marriage ended, I lost my career, friends disappeared and I became a persona non grata. It seemed I had made the worst mistake of my life - and that's when things got really interesting!

 

This is a story of overcoming obstacles, pushing through when you feel the weight of the world crush the life out of you. It's a story of refusing to give up, or give in. This is a story of losing everything, of finding peace, and of making the most of every opportunity on your journey. Mine is a story of believing in one's agency and the drive to be the master of one's own destiny. Above all, this is a story of love, acceptance, introspection and hope. In the end, hope really does spring eternal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anika Sorensen
• Release date: Aug 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393391418

Anika Sorensen

Anika Sorensen is a writer, academic and woman of trans experience. She transitioned in her early 30's and having had a successful career in the tech sector, found herself without a job, career, home and limited prospects when she began her transition. Still, it didn't deter her and in the space of 10 years, she created a whole new life - and that's where things got really interesting.

Book preview

Foreword

As the song goes, ‘ regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention [1] [2]’ and that is absolutely the story of my life. If truth be told, it’s probably the story of almost anyone’s life. I’ve written what follows as a narrative so that my voice might hopefully tell the story of my own gender struggles,  eventual transition and everything I learned along the way, which was much more than I had ever expected. What follows is an undiluted, honest (brutally at times) and critical reflection (in so far as anyone can be critically reflexive of something so personal as a gender transition from male-to-female) of the experiences, challenges and opportunities that have emerged as I faced into something that, for nearly 30 years, had been buried deep inside and denied as a means of protecting myself from the psychological and emotional pain I knew instinctively would follow were I to disclose who I was before I was ready to do so. There is an innate need for each of us to protect ourselves from that which would hurt us. In doing so, we all too often, and unintendedly, deceive those closest to us. It is this deception that is my most profound regret. In an attempt to protect me from.....me, there were many emotional casualties. Whilst I do regret not being more honest with those closest to me about my transness, I don’t dwell on it. I’ve found that life is best lived looking through the windscreen rather than a rear view mirror. The warning on door mirrors that ‘objects may be closer than they appear’ should also serve as a cautionary tale for those of us that spend too much time living in the past to fully enjoy the present or embrace the uncertainty of what the future has to hold. Life is at best fleeting, so dwelling on past regrets seems like a huge waste of the valuable and limited time we have in this world. We are here one minute and gone the next. Live, love and embrace your life.

I have wondered many times whether there was any point in writing a memoir. After all, who am I? I’m not famous in any way. I’ve not done anything that would single me out as extraordinary. In many respects, I am such an average person, that you’d pass me in the street and not give me a second glance. Besides, writing a memoir if you’re not someone famous, or someone who has achieved visibility through one’s positive contribution to society or the betterment of others seems, well......just a little self-indulgent. For someone that lives in the shadows, and is happy with the anonymity that it provides – why write anything at all? Why risk losing everything by disclosing who you are. I’ve been there, done that and wouldn’t want to repeat that part of my life – once was enough. What could I possibly have to say that would resonate with anyone? After all, we all have stories to tell. What makes my story any more compelling than any other story available on the web? In an effort to educate close family and some close friends what it is like to be trans, how I struggled through my childhood, teens and adulthood, I decided the best way would be to write something that they could mull over whenever the mood hit them, and that is where this book originated. I suppose, as an academic whose research area explores the bright and dark side of the human condition, it would be remiss of me to ignore the opportunity to apply an autoethnography (of sorts) to explore and better understand social and cultural experiences as a woman of trans experience.

When I transitioned from male-to-female almost two decades ago, I had it all. I was the measure of success in every way that mattered in the eyes of those that knew me and how society would define being ‘successful’. I had the amazing wife, beautiful home, a career that was on an upward trajectory and wanted for very little in my life. By every measure of success – I had arrived. Within 12 months of disclosing my ‘decision’ to transition, I had lost everything. Close to suicide, I seriously wondered whether I had made the worst mistake of my life. I had two black refuse sacks that held my worldly possessions, and I had a little money in the bank, but not a lot. I no longer had a home, and my career evaporated almost overnight. It did appear as though my life was over. It turns out, as bad as things were to get for me, and things got really, really bad – there was always a glimmer of hope and I held on to that hope with both hands whenever I was feeling defeated and bereft by what I saw as loss, after loss, after loss.

What follows isn’t a ‘self-help’ manual, and it isn’t a step-by-step guide to transitioning (from male-to-female) – there are plenty of incredible books out there that provide that insight. This is solely an honest memoir that explores my own, arguably interesting journey through life as a woman of trans experience. There isn’t anything salacious that follows in these pages, and there is nothing much about my surgeries, and there’s certainly nothing about how things ‘function’ post operatively. Some things are simply too personal. If you’re looking for that type of a story – then I’m sorry because this isn’t it. What follows is an introspective of how I processed ‘being trans’ at various stages throughout my life, from when I was a very young child of maybe 4 or 5, to the point in my adult life when I knew I had to do something about my gender dysphoria before it killed me. Like many people who are born trans (and we are born this way), it is not something that will miraculously go away, nor is it something that can (or could) be cured. It cannot be prayed away, nor is it something that can be ‘righted’ through intense psychotherapy. If you are one of the many people in the world who has come to the stark realization that you are different and feel that sense of soul-crushing isolation that many of us do – keep reading. If you are someone who feels a deep sense of being out of step with everyone else and that nobody could ever truly understand your pain – keep reading. If you have ever felt disconnected from the world and the people around you because of how you feel or identify – keep reading. And yes, if you are a person of trans experience, or you’re the parent of a child that self-identifies as trans, gender non-conforming, or gender variant, or whose gender expression is different to their sex assigned at birth and you worry about their path through life – then keep reading. Transition is so much more than the physical metamorphosis that one experiences. You gain enlightenment on your journey and it stems from the spiritual, intellectual and emotional growth that comes with embracing your true self, in spite of the challenges that occur. If I remained silent, nobody would know of my struggles, there would be nobody to relate to my feelings of isolation and emptiness. It is clear that I am making myself vulnerable by disclosing very personal thoughts and feelings, and yet, to not do so would mean that my story would remain untold. Is learning and understanding not more important than feeling discomfort from their vulnerability? As an educator, I believe the pursuit of knowledge and understanding are critical to our growth as human beings.   

When I embarked on my own gender transition (one that really began when I was just a child), my aunt offered these words of encouragement when I was feeling just so lost and alone, and to anyone that is starting their own gender transition – I offer them to you: ‘never forget that you are loved, you are cherished and you make the world a better place by being in, and experiencing it – nobody deserves to die because of who they are’. Thank you Eleanor, those words of encouragement carried me through many a dark times.

‘The authentic self is the soul made visible’ – Anonymous

Who am I?

When approaching how best to develop a memoir, one is primarily reliant on memories of events that occurred years, or in my case, decades ago. Whilst many of my earliest childhood memories have helped craft the person I am today, it is still possible that my memories have fooled me. In an effort to reduce the potential for phantom memory recall, I felt it important to garner the perspective and insights of trusted others to help provide a more complete and accurate picture of events from my past. In this respect, I sought objective viewpoints from my closest family members who provided their unique take on events that I may have alluded to throughout what follows. Although I did rely on close family members to help fill the gaps in my own perception of childhood events, I relied on journals and diaries that I kept for many years, in which I wrote constantly about how I was experiencing and making sense of who I was in the world. These journals were a life saver, and were a refuge for me and my fragile self when I felt so hopelessly disconnected from the life I was living, and from those around me.

As an academic, I have grappled with the simple existential question: ‘who am I’? Such a simple question and yet, so difficult to answer. I have concluded, after years of searching for an answer to that seemingly simple question, that it is imponderable. Can we ever truly know who any of us are? Can we apply reductionist reasoning in determining who anyone is? Can we dissect the psyche, emotions and complexity of the human spirit and soul in an effort to provide an accurate picture of a person? I don’t believe so. Who we are is so much more than what others see. We are everything we have ever done, seen, felt, and been. We are the sum of all our loves and losses, and so much more. We are shaped by our experiences, but we are not defined by them. Crucially, we are more than what is learned from our experiences and yet, we are limited by the prejudices and biases of others projected on to our own sense of self. Perception is reality, but a reality that is predicated on what is seen rather than what is felt or intuited. We are loved passionately and feared deeply, in equal measure. We are embraced by many that know us, and shunned by many more who don’t want to. We are labelled, categorized and codified as if we’re something that needs to be understood before we are accepted. Despite the many hurdles we face, most of us just want to live life in quiet anonymity, free from public gaze – sometimes we’re lucky and we can, sometimes we’re less lucky. This is very much the trans experience: a blessing and a curse. What follows is not written chronologically, it is a memoir after all. It is written very much from the perspective of experiences that I’ve had at various stages during the process. What follows reflects different times in my life that challenged me to reflect on the question: who am I? Although the following chapters may appear disjointed, and out of sequence, they appear so because they fit more appropriately with the narrative I’ve chosen to use. 

Although every gender transition is very much a personal journey, the vast majority of us that travel this particular road less travelled are exposed to varying degrees of discrimination, prejudice, bigotry, violence or worse. I know this all too well, having experienced it myself. Sadly, some of us will simply not make it out alive[3]. Nobody comes through this process unscathed. Transition leaves its mark. Our scars, be they psychological, emotional or physical, no matter how well hidden, remind us that our journey has exacted a cost and toll, that those who have not travelled this path simply cannot appreciate on any discernible level. Nevertheless, those costs are the price of passage and we willingly pay them. Many on this journey experience a catharsis of sorts following a final realization, and acceptance, that we cannot change who we are. This is an epiphany that many of us have after years of living in denial. Some of us come to this realization sooner than others; however, there is an inevitability that it will happen at some point in your life. We all reach this inflection point. It is a little ironic that our differences, the one thing that singles us out as ‘other’, ‘queer’, or ‘not equal to’ also reflects a common thread of humanity: a universal truth that each of us is different. Diversity unites rather than divides us. No two human beings are exactly alike – everyone is different. So the question arises, why is being different such an affront to many people? It shouldn’t matter whether you are Black, brown, white, gay, straight, trans or cis, but somehow it does. In our fear of what we don’t understand, it is easier for us to seek comfort and security in our own biases and prejudices, those intolerances often shaped by the unknown, or perhaps our desire to not want to know. It is far easier for us to label than it is for us to understand. It is more convenient to delegitimize than it is to embrace. The very thing that differentiates ‘us’ from ‘we’ is the one thing that paradoxically binds every single human being on the planet – our individuality and uniqueness. Unity all too often gives way to fear of that which is different. Perhaps Thoreau was right when he wrote ‘the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation’. I suspect we have all led lives of quiet desperation at one time or another. What determines whether we are crushed by that quiet desperation, or rise above it is the belief that tomorrow will be different, that light always follows darkness, and that hope will guide us through despair. In my darkest hours, when I felt the weight of the world crush the life out of me, I always clung to the hope that I would make it through my transition – and I did. My journey certainly wasn’t easy, but I made it through. My story, like the story of millions of people who struggle with the emotional and psychological toll life exacts from time to time, is about hope in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles. It is about the struggle to live when it is far easier to give in and give up. My story isn’t just about being trans, it’s about how most of us navigate the many challenges life throws up, when it is easier to surrender to circumstance than it is to fight, even when there is little fight left in us. This isn’t just my story, it’s everyone’s story.

Accepting that you are trans and knowing that there is very little that you can do to re-write that part of your DNA brings with it a sense of relief, but that acceptance also comes at a cost – it  causes untold stress and anxiety, pain and yes, suffering. However, one must remain cognizant that those closest to us, the ones who know us most intimately, and love us so very deeply, may experience the same emotions as us, and their pain and suffering is no less legitimate than ours is. The loss we may have felt for many years, that overwhelming sense of feeling adrift, that emptiness – those are also emotions our families are also likely to feel when we disclose being trans. The emotions everyone in your orbit experiences when you disclose your ‘transness’ are no different to our own: those emotions reflect a visceral loss. Whilst our families may never fully understand the ‘why’ of our decision to transition, don’t assume that their love and support for you is any less than it was before your disclosure – they simply need time to process. Our families may grapple intellectually, spiritually, or morally with our decision and this is something we need to accept in very much the same way that we expect them to be ok with our bombshell announcement. Arguably, transitioning is never really a decision to be made in the first place - that dye was cast long before we were even born. We are simply, who we have always been. Believe me, and I say this with some authority - nobody would ever willingly want to be transgender. Whilst we all struggle with the very painful truth that we cannot ignore being trans forever, we eventually, sometimes painfully, just accept this is who we are [existential question partially answered] and move forward with our lives. I don’t ever regret anything to do with my own transition (aside from the emotional pain I caused to others when I finally disclosed being trans). I love who I am, and I would never go back (or de-transition), I just wouldn’t. Still, there were many times when I prayed for a different cross to bear, because being trans is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. It is emotionally crushing and psychologically traumatic for any adult to deal with. And, having been a child dealing with this, I can assure you it was even worse. I can only imagine the stress and anxiety levels the parents of a young trans child experiences, it must truly feel like your world is falling apart. Trust me, the anxiety and stress you may be feeling is perfectly normal. My own parents felt the same way and experienced the same emotions as you might be, and I was an adult when I ‘came out’. As the parent of a trans child, life will be complicate, challenging and you will question everything about your role in your child’s development. You will question what kind of environment you created that might have resulted in your child disclosing they are trans. Stop, you did nothing wrong. The fact that your child feels comfortable enough disclosing something so scary means that you are already amazing parents, and for that, your child will forever be grateful.

We all work with the hand we have been dealt, few people in life get an free ride, we all have our burdens. That’s just life. Once we accept who we are, and that we can’t change that truth, inertia takes over and our transness becomes a dominant feature of who we are. Pandora’s box has been opened. Your truth is now ‘out there’. That truth is a declarative statement than can never be unsaid or unwritten. Although others may see us as less than, and be compelled to ‘other’ us – we cannot be wished out of existence, nor should we be. Many of us will have had a lifetime to finally arrive at our truth, and so it is inevitable, that when we finally accept who we are and make that truth public knowledge – we embrace the freedom that has for so long eluded us. There are many questions many will feel compelled to ask, so be prepared to answer as best you can. Some questions at the top of the list include: Why now? Why not just supress it, fight harder? Why would you give up everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve? Why would you do this when the road ahead is unknown? Why would you do this knowing that you may never have a ‘normal’ life again? Why would you bring this on yourself, and your family? Why did you get married? Who will love you and take care of you when we’re gone?  All these questions are valid and there is neither a quick nor simple answer. Many of our closest family members will react to our disclosures in similar ways. Gender transition isn’t just about us, it’s as much about those that matter most in our lives. As difficult as transitioning is for us, and it can be hell, it is probably harder for our families.

Sex is not the same as Gender, it just isn’t. Our being trans isn’t a symptom of latent homosexuality, nor is it a psychiatric disorder (according to the DSM-V). We aren’t mentally ill, although our journeys quite often takes a psychological toll, which is why trained clinicians are vitally important during the transition process. The vast majority of us that transition merely want to live our lives free from ridicule, persecution, and prejudice, and although there are many that will never accept that transwomen are just ‘women’ - we persist. We will always persist. We are the same people you knew before we transitioned, and we’ll be the same after transition, except we will feel unburdened as a result of accepting our true selves. As I began my own transition, having missed out on experiencing life as a genetic female, there were times when I thought I would crumble under the weight of what I was about to do. In the end, I took each day as it came, I took each step along the way and kept going, I kept breathing. The journey is long, the road ahead is paved with many challenges. You will fall down many times, but you will get up again, and you will keep breathing, because the hardest part of your journey is behind you. Accepting who you are, and embracing your authentic self is the hard part, becoming who you always knew you were marks the part of your journey that gets easier with time. One thing is for sure, you will fail, you will fail again, and you will fail better but eventually, you will succeed. The road is long but if you stay the course, you will eventually arrive at your destination. Remember, your destination is unique to you, so try not to base your timetable on what someone else has done. You are the author of your own story. Although my book reflects my own gender transition, I accept that there are many of us that exist within the LGBTQ+ community. My love, respect and support for every single one of you that has been ridiculed, demeaned, ostracized and violated for being who you are is without limits. I see you, I hear you and I feel you with every breath I take. We may travel alone on our journey but we walk together.

Epiphany

Sometimes in life we experience events, that in the moment they occur, we don’t see the connection or relevance. It is only through a retrospective lens that we fully appreciate the magnitude of those events, and then they make sense. Life is funny that way, little more than a series of seemingly unconnected events that don’t fully form to create a complete picture until one is ready to see it. So, when I started writing this book about two years ago, I hadn’t realized the significance of some of those events because they happened in isolation, months and perhaps years apart. These events only now becoming clearer, almost Monet-like. What once made little sense, now made more sense when viewed interconnectedly.

There’s a scene at the end of the movie Thelma & Louise where a stark realization dawns on our protagonists that this is it. Faced with the undeniable truth that their lives as they know it, are over – reality sets in. It’s an incredibly powerful moment in a movie of many powerful moments. The options for Thelma & Louise are few, and the future looks grim. They look at each other and then Thelma says rather calmly to Louise "Let’s not get caught......let’s keep going". It was a particularly fitting, if not poignant end to the to the movie that holds a special place in people’s hearts, even after all these years. I doubt many who watched that movie in the theatre came away without shedding a tear or two. I know I didn’t. Thelma and Louise were characters that audiences could relate to. People just fell in love with them, seriously, who wouldn’t? These two characters I imagine, appealed to other women who were in similar situations, experiencing the same feeling of being trapped. Trapped in a loveless relationship, by societal expectations based on their sex, or by the belief that they lacked agency to change their destiny to become free. Maybe the longing to be free, if only for the duration of the movie, was a psychological and emotional freedom that was not physically possible given their particular set of personal circumstances. I, and I suspect almost everyone else who watched that movie in the movie theatre hoped against all hope, that Thelma & Louise would escape to Mexico (Zihuantanejo), like Andy Dufrense in the Shawshank Redemption did some years later. However.....you just knew when ‘The Ballad of Lucy Jordan’ began to play in the background – there wasn’t going to be a happy ending. The weather beaten faces of Thelma and Louise was the canvas upon which that particular song made sense in the context of the movie. The realization that there was no going back, and there was no escaping their fate, was for me, perhaps the most profound moment in a remarkable movie. In the end, Thelma & Louise met their end in the only way that would, or could ever really have made sense – they died as they might have wanted to live: free. I suppose, for many of us that go to movies as a form of escapism, we too long for that emotional need to escape. We’ve all daydreamed about being somewhere else, or being someone else when we feel suffocated by our own troubles. For me, that movie and the fate of Thelma & Louise was almost like a precursor to my own life and struggles. I didn’t know it then but years later, my inability to deal with my own struggles brought me to the edge, and for whatever reason – I didn’t pull a Thelma & Louise. I’m still here and privileged to be so.

And so it was, as I sat at the cliff’s edge, many years after that movie came out, I too was faced with that stark realization that for me, there was no going back, nor was there any escaping my fate, a fate that had been sealed even before I was born. Here I sat contemplating my end, without anyone that could know or share my pain, or feel what I had felt most of my life. I was alone with my thoughts, and the memories of a life filled with heartache and regrets. Of course, my end was sure to be far less dramatic than the movie. I could just ‘keep going’ or I could take a step back. I’d like to think in that moment, I was as calm as Thelma & Louise but I know I wasn’t. Calm is a relative term anyway. Seriously, I was contemplating my own suicide so how calm could I really have been?

‘Will I feel anything?’

‘Will ending it all really numb my pain – forever?

What if I survive? Christ that’s even worse that dealing with this shit!

It’s truly strange the thoughts that go through one’s mind when one is contemplating their own demise. The magnitude of what I was about to do played out in a soundtrack in my mind, flashing images from the closing scenes of Monty Pythons The Life of Brian.....’always look on the bright side of life......’. Still, I reasoned, it could be worse. My life could be so much worse than it was. After all, I had achieved so much, why throw it all away now? I was successful, and to the outside world, I had everything that signified that success. I had an amazing wife, beautiful home, great job, and sure, wasn’t I amazing too! Inside however, I was dying. Every day a little bit of me wore away. I was being hollowed out by the experience of existing but not living, by being alive but feeling dead inside. In an effort to protect myself, I shut off my ability to experience love, emotional connectivity, comfort or joy. That was simply the cost of being able to function. If I kept those emotions in check, I could lead a some semblance of a normal life. Admittedly, what I was doing, keeping my emotions in check, could best be described as anything but normal. To me, emotions were foreign concepts because I simply couldn’t relate. I had no frame of reference. To everyone that knew me, I was driven, extremely confident in myself and even more confident in everything I did. Appearances can be deceptive because the truth....well the truth was, it was all a show. Who I was, and how I portrayed myself, was purely for the benefit of others. Acting the part allowed me to survive, but more importantly, it provided evidence to everyone else that I was who they perceived me to be. If only they knew. Many times I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, just to feel alive, to let others feel my pain. But I never did. I never faltered in my acting. I never gave in, and I refused give up. I bottled up everything inside. To the outside world, and everyone who knew me – I was just me, at least the me that I wanted others to see. Despite my confident exterior, internally, I was a shadow only going through the motions because I lacked the courage to be truthful. I had often been told by former colleagues that I was very ‘black & white’, or I was ‘really intense’ – you always knew where you stood with me. I wore those accolades with a sense of pride, a badge of honour, because it was a clear validation of my ability to hide out in plain sight. My method acting was pretty damn good. I was a ‘force of nature’ at work. In many people’s minds, I was as authentic as you could get. As I reflect on the adjective authentic, I would argue I was probably the least authentic person you could have known. I was neither truthful, nor genuine. To be truthful is to be vulnerable, who wants to be vulnerable? No matter how good one is at hiding who they really are, eventually, and sometimes quite painfully, our ability to hide in plain sight reaches its limits and our Thelma & Louise moment arrives, and it arrives with a bang. And so it was, eleven years after Thelma & Louise come out in the theatre, I was faced with a different kind of ‘coming out’. Here I was facing into the abyss wondering whether I should just keep going over the edge, metaphorically, physically, emotionally and psychologically. This was a defining moment in my life, a moment that was to have profound consequences for many years to come. 

It was a wintery morning in mid-October and I was considering ending my life. As I sat gazing out into the cold, dark Atlantic, there was something almost inviting about the prospect of taking a swan dive off a 700 foot cliff. It would all be over in a matter of a few seconds I reasoned. Yep, thinking about taking that leap into the unknown peering into the sea at the bottom of an iconic cliff face and actually going through with it are most assuredly not the same thing. Could be worse I suppose. Even in that moment of total madness, I was weighing up my odds for a successful suicide attempt (not my first) and damn it, the odds were not in my favour. Honestly, I was trying to calculate the physics of a fall rather than a jump from a 700ft cliff. Is it height * distance / acceleration or is it height multiplied by acceleration / distance -  who does that? I wondered, as I grappled with the logistics of killing myself. Imagine, attempting to calculate the physics of suicide – insane. Such an engineering thing to do, I thought, but I guess that’s just the way my brain was wired. No matter the calculations, a thought was ringing out loud and clear fuck it, look this is going to hurt either way, it’s just the amount of time that your brain has to process just what in the fuck you’re doing as you fly down the Cliff face to your obvious end and as I let those thoughts floated around in my mind, I took a step back from the edge of the Cliff and though.....hold on a God damn minute. I figure that’s your brain’s way of attempting to put the brakes on one doing something that could potentially end life as you know it. The irony of it all wasn’t wasted on me. Your brain is kind of cool that way. It has this sort of brake in case of emergency thing that just won’t let you do something really fucking stupid. In that moment, I wasn’t thinking rationally. Rationality and normal service were suspended. I was alone. This was it. There was no going back or so I thought. I wondered how it had come to this? I questioned what it was to be alive, to feel connected. Something admittedly, I hadn’t felt up to this point. It is said there is a sense of calm that one feels prior to ending one’s life and yet, I felt no such calm. I felt as lost and broken at that point as I had when I was four or five years old trying to figure out why I was different, why I wasn’t like my big sister. I was older now, but I was still obviously as broken as I had ever been. I grappled with feeling so ashamed about who I was but I was also angry. My anger was a constant in  my life: never dissipating, never lessening over the years, it just never went away. Like a dull throbbing pain, it seemed to get worse with time. The pain endured. As did I, at least up to this point. I had gotten used to it. I knew it was there, it caused no end of anxiety and discomfort but I kind of got used it in the way anyone would try and get used to that sense of disconnect one has felt their entire life. I did my best. Sometimes, your best just doesn’t seem to work anymore, and I was staring down at my proverbial end. This was my inflection point. This is where I needed to decide where my life was going – up, or down (the Cliff).

I had long ago accepted I was broken or at least that is how I had always rationalized it. Was I broken because I was different or was I different because I was broken? The absurdity of the question matched only by the resignation that this was who I was, and nothing could be done to make me feel whole. I had agency, and the ability to direct my own life but I was paralyzed by the fear of what I would lose were I to invoke agency. I knew I had the strength to carve out my own destiny, but I was too afraid to take the plunge, to push through the psychological barrier preventing me from believing that things would work out - eventually. Like an abused wife or husband, or a bullied kid in school or the workplace – things