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Back in 2016, I started having a recurring dream. I'm in an empty building that's locked up tight: a lighthouse in a forest, a bunker on a cliff overlooking the ocean, an old apartment in LA. The dream always went the same way. I'd gain control of my body from dream Nessie. After investigating my surroundings, I'd peak outside and catch a small glimpse of a windswept, empty world. Suddenly knowing that I'm the last person alive, I break out to face what I know will be my death.

My dreams are way too literal. I'm stressed at work and I dream about being stressed at work. I'm worried about getting a job and I dream about finding out whether I did or not. I never analyzed them too deeply. They just seemed like a 1:1 of what I'm going through when I'm awake. No rest from my anxiety. Back then, I chalked those dreams up to my fear of worsening climate change, war, and social unrest in the aftermath of Trump's election. It seemed sensible, and I was far too stressed out to think about it more. The dreams got worse, and so did I.

I had a lot of misconceptions about suicidal ideation. It never crossed my mind that my childhood fixation on extinction and apocalypse, a fixation that was equal parts revulsion and fascination, could be a sign of something dangerous. My love for others got in the way of my hatred for myself. As much as I didn't want to be around, the only way that seemed possible would be at the end of the world. My last line of defense against my worst impulse broke down in the face of what felt like the beginning of the end. Three years in I'd have to face it: the tangible fear of an evil world combined with a growing resentment of my aging body.

It would have been worth it to stop and analyze that dream. In it, I didn't just realize the world ended and then die. There was more. They say that when you die in a dream you wake up. I never did. My whole life I died in dreams and just stayed asleep, the death turning into darkness, or another dream, or some sort of re incarnation. In this dream I'd walk outside and hang on, soaking in that abandoned world even after my dream body collapsed. I'd wake up a little later to my dog whining.

The dream was filled with fear, sure. But, if I had thought harder, I'd have realized it was only while I locked up in those empty dream houses. At the time, I was deeply in denial about my home life as it worsened. I told myself it was a haven. I attributed the constant anxiety to a fear of what was outside. "My agoraphobia is acting up," I said to myself. Years later I'd admit how trapped I felt. Trapped in that old body, cleaning that old kitchen, impulsively hiding in that old bathroom, suppressing the desire to run out that old door. My car got stolen and, with my final escape route gone, I gave in. I resigned myself to dying as someone I never wanted to be.

Yesterday, my girlfriend and I re-organized our apartment. I talked with her about making bug out bags as we renewed our passports. We cried about it. I looked around and realized how much I loved this home. How broken hearted I'd be if I had to leave it. I thought about 2016 and that old dream. Even crying while I picked out a suitable bag, I knew that this moment is completely different.

Moments into the start of the Covid lockdown, I packed a bunch of bags and left that apartment for good. Just me and my dog. I took my exes car and drove through the desert back home to Texas. I came out to everyone as a woman. The world had never felt more like it was ending. But, injecting myself with estrogen in a holiday inn somewhere in Texas, I hadn't felt happier in a long time. I stopped having that dream.

What followed was undoubtedly hard. I'm still not very good at facing really difficult stuff. I definitely don't let myself feel the events of the last five years enough. The resilience I built from loving myself kept me alive, but its cost was calluses. Some so thick that I would often only experience what I went through in residual ticks and habits.

Even still I'd like to go back to 2016 and plead with my old self. Tell them to just transition. That choosing to put it off because of the election would only make things worse. Even now, facing a future that seems even darker and knowing just how dangerous my life could become, I do so full of something I needed back then. I desperately want to keep living. I love this life and the person I became in it. I know that that love will keep me going.

Over the last few days, social media has been full of posts talking about holding off on transitioning. Posts about how hopeless it all is. Maybe you're thinking that. Or, maybe it's subconsciously poisoning you. Seeping into your dreams. I remember how paralyzed I felt. I promise that, whatever is to come, you'll weather it better if you let yourself become someone you want to protect.

*distant echoing calls akin to a fog horn*

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NESSIE