My apologies for using the word ‘genocide.’

Listen to yourself.

I don’t have the answers for sports.

I don’t have the answers for children.

I’m a quiet conformist, and my hope is that your child is simply a non-trans-non-conformist. It’s much less cruel that way.

But this is about me, selfishly, for the moment. I’m nothing special. Take it in, get creative, and extend it to others.

Alright, me: Thirty. Adult.

I’m no longer in Massachusetts, but in Florida. That’s only one in fifty states; fine, but still imagine it. The rest of the South isn’t far off.

I’m no longer a six-figure engineer, able to pay my way out. That’s much more realistic, isn’t it?

I’m no longer able to talk to my loved ones. Alone. No contact, no support. That, sadly, is the story you prepare for and come to expect. Disgusting, isn’t it?

I go in for a refill, and I’m met with “We can’t.”

My GP happened to be a nurse practitioner, and the state requires an MD now. The practice is booked.

Phone tag. Weeks.

I ration my medication. Read that word again, slowly: Medication.

Half dose, quarter dose,

I’m sluggish.

Phone tag.

Weeks.

I’m scared.