I’m overwhelmed every minute of every day. If I walk, I am overwhelmed by contact with the earth and the air. If I stare out a window, I am overwhelmed by the complexity and beauty of the world. If I lay down and close my eyes, I’m overwhelmed by the burden of simply existing, by the passage of time and the perplexing nature of humanity. The only time I’m at ease is when I dream.

This has always been my blessing and my curse: to see the world unfiltered by language or thought. My brain is always struggling to process a virtually infinite flood of information, even when nothing in particular is happening. Of course, the world will not allow me to exist in a neutral state for long.

If I put on clothes, I am disturbed by the sensation of the fabric. If I try to speak, I am struck dumb by the power of language, and paradoxically, by the absolute impossibility of true communication. If another person looks at me, I am paralyzed by uncertainty. What do they see? Who do they think I am?

I’ve survived this long by assembling a set of coping mechanisms into a functional persona. This is called masking. The mask hides my extreme sensitivity. The mask feels no pain, betrays no weakness. It turns incoming threats into mere ideas and then deflects them with jokes and irony.

Masking became easier when I went through puberty, because my emotions were muted on a chemical level. I got fairly adept at pretending to be a functioning adult. I was hollow inside, unfulfilled and suicidal, but I could contain those anxieties and keep moving, thanks to the mask.

Eventually, I learned what it really meant to be autistic and transgender, thanks to western science finally going back and fact-checking the fucking Nazis. For the first time, I had words to describe what I was going through, and guidance to help me fix my fractured psyche. Medical science was advocating for me, and some politicians were, too. It was easily the greatest miracle I have seen in my forty-four years on this planet.

Needless to say, we can’t have nice things.

Have you ever wondered what would happen if the president declared, without warning, that all people like you are fired from their jobs? He did that, remember, to trans people in the military, and before you say well, that’s the military, keep in mind he wasn’t supposed to be able to do that either.

I’ve thought about it. My coworkers would be shocked. My supervisors would object. But at some point, they would be powerless to stop it. At some point they would either join me in the firing line or reluctantly let me go.

Have you ever wondered what would happen if the governor of your state declared that people like you are no longer eligible for medication and health care? This happened recently in Florida. I’ve thought about it. I’m not sure what exactly would happen. I have enough money saved up, for the time being, that I could probably go gray market and not suffer too badly. But if my savings dried up and I had to quit taking estradiol, my mental health would rapidly deteriorate. Eventually I would probably suffer from hormone deficiency and get brittle bones but I figure I would break down and either kill myself, starve, or be hospitalized long before that.

So in the midst of all this horror I reach out to people like me. I forge bonds with them. I care for them and they care for me, and we each grow stronger, more secure. I’m learning how to feel emotions deeply again, like I did as a child. I’m learning how to take off the mask. I’m learning how to be in love.

There’s just one problem. Love makes the danger infinitely more terrifying. I am devastated by caring this much. I am afraid my heart will tear itself apart from the trembling. I don’t know if I will survive loving someone in a world like this.

I keep all this to myself. What’s the point in trying to explain? Few will understand, even fewer will care, and none will have the power to stop it. Inevitably, this makes me bitter. I feel like a hypocrite. I feel like I’m being paid to be a hypocrite by other hypocrites. But I can’t stop, can I? To stop would be to give up and let the bastards win.

It’s hard to think straight. It’s hard to sit still for eight minutes let alone eight hours. It’s hard to pretend I care about anything besides the safety of the people I love. This is how it feels to go on working in the shadow of genocide. You realize that all stability, loyalty, safety, and humanity will evaporate in an instant if someone in power decides to get rid of you. All your effort and good behavior is worth as much as a one hundred dollar bill printed on toilet paper.