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.

[9]

I spent most of today just sitting on my own in the dining room, watching the way things play out. It’s been raining heavily all day, so everyone’s been inside - doing arts and crafts, or reading, or watching DVDs, or having alone time in their rooms. I’ve been pretending to write a story, except underneath that, I’ve been making little notes about the routines of the staff. At 2pm, there is a handover meeting - where the Team Leader gives updates to the staff taking over. Often, the morning staff will be busy filling in our daily diaries - what we’ve eaten, how we’ve behaved, so there are less eyes on us. I still don’t know how I’m going to get out of here, but around 2pm would be as good a time as any to do it.

It’s been one of those strange days, where you can smell the rain on the concrete out of your window, and the air-pressure radiates melancholy. There are flashes of lightning every now and then, followed by low rumbles of thunder about 20 seconds after. I like it. Always have. The story I was pretending to write was about a girl who wakes up one morning to find that she hasn’t turned into an insect. Sort of a play on Kafka’s The Metamorphosis.

She’s sad, because she was told that she would. She’s an outcast in the story, because everyone else is an insect - and the world is designed for insects. She’s too big to properly do anything, like ride the insect-buses or go to insect-school. Everywhere she goes, the insects fear her - and everything bad that happens is blamed on her. It’s pretty dumb really, I wasn’t exactly thinking too hard about it. I just happened to see an ant scurrying across the dining table and it gave me the idea. I don’t know what’s going to happen (or if I’ll even finish it).

I had my routine session with my councilor, Rachel. She told me that I’ve been here for two months now - which was a shock. I would have guessed it was more like six months. She said that, due to my good behaviour, I had a chance for a review. I thought she was talking about my medication, which Joseph did say he was going to look into, but what she actually meant was - I could apply for their Exit Programme. She said that, if I were to ‘put the work in’ I might be able to leave - to go home eventually. She said I could be ‘home within a month’ if I committed to the process. I almost didn’t want to ask what the Exit Programme entailed, but she was keen to tell me about it. Rachel says that they don’t call it ‘detransition’ - which is a ‘misnomer anyway’ as ‘transition itself is a flawed idea’.

All I have to do, she says, is ‘give male-identity a chance’. There is another building, a few streets away - a nicer one - where ‘alternative male expression’ is encouraged. I have no obligation to participate, she says. But, in order to have any fighting chance of getting by in ‘the climate’, I’d have to at least try it. I tell her it sure sounds like detransition, but she says I’m being melodramatic.

I want so desperately to be out of here now. To re-enter society. To plan my own days. To go to the cinema. To buy a vape. God, I fucking miss vapes. To make a phone call that isn’t monitored, or cut off after thirty measly minutes. But what would the point be? If I did as Rachel seems to want me to do, would it even be me? Would I even be able to live with that version of myself? Didn’t I already try it for nearly twenty years? I’ve already done ‘the programme’ and it was unbearable. But now this is unbearable.

She gave me a pamphlet. It’s similar to the one I was given when I first got here - but titled ‘Time You Were Leaving? It’s Up To You!’ I told her I’d read it over. Consider it. Let her know at my next session. I still have the razor blade - I make sure to carry it on my person at all times, so it can’t be found in any of the random room searches. Well, they say they’re ‘random’. I’ve actually noticed that they usually take place on Tuesdays. I’m sure there’s a rota for them somewhere. There’s a rota for everything here. Anyway, I keep it tucked into my sock, mostly.

Julia hasn’t been coming out of her room most days. Staff have been bringing up her food and drinks at regular intervals - which means they don’t want us to die, so that’s slightly reassuring. The reason, Grace says, is because she’s been developing facial hair. I don’t know how it’s possible, considering how young she started her transition, but Grace says she’s seen it and it’s true. I know that none of us are getting enough estrogen - those pills they give us are unbranded. God knows what dosage they are. It must be hard for Julia, seeing as she used to be a model. She can’t handle it, because she’s never really had to look androgynous - discordant. I hope she knows that she’s among friends here. I hope she knows we don’t care.

The new staff member, Alexandra, told me that we might be getting a computer here. I mean, the staff room has a computer, but she said that this one’ll be for us. We can surf the web with staff supervision. I know a lot of the girls miss the internet since we had our phones taken away. The internet saved a lot of us. But, I’m not so sure it’s a great idea. I feel like, while we’re here, it’s not healthy for us to know too much about what’s going on in the world. I know it’ll make me feel worse - to know what I’m missing out on.

Maybe the story should end with the girl, realising that being an insect is beyond her. Maybe she decides to squash all the insects and step on their city and run off to find something new - something different. Something more her size.

No. Not that. There’s a better ending to it than that, I’m sure. I can do better.

[10]

My sister Cassie got married today. She’s probably getting drunk with the rest of the family right now - cutting into her cake - having her first dance with goofy Darren. Not even thinking about me. Maybe someone will ask ‘how’s Helen doing’ and she will say ‘oh yeah, fine fine. Very happy in her new home’ - except she hasn’t come to visit me once, so has no idea. I’m not happy. I’m angry. Possibly angrier than I’ve ever felt in my entire life - and I have no clue what to do with any of these feelings I have. I need something to punch - a pillow maybe - but if any of the staff were to see me, I’d be classified as a ‘typical violent male’.

I’m in bed as I write this - shivering and sneezy, a towel around my head. I’ve likely caught a chill - or flu - which is fine by me, it just means people will keep their distance. Leave me to my thoughts. I decided to spend the entire day sitting in the garden, in the pouring down rain. I must have been out there for hours, getting drenched through to the bone - and any time Joseph or Cathy would ask me to come back in, I told them to leave me alone. I’m fine I’d say. Cathy said to leave me to it - if she wants to catch her death that’s less work for us. She’d love to see me kick the bucket. I won’t give her the satisfaction.

I was already in a bad mood when I woke up this morning, because of the wedding, but it wasn’t that that pushed me over the edge. What it was, was - during breakfast, while Cathy was dispensing the medication, there was a commotion upstairs. I’m sure I felt it before it happened - some sudden shift in the atmosphere. A deep, sickening feeling of general wrongness. Someone was shouting about Julia - call an ambulance, quick. Bandages we need bandages. Julia had been found on the floor of her bathroom, bleeding out. I don’t know what she used - it wasn’t my razor blade. Mine was safe and sound in my sock.

Lots of the girls were screaming, or in tears - trying to get a look in as paramedics rushed upstairs - but I didn’t. I was pretty cool headed about it all, really. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I didn’t even wonder if Julia was alive or not. Instead, I seized on the opportunity. I noticed instantly that Cathy had left the medication room open in all the fuss, so I took my chance and let myself in. I’d never been in there before, so I was scurrying around madly - just trying to get my hands on a medication box of some kind. Anything to give me some insight. Then I saw it - the medical waste bin.

I plunged my hand in, not even thinking about the possible needles or germs, and rummaged around until I felt anything box shaped. Our daily hormones always come dispensed in a little cup, but they have to come from somewhere. I pull out a white box. It’s full of all the used foil strips. The gaps where the tablets were look the right size. I pull out the patient information leaflet and tuck it into my bra, and I get out of there as quickly as I can because I know that it won’t be long until Cathy realises what she’s done.

I see the paramedics bring a stretcher down the stairs and out the front door. They have a blanket over Julia, but it’s not clear if she’s dead or not. They move with urgency, regardless. It looks like it was Alexandra, the new staff member, who found her in her room. She was in shock after, and was allowed to go home early - which is nice for her.

I locked myself in the downstairs toilet, and removed the PIL sheet from my bra. I opened it up and scanned over it madly with my eyes. Do not take it if you're pregnant… blah blah blah… tell your healthcare provider if you have high blood pressure… whatever… side effects include anal bleeding… Why do they all say that? Eventually my eyes land on a word I don’t recognise. Kyzatrex. Kyzatrex? What the fuck is Kyzatrex? The next paragraph answers it…

‘What is Kyzatrex? Kyzatrex is a prescription testosterone medication, used to treat adult men who have low testosterone due to certain medical conditions’

My heart sank.

Could they really have been this cruel? This whole time, they want us to believe that detransition is a choice we have - meanwhile they’re dosing us in secret? Gradually taking away everything we worked so damn hard to achieve? I can’t explain it any better than to say that something has shut off inside me. Since I found that PIL sheet, it’s almost like I’ve factory reset. Rebooted, but with something vital missing. Some important files that failed to install. I sat in the rain all day, not to be melodramatic, but to try and re-access my old self. To see if it was still in there somewhere.

It isn’t.

I no longer care about any of it. I’m no longer interested in looking nice, or seeing my parents, or being invited to weddings, or even my body. I don’t care what I look like or what my estrogen levels are. I don’t care how I’m perceived, or what rights I do or don’t have. I don’t care about my pronouns or even being buried with the name ‘Helen Herr’ on my gravestone.

All I care about is getting out of here, and making them pay for what they’ve done to us. For taking away our autonomy, and our hope, and our futures. The damage is done and I’m not naive - I know we aren’t going back to the way things ‘were’ anytime soon, because they never actually were what we thought. I can see that now. And I can see clearly what I have to do.

[11]

Lovely group trip out today. It’s been a little while since I’ve left the facility - or ‘house’ - as Rachel keeps insisting we call it - so it was nice to stretch my legs a bit. Get a change of atmosphere. It’s funny how they want us all to call it a ‘house’ - because it isn’t a house. Houses don’t have fire exits. Houses are where you live, and none of us are doing that here.

Our group trip out today was to the cemetery. We weren’t allowed to attend Julie’s actual funeral yesterday (family only), so a small group of us went this morning. Me, Grace and Shantel - with Alexandra and Cathy supervising. Shantel has come out of her shell a bit since bowling. She showed me this painting she did of some anime creature thing (I don’t know what the show is) but she has a real eye for details.

Our outfits for the cemetery were supplied by The Institute. I found mine hanging up on my doorframe when I woke up, looking over my room like a spectre. White blouses, and below the knee skirts. Optional veils. All black, naturally. Cathy and Alexandra didn’t dress up for the visit, but why would they? They’re on the clock. As we walked through the cemetery, Cathy and Alexandra kept behind us at a distance of 30 feet or so - more than they usually would. I wanted to tell myself it was out of respect, but I think it was more likely so they could smoke and laugh at us. And they’d be right to laugh, too - we must have looked strange to anyone else there. Overdressed. More like 3 elderly widows than friends.

Grace had known Julia the longest out of all of us - not by much - but she’d been brought in with her. They had been fast friends from the start. I hadn’t spoken to Grace for a little while, and I felt a bit bad about it. It wasn’t personal, as I wasn’t really speaking to anyone, and I did plan on catching up with her at some point. I just didn’t want now to be the time. The circumstances weren’t right. So I didn’t push it today. Better to just wait, and let her lead any conversations.

Julia’s grave stone was marble, and clean. It stood out among the others around it, which were all grey and weather-beaten, some probably over a hundred years old - unreadable. There were bunches of flowers left scattered around it, and photographs of her I’d never seen before - some from her modelling and acting.

Others from her at school, no older than 12 or 13. It took me aback to see how much of a little girl she had been, even then. How much her parents clearly loved and cared about her - enough to give her a fighting chance of fitting in. Of having a girlhood. I couldn’t help but think about my own childhood. The playground violence, and the ostracisation. The pretending to be sick, so I wouldn’t get called a faggot. The existential horror of puberty.

There were letters left on the grave - addressed to Julia. Mummy’s little girl. A pink beanie baby. A heart shaped picture frame with a poem in it - Our Julie. But then we saw the name on the stone - engraved in the marble. Craig Culshaw. Who the fuck is that? CRAIG? The discordance was offensive. It made me sick to my stomach to even read it. It wasn’t just wrong, it was unfeasible. Beyond disrespect. I had never known any Craig, and by the looks of it, neither had her parents. Grace knelt by the grave and placed the card and flowers she’d bought down on it. My plan when we got there was to mostly keep quiet - to respect the solemnity of it all and let Shantel and Grace grieve in peace, but I couldn’t hold it in.

This is bullshit, I think I said. It was something like that, anyway. I was fuming with anger. Anger had replaced all my other emotions lately, and I had nowhere to put it. It was aching to come out. I carried on: How can they do that? Put the wrong name on there like that? Even in death we’re treated like shit? Shantel looked nervous, turning around to see if Cathy and Alexandra had heard anything. I didn’t care. Grace shot me a filthy look - like I was dragging her into something. Like I was the problem. She told me to ‘calm down’ and to ‘be smart’ - but there was no hope of it. I needed to vent. I turned to face Cathy, who was now making her way over to us.

Look at this! I shouted, loud enough to wake the dead. It’s a fucking joke! It doesn’t even say Julia on it. Cathy marched over and shoosh’d me bluntly. She told me to ‘have some bloody respect’. I hadn’t noticed the small collection of mourners nearby, standing over a teddy-bear shaped gravestone for what must have been a recently deceased child. I was causing a scene, I knew that. I wanted to.

I can’t remember exactly what happened next. I think I must have gone into a sort of blackout. Professor Samuel and Councillor Rachel have since given me what they claim is an accurate run down of events though. Apparently, I approached the mourners standing by the teddy bear shaped gravestone, and I begged one of them to help us. Then, they say, I fell over onto it - cutting my leg. Then, I’m told, I ‘made a fool of myself’ by trying to ‘abscond’ and the police had to be phoned.

They’ve let me have some paper to write this all down - which they say I should be grateful for. They want me to write down everything I’m feeling - no holds barred. They want me to express myself.

Solitary isn’t exactly what I thought it would be. I thought it’d be a dank cell, or a padded room. Actually, it’s much nicer than my bedroom is.

[12]

Since my being here, I’ve learned that they don’t call it ‘solitary’ - that’s just us. Its actual name is Separatist Dwellings. The room is bigger than my last one, and there is no window (which I actually don’t mind so much). Also, the bed is about twice the size of the lumpy single in my bedroom. Yesterday - my first day - was pretty quiet. Professor Samuel popped by to check if I was ‘alright’ and see what I wanted for dinner. There is a more formal menu system in SD - you get 2 choices, like being in a hospital (or an aeroplane). Chicken couscous or broccoli and stilton soup. I wasn’t very hungry - went for the soup. Instantly regretted it though, as the smell made me want to puke. I’m no snob, but I think it must be the ultra-economy type.

My razor is gone. When I got here, the two police officers did a thorough search on me, and found it within seconds. It took them longer to figure out which police officer was going to search me - the man or the woman. The woman officer said she didn’t mind doing it, but the man officer was insistent that she shouldn’t have to. In the end, they settled on a compromise of taking it in turns. I feel naked now without it. I’d had it for so long that, wrapping it up and tucking it into my sock every morning, had become a comforting part of my daily routine. More than anything, it felt reassuring just to know it was there, regardless of if I ever used it or not. The point was the option.

I’m told that Rachel is no longer my counsellor, at least for the time being anyway. Professor Samuel says he’ll be taking a ‘personalised interest from here on out’, and will ‘work with me daily to explore alternative wellness opportunities’. I don’t know what, exactly, Professor Samuel is a professor of - but he speaks with a lot of authority on the subject of ‘trans identity’. We had a brief, impromptu session last night, and he told me that he had previously been a doctor at a ‘renowned gender clinic’ - but wouldn’t say which one. He told me about his regret at spending years treating us. He said he believes he’s contributed to more harm than good. He said he’s now making up for it.

I asked him about gender affirming care. I mentioned that, at my arrival to The Institute, I had been told that surgical pathways would be made available to us. They told us that we could pursue our transitions with the ‘highest care standards possible’ - just so long as we accepted we’d not ever be leaving here. Professor Samuel laughed at me when I repeated this - scoffed at the idea of ‘gender affirming care’ as a concept. So it wasn’t true then?

I remember asking him, knowing the answer already. He didn’t actually say it was a lie - but questioned why I, a ‘rational minded, intelligent young person’ would ever want to take such a Faustian bargain. He couldn’t comprehend, he said, that somebody would want to lessen their opportunities for the purpose of cosmetics. I told him that I couldn’t comprehend how someone as clueless as he could ever work compassionately with trans patients. He came back with: Compassion is subjective, Helen. He had a smarmy comeback like that for everything.

After Professor Samuel left for the night, I found myself needing the toilet badly. My old room had an ensuite, but this was just one, singular room with a sink and a mirror in it. There are 3 doors - the one I came in through, and then two others on the opposite wall, next to one another, except there are no handles on my side of it. God knows what’s behind them, because it sure as hell isn’t the toilet. I had to call out to the person on night-watch. I couldn’t see him at first, but I knew there was somebody there, down the corridor somewhere, because I could hear him laughing away from time to time at the low rumble of a TV.

He told me, in a gruff tone, to step away from the door, so I did. He turned a key and swung the heavy door open, revealing himself to be a short, but stocky looking moustached man of about 50. ‘Need the toilet do’ya?’ He laughed, seemingly having read my mind. Follow me then. Inexplicably, after asking me to ‘follow him’ he stepped back, and pointed in front of himself, down the corridor, insinuating for me to lead the way. I’m guessing this was for his safety, but it was confusing all the same. I walked straight down, guessed at a potential left turn but corrected myself quickly when he barked ‘NO! Not that way!’. This is how we did it, until we got to where we were going, me guessing, and him correcting.

Eventually, we got to one door - with ‘WC’ on the front. ‘In there. Be quick’. As I entered, the sensor-controlled lights turned on automatically, revealing one, singular urinal on a wall. I glanced around for a cubicle, but nothing. I poked my head back out of the door, and asked the little man what I should do if I needed a number two? He laughed, his teeth just visible through the strands of coarse moustache hair. ‘Hold it in’. Luckily, it’s not what I needed right then - but I will at some point. They can’t withhold stuff like that, legally I mean. So I think, anyway. Truthfully, I don’t know where I stand legally now. As far as I know, I could have less rights than a dog.

I look upon the urinal, with its yellow, citrusy urinal cake stench, and I try to remember the last time I was even in front of one. I can’t even remember, it feels like a different lifetime. A past life, even. I know this is all calculated - some sick scheme to dehumanise me. To see how much I’ll concede of myself. I weigh up two potential indignities in my mind, and decide on the lesser one.

I face away from the urinal. I don’t pull down my tights, or hoick up my dress. I just stand, facing the door I came in through, and I relax my body. I allow the warmth to take over as I close my eyes. No going back now.

When I open my eyes, I see Julia standing over in the corner - one eyebrow raised, stifling a cruel smirk.

“Girl, is it really worth all that?”

Fuck off Julia. You don’t get to criticise anyone. You got out. You fucking bitch.

[13]

I got very little sleep last night - not just because I was wet, and itchy, but because of the incessant yapping of the dog in the room next door. I don’t know if it’s the same dog as before - the one they say hates men. The one that so clearly wanted to take a gory chunk out of my jugular. But it was alternating between barking and crying all night long, the poor thing. If it is the same dog, then that would mean the mystery door on the left is the one that leads back into that interrogation-looking room. Even after all this time at The Institute, my sense of its geography is foggy at best. Early this morning, the short moustached guard from last night was relieved from duty by a voice I recognised. Joseph.

He greeted me by name through the frosted window of the door, and asked what I’d like for breakfast. Toast or cereal (no further details). I went for toast, which came with a little plastic pot of strawberry jam, like from a hotel. Maybe they have the same suppliers? I told Joseph that I needed a shower, and he asked me - politely - to step away from the door, and he’d take me. He advised I bring a change of clothes from the wardrobe with me, or else the walk back ‘might be cold’. In all my anger and confusion, I’d not even thought to look in the wardrobe, which turned out to have in it 7 or 8 pairs of identical, ugly dungarees. 2 pairs of work boots, also - size 9. Not my size. (I’m a 7.5, thanks! And I can squeeze into a 7 depending on the style).

Joseph motioned for me to walk in front of him down the corridor, with a slight curtsey and a “Ladies first!” which felt more awkwardly bashful than sarcastic or cruel. I carried my towels and dungarees with me down the way, and as we progressed down the long corridors, I had to ask him what he was doing down here. Why would he volunteer for something like this? He seemed confused - unsure why I might find his new role distasteful. He told me it was a significant pay increase. More responsibility, sure - but ample opportunities for progression within the company. I told him how, as far as I was concerned, he was my captor - that he and I were now in opposition with one another - and how I expected better of him. He didn’t respond verbally to any of that.

The shower room was large and open - all white tile and partitions. Enough room for a sports team, I imagine. Luckily, I was allowed to have it all to myself, rather than be forced into the indignity of group showering - something I’d never been able to stomach while at school. It always seemed off to me that British schools could simultaneously be so against teaching a wider spectrum of sex education - inclusive of people like me - and yet, would enthusiastically indulge in encouraging group nakedness after P.E lessons. I guess they wanted us to face it early? Or maybe we’re just a nation of hypocrites?

The big shower room has a couple of toilet cubicles off to its side - with toilet paper and actual, lockable doors. I take the opportunity, as I know it’ll be more difficult later on. The shower is burning hot. The two temperature controls are too complicated for my frazzled brain to comprehend. Any turn of one, seemed to set the other into a reset, and no combination of either was ever quite right. In the end, I decided on heat over comfort, knowing that my body would acclimatize to it eventually. Besides, I was given no soap, and had to make sure I was clean.

The shower, although painful, was wonderful. Sometimes things that are painful are. I felt like I was washing away more than just the dirt on my surface. I was getting rid of a previous version of myself - one from yesterday, who gave a shit. Afterwards, I wrapped up my hair, dried over my body, and caught a warped glance of myself in the reflection of the chrome shower handles. It was a shock - as I’ve been trying to avoid mirrors for weeks. Even when I would do my makeup, I’d do it with a squint - trying to blur out any noticeable regressions in my own facial femininity. I guess I was wrong - I do still give a shit.

I changed into the dungarees, but only looped a strap over one shoulder - imagining (or at least, hoping) that it projected some sense of femme coquettishness. At this point, I’m grasping at whatever validating straws I can find - regressive or not. As I leave the shower rooms, Joseph has disappeared - replaced by Professor Samuel - with his irritating little glasses, expensive looking watch and receding hairline. He tells me that he has a surprise for me - a ‘therapeutic exercise’ to keep me busy up until dinner time. He instructs me to leave the towels on the floor and follow him. Maybe he hasn’t been told that I’m supposed to be in front?

He takes me down a corridor I’ve not yet been down, I think, although they do all look pretty similar. As we walk, he apologises about the ‘toilet debacle last night’ - says the cubicles are out of order. Serious plumbing issues. I don’t know if he knows about the ones in the shower room? Then again, he must know. He probably doesn’t care that I know he’s lying. Probably gets off on it, the little freak. Eventually, we arrive at a door - he opens it up, checks around the side of the door and scurries me in.

The room is similar, but a good bit larger than my new bedroom, but devoid of any furniture or sinks or mirrors. In the centre of the room, are piles and piles of red house bricks - some under tarps, and others piled up into little pyramids. Professor Samuel tells me the bags contain mortar (which I’ve vaguely heard of) and says that, in a moment, a man will be coming by to teach me how to build a wall. I ask him what sense any of that makes, but he doesn’t hear it. Just turns to leave, closing the door behind him, and reminding me to “have fun”.

I wait in the room, alone, for something like half an hour. Eventually, I settle on an area of the floor, on my bum with my legs crossed - trying to will my brain into waking up - to go back to making sense of things again. I wonder if Julia will make any more appearances. It felt so real, the last time I saw her. I must be losing it. Anyone would.

Suddenly there’s a knock on the door.

“Hello?” I call out.

[14]

A stoutly man walked in, hunched over and much older than I was expecting. I don’t know what I was expecting, exactly - I should have given up on expectations by now. He had the look of an uncle - thick eyebrows, sitting atop kind, wet eyes. He smelled like Guinness. The man looked just about as confused by the room as I was. He introduced himself as Mr. Angelopoulos, and asked if I was ‘the one taking the lesson today’.

I shrugged. First, he wanted to know if I had any gloves, and I told him I didn’t. He said I might like to use gloves for something like this, but again - I said I didn’t have any. Mr. Angelopoulos shrugged back, and made his way over towards the bags of mortar - ripping one open with gusto. Come over, I’ll show you how to do it, easy peasy. The electric mixer roared into life, and combined with the hum of the generator was, in such a room, deafening.

Angelopoulos wasn’t much of a talker, anyway. Most of what we went through was mimed to me - and when I struggled to lift the bag myself, it gave him a good laugh. After the mixing, he showed me how to properly spread the thick paste onto each brick with a trowel, and set it properly atop the one beneath it. Now that the air was calmer, he had more questions for me. ‘Why does a pretty young girl like you want to learn bricks?’ I was surprised by how little he seemed to understand about the situation.

I explained, as best as I could, that I didn’t want to ‘learn bricks’. I told him plainly that I was trans, and that this was some kind of confusing, twisted punishment. I was expecting Mr. Angelopoulos to have no clue what trans even was - being that most men his age were wilfully ignorant on the subject, but he surprised me when his eyes got even more watery, and he confided that he, himself, had a trans child.

“My little boy, he was like you. But I don’t want him in this place. It is not so nice. I’m sorry”.

I felt my own eyes begin to wetten, but managed to pull it back somehow. I wasn’t used to genuine expressions of empathy anymore. I picked up a brick, and placed it atop another one - looking to Mr. Angelopoulos for judgement - which he gave me, in the form of an enthusiastic thumbs up. As we carried on throughout the afternoon, placing one brick on top of another, over and over again, Angelopoulos let out little drips and drabs of information about his ‘son’. He told me about how he had hoped he’d grow up to be a laborer like him, or an athlete. At the very least, he said, he wanted him to have a wife and some kids. ‘Big family is everything’. By the time the wall was up to my waist, I had learned that Mr. Angelopoulos’ ‘son’ had told him:

‘He tells me he wants to be a girl. I can’t believe. I don’t want a gay, and I tell him to go. No come back! My wife is destroyed”.

I wait patiently for the happy resolution. For him to tell me about his apology, and their subsequent reconciliation. But it never comes. Instead, Angelopoulos just picks up another brick and spreads it with grey goop, thumping it down onto the rest, and scratching away at the remnants with his trowel.

By the time the bricks are up to my neck, my arms feel like jelly. I tell him I need a rest - that I’m not cut out for this sort of thing, and that I don’t see what the point even is. I take a seat down on one of the mortar bags. Angelopoulos winks at me, and tells me he’ll finish the last few rows.

“Is okay. This is not work for you. Too weak.”

I force myself back up. I know he’s trying to use reverse psychology on me, but I can also tell that he believes what he’s saying. I’m weak? He abandoned his own child. That’s weak. I finish the rest of the wall by myself, as far up as I can safely reach, until I can’t even see over it anymore. Mr. Angelopoulos starts to clap.

“See, you are real man afterall!”

At this, the door swings open - revealing Professor Samuel, happy as a clam. He scurries in, and marvels at the wall I’ve built - congratulating me. He puts an arm around me, and gives me a rough, cordial shake - like a proud father. Then, leading me out of the room - tells Mr. Angelopoulos to knock the thing down. As I’m ushered out, I catch a glimpse of Angelopoulos, safety goggles on and sledgehammer in hand, winding up to knock it all down. After taking me back to my room, Professor Samuel tells me to get some rest - as I have another ‘big day tomorrow’ and leaves me, locking the door behind him.

I lay down on my bed until dinner time, covered in salty sweat - half asleep and exhausted, when there is a knock at the door. It’s Joseph, asking me what I’d like to eat. I tell him that I need a shower again, and we go through the same routine as before - him following me down the corridor to the shower rooms. He attempts to make light conversation with me, asking how I am and such, and I’m too tired this time to put up any catty resistance to it. We stop outside the door, and he hands me a couple of towels.

I don’t know why, but I turn to face him. He looks me dead in the eyes with his own misty blue gaze and before he can get a word in, I say something I wasn’t planning on. It just comes out - a string of words that, even thinking about them now, I’m not entirely sure where they came from. I ask him if he wants to come in with me. I can tell he thinks I’m joking at first, but I make no change in my simple expression and he realises I’m not. I grab him by the hand, and he follows me in - like a lost dog. I undress in full view of him, with no insecurity whatsoever - and, taking a look or two behind his shoulder, Joseph also starts to undress.

Together, we walk into the showers and I turn on the water.

[15]

We fuck. There’s no classier way to put it, really. The heat of our bodies together makes up for the unpredictable fluctuations in water temperature. He kisses up and down my neck from behind, taking my chest into his hands. I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve had this, but the abstinence only adds to the intensity. Before long my face is up against the white tiling, my hair in his grasp, wrapped around his hand. Firm, but not rough. He tells me he loves me, but I don’t reciprocate. I just keep pushing backwards against him, over and over until he finishes.

This isn’t ‘love’ - not for me, anyhow. I just needed to feel wanted for a little while. Wanted to feel something other than dread, or uncertainty. He tries to kiss me again, but I tell him he should get dressed before anyone sees. Snapping back into sense, he does. I say I’ll be another 10 minutes, probably - but it’s more like 20 or 30. I’m fully within my rights to milk it. I stand in the water’s spray, letting it hit my face - fill up my mouth, and think about the wall I’ve built. Not the brick one, which was a waste of everybody’s time, but the one within myself. The one that has gotten me this far. Nobody can knock that down. Not anymore.

Joseph takes me back to my room, and says he’ll order me something to eat if I want. Do I like any takeaways? I ask for pizza. The bigger the better - and covered in meat. Pepperoni, ham, ground beef, onions - the works. 2 cans of full fat Coke. He’s seen my care plan, he knows what I like. When it arrives, I offer him a slice - but he’s a vegetarian. Oh well, all the more for me. It comes with a side of mozzarella sticks, which he accepts a handful of, and then I’m left alone again.

The pizza is amazing - not posh by any degree, but the good type of cheap. Greasy. I eat the entire thing in less than half an hour, and I lay on my bed. Other than writing these, there isn’t much more for me to do. However, a few hours later - a little folded note enters the room from under the door. It’s from Joseph. Here’s what it says:

Dear Helen,

You are incredible. So beautiful, and strong, and resilient & kind.

I can’t stop thinking about you, and how unfair this all is. I want you out of here. I want you all for myself. To protect you.

If you choose not to hide this letter, I’ll lose my job - but I don’t care. But the tragedy of that will be I probably won’t ever see you again. That I do care about. You I care about.

With love, J.

Christ. Is that all it takes, a handful of mozzarella sticks? I tear up the note, and stuff the pieces down into the drain of the sink. Shortly thereafter, the lights go out - and I get into my bed and fall fast asleep, having hours of slow-moving dreams in which I am out of this place, walking the streets of the area I grew up in. Some of the geography is right, but other things are off about it - like hills that should go down, going up. An overabundance of telephone boxes - things like that. Gravity is not the same in my dream.

When I jump, I lift right off of the ground - up into the skies, floating over buildings. The newsagents I’d buy sweets from. The primary school that was famously bombed in World War 2. Half memories, remixed and remastered. Deleted scenes - previously unseen angles. I wake up to the sound of my door opening - Professor Samuel hurrying in, asking if I’m sick. Apparently, I’d not been answering and I slept through breakfast.

When he saw I was okay, he suggested I get dressed - which I did. I take out the second pair of dungarees, and step into them. Boots too. Once again, he leads me down the same series of corridors, down towards the same room, and opens the door. This time, Mr. Angelopoulos is waiting inside for me already - hands on hips.

“Little Miss Sleepy”

The room, this time, is devoid of bricks, mixer or bags. Instead, there is a large cutting bench, with a circular saw attached, and some piles of wood - all in different sizes, shapes and type.

“Woodworks today”

Professor Samuel says I am to make him a clock. The shape and design can be anything I want - I should express myself - but he wants a clock for his office. I am taken back instantly to my first year of secondary school - year 7 - in which I was tasked with a similar objective. I had only been there a few weeks, and already I was struggling to fit in. Failing to make friends. I remember being scared of the machines - their sharp blades intimidating me to crippling anxiety. Even then, I was weighing up my future - making plans about changing myself. Thinking about the woman I wanted to be. Losing a finger - or an eye - wasn’t a part of that vision. As a result, my clock was less than detailed - severely lacking in concept. It received a D.

Professor Samuel left us to it. Mr. Angelopoulos greeted me with another thumbs up, handing me a pair of safety goggles and a pair of rough, gritty feeling gloves.

“What kind of clock you wanting make?”

I didn’t know. Or care. But I told him ‘something round’ just to get the ball rolling. The sooner we got on with it, I figured, the sooner I could be out of there.

Angelopoulos showed me how to power the jigsaw with a pedal. It worked similar to a sewing machine, except with a higher risk of disfigurement. Effortlessly, he demonstrated - cutting out an almost perfect circle from a piece of MDF in one, singular graceful movement. I asked him again about his ‘son’. Asked him where he was now.

“I don’t know. Last time I see him was many years ago. He not want to see me”.

I picked up one of the more medium sized pieces of wood - a smooth, flat piece that looked as though it had once belonged to a bedside cabinet, or some other disposable Ikea product. I placed it on the saw, and hovered my foot over the pedal - terrified of my own disinterest. I positioned both gloved hands on it, and braced myself for the whir of the blade, praying that I’d get through the afternoon in one, un-sliced piece.

[16]

Mr. Angelopoulos takes over, showing me the proper way to safely hold the wood while cutting. As he does, I think about how much I dislike him. No, not dislike. Hate. I hate Angelopoulos, even more than Professor Samuel, or Cathy - because he hides his prejudice behind a veneer of jolly smiles and kind eyes. He’s ‘helping’ me, meanwhile his own child is off, god-knows where, struggling. He abandoned her - sent her away from his home. She could be turning tricks on the street, or locked up in one of these places like I am, or dead. I ask him about her again - ask him what he’d do if she came home. I make a point of using the ‘she’ pronoun, firstly out of principle - but also because I know it’ll piss him off. He stops the machine.

“He don’t even call to see his mother is ok. If he come back to my door again, I tell him to his face - you are disgrace”.

He presses his foot back down on the pedal, setting off the scream of the electric saw again. He appears to have his own vision for my clock, which is perfectly fine by me. Angelopoulos steps away from the saw, and gestures for me to try again. I take the opportunity to, once again, ask him about his daughter. I ask him how he can sleep at night, knowing she’s out there - probably struggling. I tell him that, if he were my dad, I’d never forgive him. He doesn’t respond, but his usual, cheerily dumb face now has a distinct gloom to it. It could have been shame, it’s hard to say.

I press my foot down, sending the blade into its frantic whir once again. As I prepare myself to push the plank (and by extension, my fingers) towards the spinning metal, I notice that Mr. Angelopoulos is trying to say something to me, his voice drowned out by the saw. I depress my foot, turning up his volume.

“Your father he probably don’t forgive you! You ruin his dreams. Ruin your body God give you? Unacceptable…”

Mr. Angelopoulos was furious - almost spitting with rage. I was pretty satisfied at having gotten under his skin so effortlessly, and let him rant as I pressed down the pedal once more, drowning him out. It was good to see him acting angrily - truthfully. Something closer to what he might have been like with his kid. Every now and then I’d catch a bit of his scorn, so apoplectic that it managed somehow to beat out the saw.

“What you… nothing motherfucking… faggot… “

I carried on cutting, trying to focus on keeping my fingers intact, and sticking to the light pencil guides Mr. Angelopoulos had freehanded for me on the wood. Suddenly, I felt a jolt - the jigsaw jerking out, away from my hands, as if it had been rammed by an angry bull. But it wasn’t a bull. It was Mr. Angelopoulos, suffering a severe heart attack, and falling over headfirst into the full speed, rotating saw blade. Here’s what I remember:

I remember my safety goggles being caked in an interesting mix of dark red and light pink. I remember the saw grinding to a sickening, gritty stop, only after my brain had comprehended and put together what might have happened. I remember pulling off my goggles, and seeing Mr. Angelopoulos’ face (or what was left of it) and realising it’d be burned into my memory forever. I remember thinking I heard Julia again, immediately after it happened, from behind me. I don’t know what it was she said, but it was her voice. I’m sure of that.

I remember Professor Samuel entering the room, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me out. I remember waiting in my room for about an hour, before three police officers entered. One sat down next to me on the bed, I remember, and the other two observed, standing by the door. They explained to me that they had reviewed the CCTV footage from the incident - the room having 2 cameras in it - and found no reason to suspect that I might in any way be responsible. They explained that the footage clearly shows Mr. Angelopoulos, clinging to his chest, and falling ‘like a brick’ into the circular saw. It’s likely, they say, that he was dead before his head made contact with it - at least that’s what they hoped.

I remember being taken to the showers, not by Joseph - but some other staff member. I don’t remember who. We didn’t have sex, whoever it was. I remember feeling peculiarly numb, sitting in my room - looking down at the spaghetti bolognaise I had chosen for dinner instead of a jacket potato with beans. I remember picking up my papers and my pen, and deciding that I needed to write Professor Samuel a letter.

I remember the letter started out like this:

Dear Professor Samuel,

I want to please leave now. Just tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it…

[17]

Over the last few days I’ve been catching up with old friends. Grace, Emily - Shantel. Since I wrote my letter to Professor Samuel, I’ve been allowed back up to the main floor of the Trans Women’s Institute - to say my goodbyes. I haven’t actually told anyone where I’m going yet. That I’m throwing in the towel. They’d only try to dissuade me. I don’t think I will tell them, exactly. I don’t even want to speak it out-loud to myself. I have one last week here, and then it’s off to the facility down the street.

I spoke with Rachel again, who was pleased as punch to hear I’d ‘come to my senses finally’. She told me how the transition would be gradual - no rugs being pulled out from beneath me. I’d begin on a new, higher dose of testosterone, and be offered an entire new wardrobe. There’s even a catalogue. I’m under no obligation to be hyper-masculine, she says. I don’t have to commit to any special sort of exercise regime or anything - but a haircut is mandatory. It shows a certain level of commitment, she says. A willingness to change. Again, there are options, and I’m told they have a good, experienced barber who’ll come by.

Since being in solitary, time has moved on a lot quicker than I thought. What I thought were weeks have actually been months, and at first it took me time to adjust to windows again - even the dim winter sun being enough to give me migraines. When I got back to the main facility, I was surprised to see Christmas decorations up - paper streamers and lights. Christmas is just a few days off, and there is a tree in the lounge with presents beneath it - even one for me. No label though, so I don’t know who it’s from. It might just be decorative - an empty box wrapped up for show - to make it look like we’re cared about.

There have been some changes since I’ve been away. For one thing, there’s a computer now. It sits in a small, previously neglected storage room. Girls can use it for an hour or two, so long as they’re supervised. Shantel has been on it a lot, doing her art and watching obscure anime shows. Also, there’s a new girl - Chloe. She has Julia’s room, and I don’t know if anyone’s told her what happened in there. She’s pretty reserved, and spends long periods with headphones on, listening to CDs.

I had a keyworker meeting too, with Joseph, which was awkward. We didn’t talk about the shower, or the notes we’d been passing to one another. We went through the motions, mainly - pretending like he didn’t know I was taking the Exit Programme. We went through a checklist - planning what my ‘new goals’ would be for the upcoming new year. I phoned them in, of course. To be more involved in group activities. To try and eat healthier. To learn a new language. I could see he was struggling with it - with not saying what he wanted to say to me. Just as we were wrapping up though, he looked as though he was going to burst into tears.

I asked him what the matter was, and he gripped my hand. I pulled away from him. You don’t have to do this. Stay here, we’ll figure something out. Something else. I told him - no we wouldn’t. If I stay here, I said, I’ll lose more and more of myself. I don’t want you to change. To give up. Yeah, well - I don’t want to be here, and there really is no other choice.

I spent a little bit of time on the computer myself that evening, supervised by Alexandra. She’s nice, actually. I can tell by the way she talks to me that she doesn’t think any of this is right. She’s not said anything explicitly, but she’s made little hints here and there to a past life - to a friendship group of hers - inclusive of those like me. We share, at the very least, an appreciation of kitsch culture. References and such. Also, she allows me to more or less search the web of my old volition. She’s in the room, yeah, but she’s not hawkish - choosing instead to use her ‘supervision’ as an additional breaktime, looking at her phone or catching up on paperwork.

The first thing I do is, type in ‘trans’ on google and navigate to ‘news’. It’s been so long since I doom-scrolled. Since I had any awareness of what the current climate was outside of here. The first link is an article from The Telegraph - the headline reading: NEW COMMON SENSE WIN FOR LABOUR PARTY NHS REFORM. I scroll through quickly, to get the gist. Apparently, ‘all transgender healthcare has been stopped for mentally ill adults’ - including hormone replacement therapy.

It doesn’t take me by surprise, as it had already been entirely outlawed for under 18’s just before I was brought here. It was always going to go this way, but I guess now it’s just official. There is a statement by the current Prime Minister - Wesley Grantham. He says:

“With long overdue amendments to the DSM-6, we welcome this change and stand behind the valiant women’s rights campaigners for their continued fight for sex-based rights, legal clarity and good, British common sense”.

There is a photograph of him, with his pointy face and greased hair, standing on a stage next to four women - each kitted out in suffragette colours. There are two banners - one which reads ‘Suff-Rage’ and another which reads ‘Greater Labour’. Confetti surrounds them.

I close the article, and open a website for expectant mothers - struggling to pick baby names. I navigate to ‘boys’ and ‘popular’. Noah? Too biblical. Arthur? Sounds like a bear. Harry? Can’t see it. Nathan? Horrible. The idea of going back to my dead-name feels inappropriate. Like Professor Samuel said - this is a chance to be more than. To start afresh. Perhaps I ought to let him choose for me? He’d probably like that…

[18]

Some of the girls have been practicing choreographed, Christmas themed dances. Last Christmas. The Mariah one. Grace more or less leads these sessions now, and has a seemingly fresh group of scared little dolls who want nothing more than to feel a sense of community amid these strange circumstances. To learn the right steps, and move their hips correctly enough to communicate femininity - but to who? To whose benefit is it serving? I don’t know, but Grace is a good teacher. Much more forgiving than Julia was. I’m glad these little dolls have something resembling a mother figure. God knows I’d be no good to them…

Cathy seems to be in a good mood - with her ugly as fuck Christmas jumper, featuring a graphic of a surfing Santa Claus. She keeps announcing to herself that she ‘loves Christmas!’ while scurrying around the ward, attending to her managerial duties in a performative jolly spirit. She’s only happy, really, because she won’t be here over the 24th and 25th. Joseph, Alexandra and the other ones who I’ve not been interested enough in to learn their names, they’ll be charged with babysitting us over the holidays.

Professor Samuel, I’ve heard, will be ‘on site’ up until New Year’s Eve - juggling his duties between here and the institute down the street (which I’ll be seeing for myself, soon enough). Cathy said she’s sad to be missing it, as Samuel plans on dressing up as Father Christmas, and giving out little presents to all of us. It’s a ‘sight to behold’ she says. Apparently he did the same last year, when they worked together at the Maudsley Unit. Cathy keeps going on about her son. How perfect he is - how he looks after her. I think Cathy’s husband left her a few years ago. That’s the vibe she gives off, anyway.

Joseph has asked me if I want to help him and Alexandra with cooking the dinner on Christmas Day. I said yes. I like cooking. I used to do it a lot. I have a pretty incredible roast potato process, as it happens. Don’t peel them, just segment. Boil until soft and skin is falling away, and drain. Throw potatoes into a large pan, greased partly with vegetable oil - but mostly with butter. Shake pan, covering potatoes. Add salt, pepper & fresh rosemary. A little bit of paprika if you’re feeling adventurous. More oil (drizzle) Cook for an hour, 180 degrees. Check - turn if needed. Another 15 minutes depending on your oven. Helen Herr’s Fantastic Potatoes.

Unfortunately, they’ve gone for frozen potatoes. Too many mouths to feed, not enough time for ‘all that posh crap’, according to Cathy. She really is a lovely woman. I can’t imagine why her husband would leave her. At least she still has her son. Hopefully he’ll get her a Rampant Rabbit for Christmas.

My sister visited me this afternoon, which was a bit of a surprise. Casandra was just sitting there in the lounge, cup of coffee in hand, when I came down for lunch. She was yacking it up with Emily - really enjoying herself. Seems she doesn’t mind the trannies who aren’t her siblings. She was all smiles and hugs with me, of course. I think, like my dad, she prefers me being here - not just because it’s convenient, but because she finds it easier to make sense of me in this context. I’m mad. I mean, you’d have to be, wouldn’t you?

She didn’t even ask how I was. Just proceeded to go into her laborious list of meaningless family updates. Dads got himself a new car. It’s white apparently - he’s already had to wash it. Wow. Mum's been writing a memoir. Oh God. What’s it called - How To Abandon Your Child: 3 Easy Steps? Cassie didn’t like that. She reminds me that I’m the only reason I’m here. That sister of mine - always makes me feel so much better.

I can see she wants to tell me about the wedding, but she wants me to ask. The fucking audacity of it, honestly. Sure, I’ll bite, tell me all about the wedding you disinvited me to. Regale me with details about the ceremony, and the funny thing the officiant said after you kissed your, frankly, hideous fiancé. Tell me all about the seating plan and dad crying and mum’s cringe dancing and uncle John falling over, and the dress - yes, do tell me about your gorgeous, expensive white dress. The type I’ll never get to wear. Yes, it is a beautiful ring. Wow. Amazing. I’m so happy for you. No, really, I am.

I tell her I’m feeling ill - that I need to go to bed. She knows I’m lying, but is only here at all because mum probably forced her, so she takes the opportunity to leave willingly. As she hugs me, and pecks me on the cheek, she hands me a little, neatly wrapped box. A Christmas present. Emerald green paper - little silver holly leaves. I don’t have anything to offer her. Nothing she needs, anyway.

When she goes, I take the present upstairs and lay it out next to my other one - the mystery package I found under the tree. I’ve never been good at waiting until Christmas Day. I tear open the gift Cassie got me, throwing ripped paper all over the bed. What could it be? A World’s Best Sister ornamental snow globe? Some new make up?

I look down at the black box on my lap - it’s scent hitting my nose even from down there. A gift set. The type you don’t even think about - you just grab by the tills last minute as an afterthought…

Lynx Africa.

[19]

Seems like everybody’s parents have had the exact same idea - coming to visit on Christmas Eve. Even during breakfast there were parents I’ve never seen before now - no doubt pressured by the festive guilt, waiting for their kid to eat so she can have her meds and they can take her out for a coffee, or to get a present to say ‘sorry you’re trans and imprisoned in a mental institute’. I’m sure Hallmark has a card for that now.

I have, of course, told many of the girls not to continue taking their hormones. I told Grace what I knew about them, and she said she’d been suspicious for a while anyway - had a collection in a box, hidden away. Some of the girls though, they don’t believe me. Emily in particular got quite upset about it - hissed at me that she ‘knew what I was up to’. What she meant by that exactly I can only speculate. But she certainly thinks The Institution ‘would never do that’. She insists that it’s ’not legal’. That there’d be some ‘social outcry’. If she can’t see that, clearly, nobody gives a fuck about us at this point, I can’t imagine she ever will.

A lot of the girls here are running on hope. It’s something you have to have to get through, especially in the beginning - hope that you can become something you’re told is ‘impossible’. A hope that people will understand. A hope that society will help you. So I get that it’s hard to let go of that hope. But the truth is, nobody is coming to save us. Nobody sticks their neck out for the tranny. Never have. Never will. Only we can change our situation, which of course is what I intend to do.

My parents came by too. They got here about 4pm, and since the disaster of their last visit, seemed to be making more of an effort to get on with me. They even asked me how I was - which is novel. I know why - it’s because they’ve been informed. Professor Samuel has brought them both up to speed over the phone about my enthusiasm to begin the Exit Programme and I can tell by the look in both of their eyes that this might well be the greatest Christmas present they’ve ever gotten.

We’re given a private room to talk about it. Mum wants to know everything - if I’m going back to my old name? If I want them to take me shopping for clothes. Dad tells her to slow down - not to get ahead of herself. He grabs my hand - something I can’t remember him ever doing. Physical contact isn’t something I get, usually. He tells me how proud he is of me. That he understands it couldn’t have been easy to come to terms with, but that he’s going to start making more of an effort. He wants us to be ‘friends again’. I wonder when, exactly, we were.

There is a knock at the door, and Professor Samuel comes in. Both mum and dad get up and, to my surprise, they exchange hugs with him. Mum is teary eyed. It had never occurred to me before then that these might not be their first meetings. In fact, it seems a lot like Professor Samuel and my parents know each other quite well.

Professor Samuel sits down next to me, and hands me a folder. It contains anatomical diagrams, and information on new medication courses. My mum informs me that ‘Sam’ has agreed to arrange any ‘restorative surgeries’ free-of-charge. Mastectomy, hairline, jawbone - whatever can be done for me, will be done. Of course, Sam says, there are irreversible changes that I’ll now have to live with - but he assures me there are wonderful support networks in place now for ‘Regretfuls’. That’s what they call us now - ‘Detransitioner’ is considered old fashioned. Inaccurate.

They begin to talk among themselves. Professor Samuel tells them how instrumental he’s been in bringing the UK’s ‘negligent gender butchers’ to justice. He testified, he says, against a former colleague who is now behind bars for life. It’ll be an adjustment for me, he says, but many of The Regretful are achieving wonderful things, apparently. Thriving on the outside.

December 27th is when I can move over to the other building. From there, I’ll have to spend a month preparing for release, but Professor Samuel sees no reason why I can’t be discharged into my parent’s care by early February. Just before they leave, mum hugs me. She whispers into my ear that my bedroom is ready for me. Fresh sheets and everything. We can go back to how things were again. When we were happy.

They leave around 5:30. When I walk into the dining room, the girls are taking their places - about to enjoy a takeaway from the Chinese around the corner. Alexandra pulls out a chair for me, and begins plating up some chicken chow mein. There is music on the stereo - the original broadway cast recording of Cats. I look around at Grace, and Emily, and Shantel (who is engrossed in the CD lyrics book). I look to the other girls, who I’ve not gotten to know as well. Emily has a plate of mostly vegetables and rice. The new girl looks lost, moving a spring roll around in front of her with one finger.

Am I ‘regretful’? I can’t say I feel that way, especially. Things haven’t quite gone the way I expected they would, but I don’t regret my choices. My only crime was to tell others who I was - to be brave enough to do something for myself for once. I guess, if I regret anything, it’s that I came so willingly here. I trusted others to look after me, and I stepped into that van. I should have ran. I should have jumped out of the window. I should have done literally anything else.

As I write this, at ‘my’ desk, in ‘my’ room - I can’t help but wonder how long I’ll last outside here - and if it’ll even be worth it. The world outside is simply not designed with me in mind - it wants somebody else. Maybe I can placate it for a little while? Go method.

I should probably wait until tomorrow to open this mystery present, but who am I kidding? I’ve never been good with waiting - the anticipation is too much. Fuck it.

It’s eyeshadow. A large palette, with pinks and silvers and pastels - glittery. There is a note attached.

Dear Helen,

You know who you are. Don’t let the bastards drag you down, Sis.

Love, Alexandra.

[20]

I woke up around 10, so I completely missed ‘Christmas Breakfast’. As far as I could tell, it was a lot like regular breakfast, except with shitty old Christmas music playing on the CD player. A few of the girls had presents for one another - mostly cheap crap from the local charity shops, like cuddly toys or the odd hideous top. Some had opened the gifts from their families, leaving wrapping paper all over the dining room table. I grabbed myself a banana from the kitchen, where Alexandra and Joseph were busy preparing the turkey - stuffing something into its horrible hole. I made sure to do my eyeshadow this morning - light pastel purple, with glitter in the crease. I don’t know if Alexandra noticed.

I remember thinking Joseph and Alexandra seemed tense, and I put it down to the stress of trying to get the dinner done in time - then again, it’s not like Cathy was there, watching over them like a hawk. I wondered what she was getting up to with her son. Probably in church - or at a black mass - sacrificing a pig. It could be either, really. I asked if I could help with anything, but after peeling a few carrots I was just getting in the way, so I made the executive decision to tidy up the wrapping paper in the dining room.

There was some hubbub emanating from the garden, so I took myself through to the lounge to get a better look. Outside, there stood a line of girls, waiting patiently to meet Santa Claus. A dining chair had been dragged out into the middle of the grass, and on it sat Professor Samuel - dressed head to toe in Father Christmas gear, beard and all - with Shantel sitting on his lap.

“And what would you like from Professor Santa this year, little girl?”

She whispered something into his ear, to which he gave out a hammy “Oh really?!” and reached into his giant, burlap sack. Handing her the gift, he tapped one finger onto his cheek, which she dutifully kissed, before waving over the next girl. I felt my face get hot. The back of my neck, burning with rage. I marched back to the kitchen, and asked Joseph if I could have a drink.

“Tea, coffee?”

“No, something stronger. It’s Christmas, isn’t it?”

Joseph said we didn’t have alcohol in the house - and besides, I’m not supposed to have it because of the antidepressants I’m on anyway. I reminded him that I’m also not supposed to be fucked in the showers by members of staff - and I say it loudly, so Alexandra can hear it. Joseph, flustered, announces that he’s taking his break and leaves us alone in the kitchen. Alexandra hands me her box of cigarettes.

“Do you?”

She leads me out the back door, and lights me a cigarette in the tiny, designated smoking area between the kitchen and the garden fence. I’m not supposed to be here, and I remind her.

“Yeah, but it’s Christmas Helen”.

She doesn’t ask me about the showers. Instead, she takes a pull on her Marlboro and starts telling me a story - about her sister, lighting mine. Her name was Rebecca, and was her best friend in the world, she says. She was a lot like me, apparently - knew who she was from a young age - had the same colour eyes. It brought them closer together because she’d always wanted a sister. Her parents, though, saw it differently. Sent her away before it was even mandatory to. Refused to see her ‘as Rebecca’. Rebecca, she said, couldn’t take the rejection. She found her, on her 23rd birthday, overdosed in her bed.

I didn’t really know what to say to her, but she didn’t seem to be looking for consolation or anything. She just wanted me to know it, I think. To know she wasn’t the enemy. She gave me a hug - a long one. And in that moment, I felt transported - back to the smoking area of the Star and Garter - back to when I had friends. When I had community. To when I knew, without a shadow of a doubt who I was. That hug was something I needed. It woke me the fuck up.

Suddenly, the gate swung open - Professor Samuel barging in, beard in his hand and an empty sack.

“What’s this little festive love-in then?”

I tried to hide the cigarette behind my back, but he didn’t seem to care about it. He just ordered Alexandra to check on the turkey in the oven. He reached into the sack, which held one last present.

“Santa didn’t forget Helen! Why don’t you go and watch the Christmas performance while I help these two layabouts with the sprouts?”

I did as I was told, putting out the cigarette in the little metal box on the wall. As I made my way back towards the garden, where all of my sisters now seemed to be, I could hear a familiar song playing - ‘Maria’ by Blondie. Grace was leading a few of the prettier girls in an expertly choreographed performance. I watched as they twirled and strutted, bending and wiggling their bums. Emily watched, arms crossed and swaying - miming along to the lyrics. Shantel sat on a bench with her headphones on, listening to something else entirely. I handed her the present. I don’t know what was in it, and I didn’t want it either way.

The time was 13:10 when I re-entered the largely empty house. I knew dinner was for 14:00, so thought I ought to see if Alexandra and Joseph needed any help with the potatoes, because even though they were just frozen, I figured I could at least put a bit of rosemary on them. Spruce them up.

As I approached the kitchen, I noticed that the door was shut. I tried to enter, but it was locked. I peered through the horizontal window on the door, and felt the heat immediately on my cheek. The kitchen was engulfed in thick, grey smoke - and I could just about make out Professor Samuel, splayed out on the floor - a fire raging beside him on the oven hobs. The fire alarms kicked in only then, as smoke finally began to eek out from beneath the fire door. There was a fire alarm in the kitchen, but for whatever reason it had failed to activate.

That’s when I heard my name being called.

“Helen! Come on! Helen!!”

[21] [Finale]

As the alarm shrieked out throughout the complex, Alexandra guided me towards a corner of the house - out of view of the windows, while Joseph focused on the other girls - pairing them up in the garden and counting heads. Alexandra explained it to me quickly - hide in the medication room, and when I hear that front door open, she’ll guide the firemen past to the kitchen. When I hear them pass by, I should run straight out of the front door. Just keep going, don’t look back. She made me promise. I wanted to thank her. I had so many questions - why me? What about the others? Was this planned? For all I know, this could be a freak accident. A Christmas Miracle.

I did as I was told - ran into the tiny medication room. I locked the door behind me, hunched down. Smoke was spreading around the house now, I could see it creeping past the small porthole window, having breached the kitchen fire door in less than 10 minutes. I rummaged through the cabinets, grabbing wildly at whatever I thought might be useful outside of here - plasters, petty cash bags - anything. That’s when I saw the medication boxes. Estradiol. Tonnes of the stuff, left unopened for god knows how long. I tore the strips out of the boxes, and shoved as many as I could down my bra and knickers. I knew it’d be impossible to take all of it, but I thought maybe I’d shove some down the sofa or something. Hide a bunch for the girls left behind.

I heard various new voices, men and women - authoritative. Alexandra directed them past the medication room, and as I heard them pass by I knew it was my cue. I tore out of the room, nearly falling over as I turned the corner by the staff room. I just caught sight of the fire fighters, kicking in the blackened kitchen door and spraying some sort of acrid foam all over the place. I couldn’t quite make out anything resembling Professor Samuel - just charred, smoking appliances.

The front door had been left wide open for me, and as I bolted out like a dog, into the street, I suddenly realised I had no idea where to go - what direction to even run in. I hadn’t had time to even think about anything resembling a plan. But, I was out - and that was a good first step. I ducked behind a parked car and watched as the girls all made their way out through the back gate fire exit and lined up in the driveway. I saw Grace, and it seemed like she was looking around for me. Shantel had her headphones on still. Suddenly the guilt set it. I was leaving them.

The kitchen window had smashed from the extreme heat - and I could see firefighters moving around inside. I watched as one of the firefighters - a woman - made her way into the side door which led down into solitary. There was a crashing noise, and some shouting - and all of a sudden, out she ran again with the dog tearing at her uniform. Another firefighter, again a woman, tried pulling the dog off of her, but it had its jaws locked tight onto her leg. I had been told that this dog only hated men - that it knew what you were, regardless of how you looked. But here it was now, attacking indiscriminately. Then I realised - it had nothing to do with biology. The dog hated the dungarees.

Now it made sense why I’d been forced to wear them. It was all just another layer in Professor Samuel’s perverse gaslighting game. Just a way to break us down, and make us question who we are. I felt so fucking stupid then - for allowing myself to be fooled. To have believed what he said about nature and biology and destiny - and why? Because he called himself a professor?

Sure enough, by the time the firefighter had clambered out of her dungarees, the dog lost interest in her. It began running my way - tongue out and eyes needy. I took off down the street with a brisk pace, not looking back, and as I went the dog joined me by my side. It didn’t bite me, or leap up or even bark. It knew nothing of my chromosomes and it didn’t care to. It simply wanted my security, and company, and I was in far too much of a hurry to do anything else but go with the flow. This was, for now at least, my dog.

I was cold. Everything happened so fast, with such little warning, I didn’t even have time to grab a jacket. I knew the police would be on the lookout for me soon enough, and that I needed to find somewhere to stay, but what options could there be on Christmas Day of all days? All I could think to do, as I walked to god knows where, was put estrogen pills into my mouth. As I passed the other institute, I popped them like M&Ms - hoping my levels would adjust accordingly. Knowing they most likely wouldn’t…

As I write this now, I still don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m sitting on a park bench, in a park I don’t even know the name of - with a dog I can’t afford to feed. This notebook is coming to an end now, but the pen may very well run out of ink first. It’s probably time to wrap it up then.

Whoever you are reading this now, this is what I want you to know:

My name is Helen Herr.
I am a woman.
I am, justifiably, very angry.

And if that’s a problem for you, well - the only way you’re going to be able to stop me is to kill me. I will continue, on my own terms, regardless of how bad things go for me because - at the end of the day - it has never been about having an ‘easy’ life. It’s about having a life at all.

And if you’re not brave enough to have your own - to risk it all for one - then I feel sorry for you.

Yours,

Helen x

[THANK YOU]

Hi, this is Jen Ives. I just wanted to thank you all for reading Good Trans News (Season One).

Over the past month I’ve really enjoyed all of your feedback and enthusiasm, and it means a lot that so many of you are into my writing. It was a really pleasant surprise for me that so many of you said you related to the ideas, situations and characters - especially my trans readers, of course.

I know things often feel grim and scary right now, and uncertainty is all around us - so I wanted the story to reflect that reality in some way. However, I did want to ensure there was some hope in it. It’s easy to get bogged down in the bad news. We need to, as a community, remember that our power is in our strength and resilience.

We go through hell, so we can look at ourselves in the mirror and be proud of what we’ve made. That is OURS. Not the government’s, or the doctor’s, or the media’s. Ours.

I hope you have a good rest of your holidays, and I’ll see you again on January 01st with SEASON 2 Of Good Trans News

Jen x

More at:

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jenives.net

Contact: jeniveswriter@gmail.com

You can also join the SECRET DOSSIER group (FREE) to gain access to EXTRA documents and insight into this story. Find the link here: www.instagram.com/channel/AbaurQEpxopMWAM2/ or on my Instagram profile instagram.com/imjenives