Jen Ives

[1]

The Women’s Institute will no longer allow transgender members. Trans girls banned from Girlguiding. Labour bans trans women from Women’s Conference. The Trump Administration plans to end prison rape protections for trans people, memo says.

All of this has been announced in one week (and it’s not even Saturday yet).

This morning I opened my advent calendar and, where a chocolate should have been, was instead a cyanide capsule - and a short, cursive, seasonal message reading: Do it, tranny. I didn’t, of course. I wouldn’t be writing this now if I had - but I did put it away somewhere safe, about my person, just in case.

I am no longer leaving the flat. I Deliveroo or JustEat everything I need right to my door. Hot dinners, groceries, tobacco - cyanide capsules. Even a phone charging cable if I need it. I don’t, but I’ve ordered 5 anyway. You never know, these days. Why leave the flat? Why risk it? I have a toilet here, and I can use it whenever I like with no stipulations (and I need to, often - due to all the fast food).

Socialising isn’t necessary anymore. All my friends are inside my phone, inside of apps. And when they’re not available, I have the comments sections and DMs. And when no one's there, I chat with my favourite AI chatbot on Amazon - making up fake complaints and refund claims for conversation.

A letter just dropped through my letter box. It’s from the government - they say they’re commandeering my toilet. It’s going to a ‘biological woman who needs it’ - to make up for all the times I unlawfully used a public ladies room in the past 15 years. Tomorrow, I can expect some men to come by and take it out. They will leave me with one gratis box of hazardous waste bags, which when out I’ll need to pay to be refilled.

Some good news! I received a phone call from the Women’s Institute, and they say they are creating a new division to cater to their trans former-members. It’ll be called The Trans Women’s Institute. The address is a hospital, and membership is mandatory. They’re sending a van on Sunday to pick me. I’m very excited to be ‘Institutionalised’ - as they put it.

I’ve lost my cyanide capsule. Typical me. I shouldn’t have scrimped on the next-day delivery. I’ll be off to The Institute before the new ones arrive. Oh well.

[2]

More good news! The men who came to confiscate my toilet were actually really nice. One of them said I had a ‘good bum’, and it made me feel valid. One problem - they didn’t quite disconnect the pipes properly and now I have water flooding my bathroom. Luckily, I don’t need to worry about my flat anymore, they say - as I’ll be off to the Trans Women’s Institute soon enough, where I’m told I’ll live in peace with all my other trans sisters. Joy of joys!

The more I think about the idea, the more I come to understand it. I can see how it’s probably for the best. Society just doesn’t get us - and I guess they never will. Separatism has benefits. At least I’ll be around people who get me.

It’s 4 o’clock, and a few minutes ago there was a loud knocking on my door. Men and women in white jumpsuits came up to my flat, and now they’re packing a bag for me. No clothes needed - they say they have a new wardrobe waiting for me at The Institute. That’s wonderful, because I’ve given up on looking nice lately. Every time I buy a new dress, or top, or whatever, the sizes don’t ever quite work out. I’m not allowed to use ladies changing rooms, so I’ve had to order all my clothes online, and just guess the size.

They say I can bring my notebook, but no electronics. No phone. No laptop. Probably for the best - as we’ve all become attached to them, haven’t we? It’ll be a nice little holiday away from doom scrolling. As we leave the flat, water is pouring out from the hole where my toilet used to be. They tell me it’s going to a biological woman named Christina who is having a third bathroom put in, and needs it to match her tiling. It feels good to give back.

The back of the van is comfy enough. I’m sitting next to two girls I’ve never met before. New friends! One looks younger than me - blonde, skinny and very well passing. She could be a model. The other is older, and is crying. I ask her what her name is, and she tells me Emily. She says her cat was confiscated. I tell her not to worry - it’ll most probably have a good home with a kind, heteronormative family who’ll have enough shared income to treat it better. Give it premium food, and such.

The Institute is a chance for us to ‘escape the conflicting pressures of a sane society’ where ‘transsexuals can be free to exist as they are’ - that’s according to this pamphlet anyway. There is a photoshopped image on the front of a sisterhood of smiling trans women, arm in arm, in what appears to be a beautiful garden.

The younger blonde girl hasn’t spoken to me. She has her head up against the window, and is muttering something to herself that I can’t quite make out.

She’ll come around, I’m sure. This is all for the best really - God knows I was struggling to afford the rent. And, according to this pamphlet here, I’ll ‘never have to worry about any of that again’. So that’s something.

[3]

The Institute looks a lot like a hospital, except we’ve been assured that it isn’t one - so that’s a load off. In fact, they tell us that most of the staff aren’t trained medical professionals at all - many of them haven’t even been taught to do the Heimlich Manoeuvre, so we have to make sure we chew our meals properly.

We spent the first three hours in a lecture hall, being shown Disney films on a big screen. We watched Snow White, and then Pinocchio - which is about a little wooden puppet who dreams of being a real person. You’ve probably seen it - it’s gangbusters! I’d say there are about sixty of us here - all trans women. I’ve never been in a room with so many of us at once! Very sisterly vibes.

A man called Professor Samuel explained to us what was going to happen. He can’t be older than 40, and has a kind face with a little mole on his left cheek. He said that we are to live here now, and we need not worry about anything. It’ll all be sorted, Professor Samuel says - from hormones, to clothes, to electrolysis - and even surgeries. All we have to do in return is agree - verbally, and in writing - to being male (and mentally ill).

This one girl (redhead, early 30s) stood up and pushed her chair down the lecture theatre stairs. She shouted out that Professor Samuel could ‘go and get fucked’ before she’d agree to ‘anything like that’. Three men and two women in white scrubs came in and dragged her away. If she’d only bothered to read the pamphlet they gave us, she’d have known that it’s not so bad, really. On page 2, for example, it clearly states that friends and family will be allowed to visit on Thursdays, and we can even earn fun group trips out, accompanied by staff.

My room is nice, and I’m sitting in it right now. I’ve got a bed, a chair, a desk, and a window - which overlooks the gardens. Looking out of it, I can see a small group of girls being shown the proper way to walk in heels - up and down, up and down the decking. They’ve brought a specialist in to show them - a cis woman, it looks like. Each girl is dressed in a mini-skirt and crop top.

Just checked in my wardrobe, and sure enough - I have a skirt and top set too. I also have a more formal party dress - with puffed sleeves and a floral pattern. There is a catalogue in the side drawer, with a post-it on it, telling me to tick the outfits and shoes I like. See, they weren’t lying!

Look, I’m not naive - I can see why the red haired girl was upset (wherever she is), but I don’t see what I can do about any of it. I’d might as well make the best of the situation, and look on the bright side. At least I can make friends here. Have a bit of a social life, and stop panicking about unpaid bills. If all I have to do is sign a silly piece of paper agreeing to be ‘a man’, and in return I get the very best trans healthcare imaginable - why the hell not?

I’m quite sure that none of this will be forever. These things are like a pendulum, aren’t they? Politics, or whatever. Things feel odd now, but time is a healer - and progress moves forwards, right? That’s the way of things… I might as well get the hormones and the surgeries while I can now, and then when the tides inevitably change, and people come to their senses, we’ll all probably be let out and apologised to. Possibly compensated for all the hatred over the past couple of decades. I believe that.

I mean, this place is practically a resort. We probably ought to at least give it a chance?

[4]

Odd - there’s nothing in the papers today about the country-wide ban on trans women from public life. You’d think something like that’d be newsworthy? At the breakfast table this morning, I scanned through as many papers as I could - which all seemed to have the right number of pages (as far as I could tell) but not a single thing. I’d have thought the left-leaning papers like The Guardian or Independent would have something, but no.? 15 pages of sport though.

Toast and jam and fruit for breakfast. And, as they said they would, we’ve had hormone pills handed out to each of us to have with our coffee and orange juice. I don’t know which kind they are - I used to be on estradiol (8mg) but these are just one single pill. It’s light blue, and comes in little paper cups. The blonde girl from the van is sitting at my table, and I notice her drop her pill into her pajama breast pocket.

We all have silk pajamas. They have a little kitten pattern over them. We all match. It’s cute, like we’re all at a sleepover! Although, I didn’t get much sleep last night. There was a lot of crying and banging, and the occasional scream from across the hall. Some girls are really struggling to settle in. I totally get it - I was the same way back on school trips.

During breakfast, we watched another Disney film - Beauty and the Beast this time. Belle was always my favourite as a kid. I liked that she liked to read. I do too - except all they have here are copies of Black Beauty, Jayne Eyre and Bunty.

I have a personal counselor assigned to me. Her name is Rachel, and she says she’s going to help me ‘figure myself out’. She’s about my age, but she doesn’t really look at me when we talk. Our first meeting wasn’t very long, she just assured me that my family and friends know where I am, and arrangements will be made for them to come and visit me soon. This is all new for them, too - apparently. I need to ‘give it time’.

I’m told that there are people coming in today to do all of our nails. Gels, acrylics, French manicures - whatever we want. But, I’ve also been told that I won’t be able to participate in any of the activities unless I sign the document - agreeing that I’m ‘a man’.

After my meeting with Rachel, two older women in white scrubs took me back to my room, and sat down on either side of my bed next to me. The form was placed in front of me and I was asked if I was ready to sign it. I said I was, and they handed me a pen - except, when it came to actually putting my signature down onto the paper, for some unexplainable reason, I wasn’t able to go through with it. I wanted to. I want this experience to be as easy for me as possible. It’s almost as if my hand was going against my mind.

The more I tried to sign my name, the sicker I began to feel. I puked before I could do it - all over the bedroom floor. The two women jumped up and one of them called me a ‘Troon’ - which I’ve never heard before, and have no idea what it means.

The other one stepped over the sick, and began pulling clothes out of the wardrobe. The skirts and tops, and fancy party dress - all of them - and began tearing them up with a small knife. She told me if I was going to ‘act like a dirty little boy’ I would have to ‘dress like one’.

A pair of blue, denim dungerees were left on my bed - which I was told to put on and come downstairs.

[5]

The dungarees fit perfectly, except I didn’t have a t-shirt so everyone could see my bra. The dining room was full, some girls waiting in line for the 3 nail techs sitting at the table. In the garden, one of the ‘support workers’ had a little CD player on and was leading some of the girls in a choreographed dance routine to Oops!… I Did It Again by Britney Spears. I joined the line too - thinking I might go for something silver. Glittery, even.

Over by the fish tank, I notice what’s her name - blondie from the van. She’s sitting with her head against the glass, watching one of the fish struggle to swim with one defective fin. She’s got dungarees on too, and I’m pretty sure we’re the only ones. One of the women in white scrubs from earlier sidles up to me, and tells me to come away from the line. She says I ought to take my makeup off and follow her, handing me some face wipes.

I wipe it all off in the downstairs bathroom mirror. I’m thinking about those cyanide tablets again, except I’m starting to realise that maybe there weren’t ever any. I had been on my own too long - cooped up, and in my own world. My toilet being given away? That sounds insane. I was unwell. The fantasy is broken now, for better or for worse. When I’m done, I’m taken to an area of the building I’ve not been to yet - through a conservatory - and out, down some stairs. There are white tiles on the way down, like in an old London public toilet.

The room is empty, and dim. Sort of like an interrogation room from a crime drama, except without the table or anyone offering you a coke. There is one chair, facing a door - which I’m ordered to sit down in. It is explained to me that, behind the door is a ‘very, very large and upset dog’. This dog, they say, is troubled. It came from a bad home, and hates men. In a moment, they inform me, the door will open and the dog will be let into the room. How the dog treats me will show me what I am.

Sure enough, the door swings open and I am set upon by a snarling, almost rabid looking monster - held back only inches from tearing off my face by a leash held by a figure I can’t see. I’ve always wanted to like dogs - wished I could get over my reservations - but I had some bad experiences as a child. Maybe I’m more of a cat girl? I see in its eyes that it hates me - wants to tear out my jugular and leave my throat bleeding out onto the floor. Maybe the dog is right? Maybe it knows me better than I do?

Once again, the form is placed in front of me. I sign it this time, and agree that I am indeed ‘a man’. I don’t actually believe it, but I need to get by. I need to not be down here, with this dog. I need to get my nails done and learn the Britney dance. See, what’s so hard about that? Someone behind me asks. What’s wrong with being a gender non-conforming male? Rachel is there, and she tells me that ‘internalised homophobia’ is a ‘tough thing to shake off’ but we will. She assures me of this.

I’m allowed to go back upstairs and change. There is a new outfit in my wardrobe - a faux leather mini skirt, black heels and a belly top. I do my hair up into a high pony and reapply my foundation. I am myself again. By the time I get downstairs, the nail technicians are packing up to leave. I’ve missed my chance, but am reassured that they’ll be back soon. Besides, it’s time for us all to go into the garden and watch the performance.

I sidle up next to Blondie, who is still in her dungarees. I guess she didn’t sign? It really doesn’t matter, because she couldn’t look masculine if she tried. On her, the dungarees look stylish. High fashion. This girl clearly had help from a young age - supportive parents, probably. The song starts. Mm yeah. The girls jump into choreographed action. Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeeeah. It’s an incredible show - with everyone perfectly in time.

Blondie asks me my name. I'm surprised because she hasn’t spoken to me once so far. I tell her it’s Helen. She tells me hers is Debbie. It’s a funny coincidence. I say like Harry? But she seems confused and says no, like Debbie. I guess she’s too young to know who it is I’m even talking about. She grips my hand, which takes me off guard a bit. I should show her ‘Maria’ (one of my all time favourite songs). Maybe she’ll like it? I don’t know how though. I’ll have to check the communal CD rack to see if they’ve got it.

[6]

It’s been two weeks since my last diary entry, but that’s only because I’ve been too busy getting involved and hanging out with everyone. I’ve made a couple of friends - Grace, who is a few years younger than me, and used to work in the nursery just a few streets away from my old flat. All that time, and I had no idea there was another trans woman nearby… She says she liked her job - working with special needs kids, but she had to leave it when the law changed. Professor Samuel says none of us are in any mental state to care for anybody else.

Then there’s Julia. She’s so cool. She used to be a model - did some shoots for Cosmo and even had a small part in a movie (except she was cut out). Her face is perfect - she’s got these incredible cheekbones, and her makeup is always immaculate. Hanging out with Grace and Julia has been a godsend, and our little bitching sessions about the support workers here has helped keep me sane. There’s this one staff member - Joseph. He’s only about 25, and Julia is always teasing him - asking him if he’s ever been with a girl like her before. His whole face goes pomegranate red, it’s hilarious. Grace helped me cut my hair as she did hairdressing at community college. We bleached it, and cut it shoulder length.

I’ve not seen Debbie for about a week now. I don’t think she ever did sign the contract, and the last I saw her - Cathy was shaving her head in the garden. Cathy is a ward Team Leader. She controls our finances, and administers our hormones. She’s a massive cunt. I think she’s in her late fifties, and it’s obvious she hates us. According to my councilor, Rachel, the staff are still supposed to gender us correctly, but she never does. Professor Samuel says the entire point is for us to feel free to ‘express’ our ‘paraphilias’ in a ‘safe environment’. The way Cathy sees it is - if we signed the contract, it doesn’t matter what we look like. To her, we’re all ‘fellas’.

I’m guessing Debbie is in solitary. I’ve not seen it myself, but I’ve heard that it’s basically a de-transition centre. No hormones and no nice clothes - just the dungarees. I hope she’s doing alright. I don’t know if you’re still allowed to watch Disney films in solitary? I told Rachel in my last session that I was worried about my hormone dose. I know we’re all given the exact same one pill, but I don’t think it’s enough. My body is reacting badly to it, and I’ve definitely noticed some light facial hair growth again. She told me I shouldn’t worry - that my body is just readjusting to the levels. Cathy wasn’t sympathetic, either. She said: ‘Real women do have body hair you know… welcome to womanhood’ in her Australian accent.

My parents are visiting tomorrow. It’ll be the first time I’ve seen them in over a month - the last time being a trip to Spaghetti Complex for my sister’s 26th birthday. It wasn’t a great night - I got drunk and ended up crying and ‘ruining the birthday’. That was happening a lot before the law changed. I’m nervous about seeing them - I want to look my best. That’s why I had my hair done. Yesterday, I got my first trip outside The Institute - a short walk into town to buy the bleach. It felt odd being out - sort of overwhelming. It wasn’t an especially sunny day, but what sunlight there was, caught me off guard. It made me dizzy. The communal garden here is pretty shaded for the most part - with tall bushes to keep the neighbours from seeing in.

Trips out are ‘two to one’ which basically means - there are two support workers assigned to be with you when outside the building. This is because we are severely mentally ill - therefore a risk to ourselves and others. While in the pharmacy, I could feel people staring at me - and could hear them whispering. I was allowed to go up to the check out and pay for the box-dye by myself, but Joseph and Sandra (support workers) were either side of me throughout. If I’d have ran, I wouldn’t have gotten far. The high street they take us to isn’t very big, and all of the staff in the shops know who we are, and where we live.

This morning Julia, Grace & I rehearsed a new dance routine for ‘Take a Chance on Me’ by Abba. It’s an original routine, choreographed by Julia. I’ve never been good at dancing - always lacked the confidence - but right now, it’s helping. In the times when all I’m worrying about is which steps to do next, I’m not worrying about anything else - and that’s been useful. During the bit that goes: If you change your mind, I’m the first in line - honey I’m still free, take a chance on me - I’m supposed to do this sultry sort of bend, and then into a shimmy. I think I’ve got it down pretty good. Julia is a bit of a taskmaster, but she’s just passionate about the arts. She wants us to ‘Serve Puss’ at the next performance, and I don’t want to let her down.

I did check the communal CD collection to see if there was any Blondie - and there was a ‘Greatest Hits!’, but when I tried to play it, it was too scratched up. It kept skipping and won’t seem to play past track 3 (One Way or Another). As far as I’m aware, we’re not allowed to use the internet, so ordering a new one doesn’t seem likely. I’m thinking of asking Joseph if he can sneak it in for us. I think he likes us (me, especially) as he always sits down with us while we’re eating. He likes to hear our gossiping, and is always asking me about our interests and lives before all this. Julia says he’s a ‘little chaser’ but I don’t think that’s it. I think he just feels sorry for us.

[7]

Mum and Dad visited today. No Cassie though. Mum said she couldn’t get it off work, but I know she’s covering for her. The truth is, my sister doesn’t want to see me - we had a massive falling out just before I came here because she disinvited me to her wedding. Not the first family event I was asked not to attend, either… She said she ‘wanted me to come’ but ‘not as Helen’. Wanted me to wear a suit. I told her I can’t just turn it off. If she wants me there, she wants me there. Suddenly, I’m unreasonable. Suddenly, I’m selfish and trying to ‘ruin’ her ‘special day’. I guess I’m going to miss it now, anyway. What a shame.

Mum and Dad had to sign in, and Cathy gave them a tour of the Institute, with me just following behind. I hate Cathy, she's two-faced, calling me ‘Helen’ and ‘She’ and ‘Her’ when my parents are there, when normally she calls me Colin, which isn’t even my dead-name. Dad was ‘surprised’ at ‘how nice it is’ at the Institute. He said my bedroom here was ‘nicer than any flat’ I’ve rented. Why doesn’t he live in it, then? He’s an idiot. We’ve never connected, me and him. I think he likes seeing me here. Out of sight, out of mind. I’m pretty sure he was always embarrassed to be seen with me in public, so this suits him just fine. Mum didn’t comment much - just the odd question here and there about meals, making sure I’m getting enough roughage. Filling the air, mostly. Classic Mum.

When Cathy finally left us, we sat in a quiet part of the day room - pretending to watch Aladdin on DVD. Mum said Cassie would try and get down here to see me in a couple of weeks. I told Mum that I didn’t want Cassie to come, I wanted to leave. Dad said this was the safest place for me right now. Mum started to cry. Again, classic. I told them both that, if they loved me, they’d get me out - take me home. Dad said I was upsetting Mum, and if I didn’t stop, they’d have to leave. I told them both that I hated them, and that they should leave. How do you like that? Mum slapped me across the face, and told me I was ‘fucking stupid’ and should just ‘stop all this nonsense’ and they’ll ‘let me out’. It took me a minute to put together what she was saying, and as Dad helped her to her feet, and they left the Institute, I realised that she meant detransition.

There was a rumour going around that Debbie had gone home. Julia swears that she saw a bald Debbie leaving the facility with a man and a woman who looked old enough to be her parents - but I’ve since learned that Julia is a huge fucking liar, so take it with a pinch of salt. Grace confided in me that Julia has been telling staff I write pornographic smut stories about them. It sounds silly, but rumours like that are dangerous here. Like, who would I even write that about - Cathy? Why would I want to imagine something like that? I thought she was my friend. Maybe I am fucking stupid?

Julia swears to have seen Debbie leaving though, and said that she reckoned that’s the whole point of all this - to get us to hate our femininity. For us to admit we’re ‘men’ and then prove it. To make trans-life seem unbearable, and then get us to willingly detransition - then we can leave. Is that what Mum meant? Maybe they’ve been told something we haven’t? If that is true, I wonder how many of the girls would agree to it? It’s probably not enough to just say you’re going to detransition. They’ll probably be checking up on you.

Cathy had witnessed my fight with Mum and Dad, and had been very apologetic on my behalf as she showed them out. I sat on the sofa in silence for a while - enjoying the sting on my face. I think that slap, even though it hurt well enough, I think it woke me up from something. I think I’ve been floating through all this for the last couple of weeks. Been in shock, maybe. Trying to ‘get by’. It’s smart - and reasonable, but do I really see myself here for the rest of my life? With Cathy over my shoulder all the time?

No, I do not see that. I have to get out.

Professor Samuel, in his God-awful weekly ‘talks’ keeps saying how we are significantly ‘better off’ here. He keeps saying how the world (as it is now) is too hostile for us. He says we are too delicate for the ‘rough terrain of society’. Well, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. Who even is he? He’s never navigated the world like me. He’s never had to risk it all to be true to himself, has he? He knows literally nothing about my life.

As I look back now on some of my writings from when I first got here, I’m ashamed. I sound docile. Pathetic, even. A fucking pushover. As I write now, it’s clear to me suddenly that I’m no longer that same person, and getting out of here should have been my number one priority from the start. And yet, I went into that van willingly.

But I will not detransition. I don’t know how I’ll get out yet, but it won’t be like that. It’ll be on my own terms. I just need some time to think of something. Luckily, I have a lot of that.

[8]

I’ve not been spending much time with Julia and Grace lately. Julia did apologise for all her bullshit rumour spreading, and I let it go because she’s having a bad week, but I think it’s better if I keep to myself for a bit - at least until I figure out what I’m doing. Julia’s boyfriend came to see her a few days ago, but it wasn’t a happy visit. Apparently he broke up with her - said it wasn’t practical anymore. Said he had to move on. I spoke to her a bit just after he left, and she seemed fine enough, but a few hours later she was tearing posters down off the walls and had to be restrained for pushing over the fish tank. Three of the four fish didn’t make it.

Joseph has been assigned to be my ‘keyworker’, which means he’s my ‘main go-to’ if I need anything. He’ll be in charge of booking my doctors appointments and planning my weekly schedules. We had a sit down yesterday and he wanted to know if I needed anything. I told him that I wanted a medication review. I want to know what exactly I’m being given. He said he’ll look into it. I’m relieved it isn’t Cathy. She’s really fucking awful, and seems to be getting worse. There’s a little window which looks into the medication room, and sometimes I see her in there, rationing out the pills for us, and counting our money. Because we’re wards of the state now, we get a small amount of money each month to buy necessities - but the Team Leader has strict control over it. She spends most of her time in that little medication room. She doesn’t like to interact with us.

Today’s activity was a group outing. It’s the first time I’ve been outside with other girls (only 3 of us allowed at a time). We went in the van to a bowling alley of all things. It was me, a quiet girl named Shantel and Emily - the older trans woman who was in the van with me when we first got brought here. I don’t think any of us have ever expressed a desire to go bowling, but I think The Institute gets a discount or something, because they take girls every week. Something I’ve learned is, when we’re taken out in groups, the two to one support is relaxed. On this trip, we each had just one support worker - Joseph for me, Sandra for Emily and a new one - Alexandra, for Shantel. I guess they figure we’ll keep an eye on each other? Or maybe they can’t get the staff.

I’m useless at bowling. We played 2 games, and almost all of my tries were gutter balls. Sandra kept asking if I wanted to have the sides put up, like a baby, but I was adamant no. If gutterballs is what I’m getting right now, that’s what I’m getting. Otherwise, what’s the point? Are we here to achieve something, or do we just like seeing the pins fall over? Emily is quite good - but she does have some years on me. I’ve not really spoken to her all that much since being here, but at the bowling alley she was pretty chatty - telling me about how she used to be in an amateur women’s football club. About how they all took a vote just before the law-change, and there was a majority on her having to leave. She didn’t hold it against them, she said - their funding was threatened.

Shantel wasn’t really into it. I don’t know how old she is, but she dresses younger than I do - has an anime backpack - I don’t know what the character is. Even the lightest ball was a struggle for her, and I think she’d have had more fun in the arcade. The only other time I’ve spoken to Shantel was when I first got to The Institute and she showed me how to set up the Nintendo. She spends a lot of time on her own - drawing in her room. I should make an effort to get to know her. Try to be a friend. Maybe tomorrow?

The new support worker, Alexandra, talks to us like we’re children. At bowling, she would continually check to see if any of us needed a drink or wanted to use the toilets. Eventually, I just told her I did need the toilet, just to get a little bit of privacy and shut her up. Joseph escorted me over. We have 2 choices while out in public - either the disabled toilets, or the men’s. I tell Joseph that I can go up to the bar to ask for the accessible radar key on my own, but he seems hesitant. I assure him that I’m not going to run off in bowling shoes. I wouldn’t do that to him anyway. I like him.

He lets me do it, and under his watchful eye, I go up to the counter and ask the woman behind it for the key to the disabled toilet. She inspects me - gives me that stare that asks: What are you? Do you know you look like that? It’s funny because stuff like this used to really throw me off - make me self conscious for a week. Spiral, even. But these days, everyone knows what I am. It actually feels good to meet somebody who isn’t sure. She tells me the disabled toilets are out of order - apparently a drunk woman smashed it up yesterday and there are major repair works to be done.

Annoyingly, I actually do need the toilet suddenly - and my stomach sinks as I realise I’m going to have to use the men’s. I tell Joseph the situation, and he asks if I want him to escort me in. He means it to be kind, I can tell, but I turn it down all the same. It feels absurd to walk in there, but I do. There is a dad in there with his young daughter, lifting her up to wash her hands. She bursts out laughing when she sees me in the mirror - points at me and shouts ‘look Daddy, she’s come in the wrong toilet!’ He looks mortified to see me there - how do you like that?

I enter a cubicle and I sit down. It’s amazing how a space that can look so identical to the ladies can feel so starkly different. I guess my body just knows when I’m somewhere I ought not to be. There is a sticker on the cubicle wall, which reads: ‘Women Don’t Have Cocks’ with a little picture of a laughing chicken. I scratch away at the corner, and notice that there’s something behind it. Carefully, I peel off the sticker and find, hidden behind there, a razor blade. It’s an old, sick stick - placed there to hurt whoever tries to remove it, but I wiggle it out with no injuries. I wrap the razor blade in a few rolls of toilet paper, and I tuck it into my bra.