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| Feb 19, 2018
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I am now unemployed.

For the first time in over 14 years, I have no job — no source of income. The clock is ticking toward homelessness.

I have been warned not to write about this. Several people have said writing about what happened would be “against my best interests.” “Bad.” I’ve even been warned in writing! The big bad corporation that no longer pays me still wants to control my life, and if I don’t comply they’ll blow my head off with a bazooka. Or something.

I worked for a bookstore all those years. I did other jobs during that time, but still worked at the bookstore at the same time. Thirteen and fourteen hour days were common. I have never named the store on social media, and I don’t intend to start. Besides, if I say the name three times, they might appear and force me to dance calypso, or get married or something.

So I WON’T write about what happened. I WILL write about how it made me feel.

(Corporations can’t stop me from doing that. . . yet.) (Or can they?)

In any case, it’s no secret that the job made me miserable. I was being misgendered almost daily. I was disrespected, and made to feel worthless. The hours and years on my feet were destroying my back and hips. Thing is — I used to love that job. Helping people find new books and new ideas made me so very happy. I was great at it too.

Back in early 2014, I accepted promotion to Head Cashier, which was a supervisory and training role. It also meant that I’d be stuck behind a counter 99% of the time, trying to meet whatever goals and whims the corporation made for me. And I was great at that too — I used to train salespeople, after all, and I believed in the product: Books. Learning.



Then, in March 2014, I transitioned.

I was then a target for every transphobic jerk with an agenda. Evangelicals, Republicans — whomever felt they could make themselves feel better by picking on me. After all — they KNEW I couldn’t say anything back. I would’ve been fired instantly for insulting a customer. Never mind what THEY said or did to me — I would be fired.

And so it was for nearly four years. Until Tuesday, February 13. I went into work for a 9 a.m. shift, and by 9:06, I was unemployed.

Fourteen years and three months of my life just stopped. When I started at the bookstore, I was 37. I’m now 51, and have a child. I started the job thinking I was male. When it was over, I was living my Truth as a woman.

As I’ve written in my blog, I have literally bled for that company. I have multiple physical scars on my body from my time there. I was once physically assaulted on the job.  That’s nothing compared to the mental scars.

Now it’s all over.

How do I feel? Well, to be completely truthful, at first I was relieved. It was over — the abuse, the Fear. . . I was free. I no longer had to smile at people whom I did not respect, and who had nothing but contempt for me.

One of my colleagues online commented that it was like being an abused spouse — you just kept taking it and taking it and kept coming back for more because, well because. I am not equating my experience to that horror, but. . . yeah. I kept coming back because I needed the job, and had some friends there. Not as many as before — it has ceased being a “family” for me some years ago. Before Sophie.

So how do I feel now?



The Darkness has me by the throat, and it is Strong. I couldn’t even keep a God damn retail job, and, despite over ten years of trying, couldn’t find another job. No one wants to hire an old, ugly, non-passable transgender person. And now, due to my inability to find another job, and through No fault of her own, my roomie and bestie, Linda will be homeless along with me. (I’ve already reached out to someone about taking my place on the lease if need be, so Linda needn’t suffer with me.)

Now here’s the part where well-meaning individuals start lecturing me on “positive attitude” and that sort of thing. Don’t. Please — just. . . don’t. It’s condescending. I’m glad it worked for you. Doesn’t for me, okay?

I’ve spent my time writing. Letters, cover letters, applications. Updating things. Blog entries. I’ve spent my time cleaning the apartment. But mostly, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Or curled up into as close to a ball as my fatness will allow, crying.

Seems to be all I’m good for these days.




And yet here I am, still breathing, my heart beating Pain.

That’s how I feel.

Aren’t you glad you asked? Oh right — you didn’t. I just. . .  monologued.


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Category: Transgender Body & Soul

Sophie Lynne

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