Counting Steps

T I M E

    It's been a while. My sixteenths in a month. It surprised me when I remembered it. I didn't realize something that used to mean so much to me could slip my mind so easily.

I've been so focused on other things. My intense OCD, my depression, my body, other people, my loneliness in a crowded room.

The testosterone that will be injected into my body by my own hands next week.

It's happening. It hits me like a gust of wind. When did all of this happen? When did I tell my family how I felt about myself? When did I push through hate and torment to finally have someone tell me, "It's not all that bad. You'll be just fine."? I didn't know such words came in a sweet syringe.

It's like a craving. Like food at 3AM. Like laying in bed with your eyes at the ceiling wondering, "Should I do it? I don't need it do I? It's just a quick thing it'll pass." And for some people they can stick through it. They can push away their longing and sleep. But then there's people like me. When the cravings are too strong, and the food smells so good from your sheets.

So you make your way to the kitchen. You hold out your hands and claw your way through the darkness, occasionally hitting some walls and stumbling on things chilling on the ground. It starts to get cold and you think, "maybe I'll just go back." But then you think of that fulfilling taste touching your tongue and you can't help but stagger forward.

And once you arrive, you switch on a light. And sometimes, you see someone else. Right there in the kitchen with you is someone making a sandwhich. Perfectly placed together, satisfying their cravings.

You look at them and ask for a bite of their sandwhich or they offer you one. You hold the bread in your hands and nothing has ever felt so soft on your fingertips. You lift the sandwhich to your lips and the mix fills your mouth with the taste you'd been longing for.

Satisfaction

You ask them, "How did you make a sandwhich so good?" Then they look at you and say, "It took a lot of hardwork and I'm really tired." Then they sneak in and whisper, "but it's not over yet, soldier. We still need to make it back to our bedrooms." They snicker and split their sandwhich with you. With their arm around your shoulder they vear you through the dark.

Even with them you trip over a shadow on the ground but you hold each other up and make your way to your beds, your stomachs full.

Sometimes I still get scared. I think, "Do I really want this? Will I regret it? What happens if I go through with this and something goes wrong? What if this was all a huge mistake and I put my family through so much to decide that I didn't want this in the end?" But then I think of this. While I'm lying in bed with the chaos outside. "This is what you need. It's scary. Hell, it's goddamn terrifying. But what's the point of wishing that things could be better, beating around the bush, when you know that all this time. All this searching. It was for this moment. The exceptance.

And then I think, as my eyes drift closed, "This is your chance, man. It's time to make your own sandwhich."