Muzzle Muzzle Me

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I was having some issues with my parents, mostly my dad, and once they left the house, I grabbed the phone. The first time I called, no one answered. A robotic voice said something along the lines of “We’re sorry, no one is able to talk to you right now. Please try again later.” So I did. 10 minutes of petting my cat later, I tried again. I was met with someone who said ‘Welcome to the trans lifeline. How may I help you?’ and little me just went “….Hi. I’ve never done this before..” and they laughed and told me what the do- they’re a group of transgender people who will happily help any transgender person who calls. Its for crisis’s or just any issues. They will offer resources and will only call authorities if you give them permission. I introduced myself- my age, name and pronouns/identity. The man introduced himself at Jim (Or John, the connection was kind of bad), he was also transgender male, and we talked for a bit. I told him about my family and experiences, and he was very helpful. He gave me a few numbers in my state that are helpful for me, and I almost cried. We talked for about 20 minutes before my parents got home. I panicked and was like ‘Hnghn my parents are home I really need to go.” and he was like “Okay, Alex. Call back if you need to, I hope this was helpful.” He was totally used to people needed to go quickly, and I felt so much better. 

Trans Lifeline -  877-565-8860

Try to praise the mutilated world. Remember June’s long days, and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew. The nettles that methodically overgrow the abandoned homesteads of exiles. You must praise the mutilated world. You watched the stylish yachts and ships; one of them had a long trip ahead of it, while salty oblivion awaited others. You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere, you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully. You should praise the mutilated world. Remember the moments when we were together in a white room and the curtain fluttered. Return in thought to the concert where music flared. You gathered acorns in the park in autumn and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars. Praise the mutilated world and the grey feather a thrush lost, and the gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns.