Andrew White

It always feels like there’s an anvil on my sternum whenever someone is upset with me.

The first time I dreamed of taking out my eyes, I didn’t actually do it. I wanted to, but I believed that when they were finally removed from my skull, you’d be able to reach into the socket and touch the brain with a finger; that without the eye, you could poke the gelatinous mess and stir it up like a soup. How terrible. How disgusting. How badly Mother and Father and my tutors would have wanted to do so if they thought it would change me

realizing that I could survive as a woman but only truly live as a man

A strange thing about being a boy like me is how difficult it is to untangle the truth of yourself from the world’s perception of you.

This always happens. Someone tells me to do a task they believe to be perfectly obvious, and I’m stuck struggling because not a single part of it is obvious to me.

I didn’t know how to explain to her that I didn’t want to be a boy because it was easier than being a girl. I wasn’t pretending.

May I touch you

Even if I was mad, there’s no excuse to treat someone like this. Madness isn’t a reason to stop caring about someone, is it?

The bits of social life that are so obvious to everyone else hardly ever occur to me.

Besides, doctors have a long, storied history of lying to their patients.