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To face the world...

(Pexels/Pixabay)
The board is set. The pieces are moving.

Five years ago, I made the irrational decision to bury her. I became overwhelmed and shoved her into a box. My sweet, dear Ashlee. She was tucked away tightly and neatly to never see the world again.

Tomorrow, in less than 12 hours, she meets the world. I meet the world.

Not random strangers in Birmingham. Not a select few I know in Piedmont. Not Nashville, New Orleans, or Atlanta. People I know and see everyday. People who are as much family to me as the family I live with.

To say I'm scared is an understatement. I've cried a lot this week. I'm crying now as I write this. Not because I worry it's the wrong decision. No, I know it's not. Rather, because I know the gravity of the situation. I also know the questions I ask of myself and the world around me.

"Will they love me?"

"Will they treat me differently?"

"Will they respect me?"

"Am I some joke to them? Or worse, and abomination as most of this state wants me to believe?"

When I walk into the doors of work in 11 hours, I know all eyes will be on me. How could they not be? I'm the internal 'Breaking News.' I'm the push alert that draws eyes and conversation. I'm the unknown. Even knowing this, I also know that there is only one opportunity for first impressions. And tomorrow, Ashlee makes her first impression.

I'm so scared of something going wrong.

I know my voice sucks. I work and work and work and I've hit a wall.

I know my makeup needs more work.

I know so much about me needs more work. And yet, it's time to present myself to the world.

I know how distracted I will be. And yet, I still have to find a way to do my job and be a productive member of the staff.

I'm ready. But being ready doesn't make me not scared. I started hormone replacement therapy less than a week ago, and I know how long I have to go for that to make any difference. I know the dysphoria I will feel every time I open my mouth. I know every single flaw will stand out to me, even if no one else notices.

Hell, the week I decide, "it's time," I have a fucking abscess show up on my left cheek. My cheek! And no amount of makeup will make that swelling less obvious. And guess what, the abscess is from my beard, a decidedly and unequivocal male feature. Hello dysphoria. How are you doing today?

I'm hit constantly by "imposter syndrome." I know so many trans people lose everything, literally everything, to be themselves. And yet, I feel a need to justify why I won't currently try to change my legal name. Because I can't risk losing my daughter in family court because of my ex-wife. Because I have chosen that the fight with my late-in-life parents isn't worth the fight to me. Just maintain a "boy mode" enough to get to where it doesn't matter, but otherwise be the person I know I am and that makes me oh so happy to just look in a mirror.

Who am I to call myself transgender when I'm not prepared to make those same sacrifices? I'm not. But, don't I also deserve to be happy? Don't I deserve to also live my life, as best I can, and be able to live with the outcome?

As I run out of things to say, as my eyes are out of tears to stream down my face, as my hands become slightly more steady and my heart slows to an acceptable pace, I now have less than 11 hours to brace myself for what will be one of the biggest days of my life.

"When the sharpest words wanna cut me down

I'm gonna send a flood, gonna drown 'em out

I am brave, I am bruised

I am who I'm meant to be, this is me

Look out 'cause here I come

And I'm marchin' on to the beat I drum

I'm not scared to be seen

I make no apologies, this is me"

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