Journal

[This post is pretty dark — and self-indulgent, but that should come as no surprise. You probably don't want to read it unless you are in the most robust frame of mind possible. It mentions the concept of suicide in passing.]

I mostly live in one of two realities these days.

One reality is pretty objectively verifiable. I live in a beautiful part of the world, and I have many lovely and brilliant friends and colleagues who accept, appreciate, and even quite like me. (They don't understand me, but that would be asking a lot of anybody.)

I am not financially secure at all, but I'm comfortable. It wouldn't take much of an upset to throw my life into complete disarray, but I'm doing okay for now. I don't get paid for any of it, but I've plenty of work to be getting on with that I find meaningful and satisfying, and even occasionally fun. This is the world where I've spent most of the last couple of years, and it's been pretty wonderful.

I was relieved to be spared the last hour or so of class, and the unpredictably volatile temper of Mrs Ting. At any moment, a blackboard eraser could shoot across the room and strike with pinpoint accuracy the current target of her ire. A hushed silence would follow; a pause for dramatic effect; and finally the pronouncement like an Old Testament prophet that "You have the audacity to…!" commit whatever grave offence against classroom order.

We were a couple of years into the 1980s, but the concept of audacity had yet to be rehabilitated with any positive connotations.

So all up, I didn't mind the job of setting out chairs in the hall for something that was going on after hours. The something was euphemistically called "Life Education". I don't recall being aware it was something I was invited to, but as it turned out, after dinner, my father drove me back to school, and we took our expertly-arranged seats before a projection screen to watch a 16mm film.

"Oh!" I suddenly thought to myself last night, "This is those stuffed birds all over again, isn't it?" and I burst into inconsolate weeping.

I would have been perhaps eleven or twelve years old; not quite old enough to routinely travel into the city myself by train. I was desperate to get out of the noisy, cruel, and violent outer suburb where we lived for at least a little while, and also desperate to spend some time alone with my father, being eleven or twelve years old, the eldest of four children and therefore not getting an awful lot of parental attention in the normal course of events, and thinking the world of him, as I did.

The Sunday paper had just landed on the front lawn, so I tiptoed across the cold dew in my pyjamas to fetch it. I unrolled it, rolled it tightly in the opposite direction to flatten it out, and turned to the what's on section of the classifieds.

I bought two little ceramic side plates today because:

[Part 72 in a continuing series titled "Katy is self-obsessed and oversharing again."]

I was bullied by a teenage boy yesterday. That hasn't happened for a while.

It was just a little en passant misgendering while I was waiting to cross the road. "Hello Mister," he called, in that unmistakably nasty tone, as he cycled by. And immediately I was cast back to the school playground.

I'm working on a theory that bullying is far more prevalent in socially, ethnically, and culturally homogenous communities. Bullying (as opposed to common or garden violence or provocation) becomes more absurdly futile as communities become more inclusive; you can't humiliate someone for failing to adhere to a comprehensive and universal set of social norms that doesn't exist.

There comes a time in every girl's life: you're maturing, and you need to turn to your mother for answers to awkward questions.

Like where on earth does one go to buy handkerchiefs?

All I've got at the moment is about ten fraying mens hankies, which I think are the same ones my mum bought for me when I was a teenager.

Mum laughed and explained that everybody uses tissues these days, which is why hankies are so hard to find.

It's not that I'm a tissue sceptic. I'm quite persuaded that tissues are superior from a public health perspective, provided you bin them immediately after use, and don't just shove them back in your pocket/handbag/whatever. It's just that I find tissues will more effectively remove makeup, whether you want them to or not. The daintiest dab with a tissue risks exposing the full horror of my big red Karl Malden boozer's nose, which I'd rather avoid.

It's a potent memory: being a child and wobbling about on your first bicycle, focusing so hard on coordinating all the actions required to keep it upright — and failing — until you stop fixating on each individual movement and suddenly "Oh my god! I'm doing it! I'm doing it!"

And then you become self-conscious again and promptly topple over. But that momentary success renders what had seemed a futile pursuit potentially fruitful.

I raise this as a metaphor because when you're a child who is trans and/or neurodivergent, and has no way of knowing that these are perfectly commonplace ways of being, you will find yourself confronted — typically within a year or two of school — with the apparent reality that there is a fixed and very limited number of legitimate kinds of human being, and that you aren't one of them.

I'm absolutely furious.

…is the sort of thing I'm likely to say any day of the week. About a week ago it was particularly appropriate, and occasioned by the start of term at uni and receipt of the timetable for my subject. The timetable is quite sparse, consisting of a single tutorial a week and the due dates for assignments. Ordinarily it causes no distress until I approach one of those deadlines.

Took a promethazine early last night, as I was too exhausted to do anything useful with my evening, and it was upsetting feeling so useless. As usual, this led to being out like a light for ten hours and at least one weird dream.

So I was on a coach trip; some sort of school excursion deal, and in the seat next to me was Peter Davison.

We had a long conversation about acting and television production. And it turns out that he is every bit as lovely as you would expect.

Anyway, as you do on long coach trips, we got a bit tired, and as we'd become firm chums by then we had a bit of a snuggle. Nothing inappropriate; just a perfectly innocent, congenial, arm-in-arm, head-on-shoulder snuggle. That's a thing isn't it?

It turned out we were going to some workshop, and I ended up on a table full of strangers where we did the usual icebreaker thing. I couldn't see any reason not to say that I was currently living in Havana.