And finally,  silence. After a month of rushing and buzzing and being trampled by millions of people,  I finally have silence and space.  All in the tin box that is a train.


Scribbles on a train headed east on August 16, 2013

Well, here I am.

My life as a wanderer has begun.

Allow me to explain. I have just given in my flat keys, put my last few bulky belongings into storage, and clambered onto an antique of a train headed east. I am headed to Edinburgh for work.

Food for today has mainly consisted of biscuits and water – I had a bad stomach a few days ago, so dry food was really good. My food bag is a crinkly orange Sainsbury’s bag. At least I’m reusing it, right?

Just before the train left Glasgow, a flock of young women realised they were on the wrong one, grabbed their luggage and rushed out. I have often felt this – sometimes in performances that are not about anything I can particularly relate to; other times, it is often simply a feeling of foreboding about a decision I am about to make or an appointment I am about to arrange. Performances are very similar to real life; I haven’t yet walked out of a performance, but it would be nice to have the strength to. Yet it’s such a final action – you can’t go back in. It takes a lot of commitment to walk out of a show, just as it takes a lot of commitment to give yourself fully to a decision you’ve made and not look back.

I guess that’s sort of what I did today. Or well, what my lack of intelligent planning and inaction has culminated in. I am out. No flat, a job that doesn’t pay enough for rent, and relying on friends’ whims to let me live on their couch for a week.

My suitcase is in Edinburgh in friend A’s flat. After the 19th I will be moving to friend B’s flat so that I don’t become a burden for anyone. After that, who knows?

I’ve got some viewings set up, but I’m still a bit nervous about the entire endeavour. Part of me is saying I should relish the adventure of not knowing what I am going to do, but another part of me is crying out in fear. This latter part really wants to give up and go home to Cyprus.

And a third part thinks I should move to France. It wouldn’t result in me doing anything exhilarating, but I could look for work there until I can earn some money to take a translation exam for a certificate. They recommend three years experience, but where do I get experience?

I don’t know.

I do want to travel. I guess with a part-time unsalaried job based on commissioning articles I can definitely say the world is my oyster, and opens up before me, opportunities are mine for the taking.

I don’t want to fail my family. I realised I do miss them; not out of a need to be with them all the time, but just having that support, you know? Someone to tell you you’re being an eejit but always willing to hug you and pat you on the shoulder when you need a good cry.

I guess periods make me quite emotional. But there’s nothing wrong with that, is there? Emotion isn’t all bad. Maybe I should go back to Cyprus and sort my head out – figure out my next move. But then, I have a job here. Jobs don’t last forever, though. I have a yearning to leave; to get out and change and adapt. It’s not that Scotland isn’t a place of opportunity, but it just seems to be letting me get very comfy and forget I can dream.

Fuck off.

“I know you’ve not always been Eric, but I think you look wonderful.”

“I know you’re a lassie, by the way.”

Just want to punch a wall.

It was a perfectly fine night before that, but two ‘nice person’ comments one after another kinda ruined it. I don’t know how either of them knew I’m trans, but I just want to kick something.

Piss off.

Do you walk up to someone and say “I know you’ve not always had blue hair, but I think you look wonderful”? Do you say “I know you have brown hair, by the way”?Admittedly, comparing gender issues to hair is not ideal, as being told I am “not a guy” (or “not always Eric”) affects me way too much.

I don’t know how either of the two people who mentioned this know. One probably knows through our mutual friends; as for the other – no idea. What a way to ruin a good night…

Yes, it was a karaoke bar, and no, I can’t reach all those deliciously low notes. But so what? What the fuck urges someone to say “I know you’ve not always been Eric but…”? Part of me is saying “die cis scum, die!” but I suspect they don’t know any better, although one of the two people claimed she had a friend who is trans. Sometimes it’s nice to get people who “understand” or who are full of support; just not from random strangers, and not when you’re out having a laugh.

The hate, I can feel it bubbling up – almost started crying and growling with anger. Fortunately, we left, and I came home.

It’s sort of like stopping someone in the middle of a dramatic play and telling them they need to improve their acting; unless you know your shit, you should shut the fuck up.

So, to you, oh joyous people who think that expressing your support towards someone who just wants to have a good time with a few friends, I say this: