A Transphobic Attack Gave Me Hope

It was July. My wife and I had not spoken for two weeks. Fourteen days without a shared word. This was a low ebb. I would have preferred harsh words to silence. The words were on my tongue. Something had to give. Divorce is a loaded word. The act of separation can mean destruction, or it can mean freedom. In co-dependency, my wife was my legs. To wave a white flag meant to be shot at dawn. As I packed a duffel, it felt almost out of my control. I was relieved of command while my subconscious took over. Your plan needs to be fixed, Doro. It is time to activate Plan B. <a href="https://medium.com/the-narrative-arc/a-transphobic-attack-gave-me-hope-7a5f7d4b5432">Read More</a>