Chronic stress

when you don't want to talk about it but you know you can't pretend it away

Let me level with you – things are not great right now.

No, that’s not where I *should* start. I *should* say something more like this.

I’m grateful. I am grateful for my wife and kids, for a family who supports me and loves me. I’m grateful for waking up in a nice bed, for sleeping with the window open. I’m grateful for a fridge full of good food, for a garden begging to have peas and raspberries picked.

Yeah, enough of that gratitude. It’s not helping today.

Today my body is feeling stress. It’s physical symptoms – headaches, inability to sleep, heartburn, a rapid pulse for no reason, indecision, forgetfulness, brain fog, insomnia. There’s noise in my head I cannot shut off. When I close my eyes I am haunted by the same dreams, the same visions over and over. I stop eating when my plate is still half-full (and if you know me, that is definitely not me). My body is jittery. But I’m exhausted.

Behaviorally, I’m isolating. I’m not saying what’s on my mind. I’m choking things back. My creativity is taking a hit. When I look at a given day on the calendar, I’m immediately minimizing it down to the essential things I must do and eliminating anything extraneous.

I’m surviving.

If you’re reading this and thinking these symptoms sound familiar to you, then you likely have experience with trauma or with the effects of chronic stress. And, like depression, anxiety, or any other type of mental illness, this is the stuff nobody wants to talk about, especially when they’re in the midst of it.

Outside? I’m perfectly fine. I’m functioning. I can smile and laugh and engage in a conversation. I can drive the car, I can set up a tent, I can respond to emails, I can walk the dogs.

Oh, but inside?

There is a darkness within me that’s threatening to consume everything. My heart thunders in my chest, my breathing comes rapid and shallow, and the slightest thing spins me out of control. And I can tell you with no hesitation that it is only the testosterone in my body preventing me from crying endlessly and without provocation at all hours of the day and night. I lay awake in my bed at night thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking about the same damn thing, and I cannot think my way back out of where I am no matter how hard I try.

I don’t want to show up. This is the action of a petulant child. It’s a temper tantrum on the floor, fists beating, face cherry red with rage. I won’t. You can’t make me.

I want to pack up and walk away. And I should, but so many responsibilities keep me locked in place.

Yeah, but why?

Transphobia.

Bullying.

Toxicity.

I have to walk into that room and know that I will be misgendered. I am constantly othered and mistreated for who and what I am. There is a letter that is destined for my employee file that I’m trying to stop, but I might fail at that effort. I worry that using sick leave will prompt an investigation. If I speak up in that next meeting, will I be punished for what I say? After all, saying no and drawing firm boundaries got me into this mess. I have asked for help, but there are workforce shortages in that department, and no one is there to answer the phone. And when my desk line rings, I must answer. What will that conversation entail? My intestines twist into knots at the anxiety those thoughts inspire.

There’s a misconception out there that things like transphobia are visible and obvious, that it only involves people calling you names or using nasty slurs. How do we talk about the little harms that come from transphobia? How do you even call them out when they’re so easy to dismiss?

It’s being recorded by my stomach, measured in my cholesterol spike, saved in a map of cortisol patterning my brain into a growing sense of crisis and peril. My body knows this is happening. It knows. My sleep is interrupted. I’m tired all the time. My voice is layered with fatigue.

Today I’m not winning. I am struggling and keeping my face above water, treading as I am able, managing, surviving. Humans are this amazing mixture of wonderful and terrible all at once, and all of this pain and difficulty is a constant reminder that I’m alive, that my heart is still beating. But it’s beating too fast, and now I’m worried it might just kill me.

I don’t need that kind of irony right now.

I want to write something beautiful. I want to tell you a funny story. Maybe all I really want is for you to believe that I’m just a normal guy with a normal life, that nothing is a big deal, that nothing is really wrong, that I’ve got all of this under control. And I’m sorry I can’t do that today. But I can give you the truth, and I can relate to you as a frail human who is no better, no braver, no smarter, and no more in control than anyone else.

Your (stressed out) trans friend,

Robin