E-E-E-E-E

… For Equinox. My texts are out of sync with reality once again. I´m not writing this on the actual Equinox, but the day after, and it will be published tomorrow, on my birthday. Speaking of births, I had a difficult moment yesterday afternoon when I felt a flu rolling in and leaving me vulnerable to my sense of loneliness and lack of legacy. But neither are really good reasons to have children, and of course they would not be my only ones; but the horrid cost in what I am doing with my body is that I have to choose between exploring my world, or creating a new life that explores its own world, after which my world would always be secondary to theirs. I think about Pompeii and its people, left behind as hollow holes in the solidifying magma. Some of them were children. If I don´t have a child, I will never have to fear my child having to die with a mouth full of hot ash from the nuclear Revelations.

But my real pain lies in the fact that both transitioning and being left childless were things not really in my full control. I could have transitioned and have my fertility preserved through egg-freezing if I had been met with humanity at the trans clinic. And now I fully believe that dr. Kettula´s latest demand that my psychotherapy will have to be over before a new referral is intentional. If she prevents me from entering the trans clinic until I´m too old to freeze my eggs, society will create savings.

I went to return some curtains today. The package felt so much lighter than when I had picked it up. I´ve been reading a workbook called ”The Baby Decision” and occasionally cried. I do have such a strong need to care for and to nurture a child. I understand it would be hard, and being a parent alone would probably be too much. I guess I could save myself a lot of misery by accepting I will never experience biological parenthood. But I feel the pain and the rage of a songbird that loses its eggs to a cuckoo… Except that songbirds don´t even realize that the monstrously huge baby cuckoo isn´t theirs. They love and tend to it all the same, even though their own eggs lay shattered on the forest floor, where the first-hatched cuckoo has dumped them. My mother told me today that she knows from experience that adopted children are as much your own children as biological ones. I asked how she knows, and she had to look for words for a bit before explaining to me in a sing-song voice that these and those relatives have adopted children. I don´t know why it made me feel something odd inside. Perhaps I really am just crazy.