I used to be a Poet, or, Pudding, proof, clutter, claptrappings of a life spent spinning like a broken wheel on fire.
Field Notes In/On Transition. I used to be A Poet, or, pudding, proof, clutter, claptrappings of a life spent spinning like a broken wheel on fire. Well, a week or so after having a few weeks worth of hormone aided trauma come crashing and burning in my face, things seem to have balanced out, at least in terms of the hormone part, no crying jags, or unchecked crankiness. It’s so difficult to try and slow my mind down to match the physical and emotional processes that my body and mind are going through right now. I feel like all the outlets I used to have to vent my excess emotional trauma in life (not just the gender stuff either) have ceased working. At least for me, there is this overwhelming urge to change every aspect of my life, which is obviously impossible. My escape valves have always been both healthy: reading, writing, dreaming of positive change for myself, friends, the world, and unhealthy; binge eating, drinking, drugs, “Collecting” (I’m a tidy hoarder) thin...