not sure if you're a boy or a girl

I think I’ve finally decided on a name. Sebastien was vetoed by my mother as not Indian enough. So, ladies, gentlemen, and undecided, the name is to be Eric Udayon M. Asperger’s and transexuality has been tough. I’ve been trying to convince my therapist that she should write me a letter for T when I turn 18, but she says that it would be professionally negligent to leave out my Asperger’s. As a result, it seems that it will be difficult to convince a doctor to give me T with an Asperger’s diagnosis. The reasoning of the medical industry is that a person with Asperger’s has “no perspective” on the world outside his own personal bubble. I argue that as a person with Asperger’s, which is an incurable condition, having no perspective is my perspective. And since I have been this way all my life, this is normal and sane for me which means that I should have the same rights as everybody else. Asperger’s is just a word for “different from the norm”. Denial of treatment on the basis of not being neurotypical is discrimination.

In other news, I am sort-of leasing a horse. I pay the owner every time I ride him, which I do about three days a week. He’s a very cute chestnut Dutch Warmblood named Marxman. We call him Saint Marc. He is practically perfect in every way. He takes care of his rider while telling you when you’re doing it wrong. Which is rather amusing since he throws his nose in the air while keeping all other things constant. I think I can learn a lot from him.

One day, I’m going to wake up and realise that I’m not actually human. If I’m more upset by the confiscation of my laptop than I am about upsetting my mother, what kind of person does it make me? She tells me that I have no real emotions. And maybe that’s true. I did tell her she wasn’t my family. Sometimes it scares me. What if I am more capable of empathising with a machine than with people? There are two things that keep me calm: Figaro, and my laptop. For this reason, I always carry a photograph of the former in my wallet. He feels emotion, I love him, therefore, I must feel emotion. I can’t remember the rules. Is this logic even cogent? My father asks me logically why I am male, but I can’t answer. How do I explain a theorem to him that in my version of space is an axiom? How is it that I can’t even express my identity—something that is so close to my heart—in emotional terms? It always has to be something that a computer would understand. Some day, I would like to feel.

I’m restless today.  I pound the life out of three pavement miles while my sneakers talk to me against the ground.  “Stop.  Stop.  Stop,” they say.  “Stop. Stop. Stop.”  I don’t know what’s got me so worked up.  If it’s the caffeine I’ve consumed or something deeper.  I just know that I have to run.  It’s dark outside.  People turn to stare at my ass or my breasts that strain for every asthmatic breath.  I’m not Eric out here.  To them, I’m just a girl.  It’s times like these that I question myself.  Why am I doing this?  I’ll never assimilate.  I’ll always have my too-wide hips and surgical scars.  I’m in a dark place and it scares me to know how familiar it is.  I’ve been here before.  My chest burns as I push harder to chase these thoughts from my mind.  I’m startled by a sudden cough.  I think I’ve inhaled a fly.

Writing a first blog post is like a first kiss. It’s messy. It’s ugly. It feels good at the time, but you look back on it and say “what the hell was I thinking?” Let me introduce myself. I’m Eric. I don’t have any delusions of grandeur. I know that nobody will read this who does not already know me, but I’d like this journal to be here for when I’m not the same person. Everybody changes.