Have you ever been bullied? Harassed? Called mentally ill? Told to kill yourself? Just for being who you are?
We have.
Repeatedly.
In response, we have two messages.
The first is to those who have experienced this: You are Seen. You are Loved. You are Cherished. And there is always ALWAYS hope... even in the darkest of places.
And to those who have bullied, harassed, called people mentally ill, told people to kill themselves … Here is my message to you.
All you big, brave, strong people, come... we won't whisper it in your ear. Come... Let us speak directly to you...
Those who have caused this harm.
To you, we say this—
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You wanna know a secret?
We are sick.
We are tired.
No, not tired.
Exhausted.
Every day, we get up. We shower. We shave. We tuck. We dress. We do our hair. We do our makeup. We look in the mirror and scrutinise every pore.
At the start, we kept telling ourselves we HAD to do this.
That we were doing this for us.
And for a while, we believed it.
But we had already accepted who we were.
'cause we did.
'cause it is our lives.
We have lived it. Breathed it. Smelt it. Tasted it.
We knew who we were when we were fucking 13. Maybe even earlier.
No, not maybe. Definitely.
Yet here we are, once again, having to perform just to be tolerated. Begging for scraps that should be the bare minimum.
Our names. Our pronouns. Hell, the right to pee without being grilled to the ninth degree.
They call it passing. We hate that name. We hate that we do it. We hate that we feel we need to do it.
Not for our friends. Or for our family, who, with a few exceptions, accept and love us for who we are. But for every Tom - not our lovely, cuddly, incredible partner - Dick or Harry in the street. As they stare and snicker and point and shout and chide.
Clothes. Hair. Makeup.
"You're a man. You're a man. You're a man."
We've been on Oestrogen for almost six years now. Every day, we apply the cool gel to my leg. And we think, one day, there won't be a need to keep doing this.
That it's 2025. That world is waking up to all of the barriers. Then …
Trans women must declare their status or else they will be arrested, charged and placed on a sexual register.
You fucking what?! Our rapists are still free out there, somewhere, Scott Free, and yet you have the nerve to start targeting trans women?!
That we owe you our story. Owe you something so personal. So sacred to us. You demand it... or else we are the ones deceiving?! Maybe instead of asking us why we don't share "our status", maybe ask yourselves why we feel the need not to.
Maybe because we are scared. Or maybe, just maybe, because it is no big deal.
You know, because it is just a part of who we are.
You mock and say, "ooh, why do you make being trans your whole personality?" Yet, when we don't mention it, you say we owe you the truth.
There is a trans panic bill in America. A gay panic bill. Where people can, and do, say they have legitimate cause to hurt … to kill someone because of thinking they are gay or trans. It's horrible, isn't it? It's barbaric. Yet it is in law.
And now, trans women have to declare who we are, to risk our lives, our very safety... for what? Cis sensibilities.
Hmm... Oh, you are angry. So angry. Some angry trans woman on the internet, making things political. Well, guess what? We are all those things. And the problem ain't me.
'cause we have played your games. Danced your dance. And yet, no matter what we do, it is still never ever enough for some of you.
'cause it was never about tolerance.
Dress it up all you want, you are not tolerant. Not a realist. Not moral or good or just, as you so desperately claim.
You are bigots. And you are just as bad as those you condemn from the safety of the sofa and anonymity.
Why do you shudder?
You can feel it, can't you?
The hook.
The clanking.
The chains.
Yes. Here. They come.
Clink. Clank. Klink. Klank.
It's coming for you.
Because somewhere, deep deep deep down deep deep down, you know you are. What you are.
You are not as tolerant. Not as virtuous as you pretend to be.
And that hook you feel. It is shame. Let me name it for you. Name it, out loud, as you cover your ears and La La La. Burying your head in the sand.
You are ashamed that people can see through it.
We see it.
And we ain't going to soften who we are, to make that feeling go away.
Live with your pain. Breathe it. Taste it.
That's what you expect us to do.
Let's see you live it.
Because you deserve it.
And spare a thought for the next trans person you victimise.
Because the pain you make them feel will be nowhere near as bad as the pain that awaits you when you shuffle off your mortal coil and meet your maker.
As you pray, remember this.
Your God hears you. And he is disgusted. Your God has forsaken you. Abandoned you.
He sides with those you hate. The outcasts. The ones you cast aside in your moral turpitude. And your hate, dressed all pretty in your "Love" … makes him puke.
Think of the hook. The chains.
Be a Scrooge. Not a Marley.
Whatever that means to you.
However, it means to you.
Just know your actions impact people. And the anger you cause... won't go away. No matter how reproachful you are.
Not until you know the truth.
So, yeah... be a Scrooge. Or, you know... Don't.
We ain't your mum.
Just know the anger is there. The hurt. The exhaustion.
And don't be surprised if you finally wake
when you wake
Your Hands Are Slick And Red.
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