My name is jacq.
the q stands for queer
the q stands for wanting to hang onto the parts of me I love most, the special snowflake that gets to have the strangest letter
the special snowflake that doesn't need u standing beside me, stealing my ending
the special snowflake that still thinks they'll publish a book one day as "Jacq Land" and the audience will gasp at the beauty that is weighted typography
the q stands for que
a who / which / what -
a placeholder for things I can't express even if I feel them. Even when I feel them. Even when I don't know whether I'm a who, which or, what.
the q stands for [q], stands for a uvular stop, but not really.
But really. the q stands for the thing I love. Sounds fake but ok
My name isn't jack, but I can forgive you. When you strip away the special snowflake, treat me like the nameless faceless who/what/which
Jack is ok then. It is nondescript
A melted snowflake, water like all the other water
My name isn't jacquie. Or jackie.
I am not small, I do not want nor need your diminuitive
I'm fat and huge and cannot cease to
Take Up Space
Your attempts to make me smaller just make me feel fatter
Which makes me sad
Which also makes me fatter.
my name's jacq
I'm an egotist.
I picked a new name by truncating the old
By removing "u"
By forcing myself into my own image, fat and clumsy as it is.
Hi, I'm Jacq.
Every month I refill my prescription.
Every single month I enter the clinic, smile at reception.
I give them my name.
I get asked if I've moved (no).
I get asked if I'd like a drink of water (yes).
I take a seat, not too close to anyone else but not so far away that I look contagious.
I feel contagious.
I get asked if I'm still trans (yes)
I get asked if I want hormones (no)
I get weighed
I get blood pressured
They ask me to please pee in this cup
They ask if I drink coffee (yes)
they ask if I smoke pot (no)
they ask if I'm sure I'm still trans (yes)
they remind me my drugs are supposed to be appetite suppressants
they remind me they'll take away this prescription if I gain too much weight.
they remind me they'll take away that prescription if I lose too much weight.
They ask about side effects.
I remind them my drugs are supposed to be appetite suppressants
They remind me that mood swings are a side effect.
I sit quietly while the doctor decides whether or not to fill my prescription this month.
I say something about the weather (nice), or the construction (perpetual).
It is a test, I think. I pass, or fail, depending on how you look at it.
I sit quietly while the doctor fills in the prescription (triplicate), count down in my head - 3, 2, 1 - to their sigh.
Sighs, because the form is long and numbered and they can count their days since med school by the perforated millimetres.
Sighs, because every month the box is too small and letters get all squished up near the end. Take two in the morning and onelaternthaftrnn.
Sighs, because they also have to write my information in another book, every prescription matched to a line.
The Big Book of Bad Brains, each line a chapter in someone else's Every Month.
I sit quietly, trying not to fidget. Trying not to talk about two factor authentication in case of an audit.
I sit quietly, trying not to look at the bottle of piss on the table between us.
The doctor reminds me this paperwork is a lot of trouble. I think about how I got pee on my hands again.
I'm handed a prescription. Three slips of paper I've been entrusted to carry a whole twenty steps, from the office to the reception desk, at the end of the hall.
I'm reminded I must go to the same pharmacy as last month.
I'm reminded not to sell my pills.
I share a laugh with the doctor,
at our inside joke, that I'm a liar and a drug seeker
Not someone who routinely puts my house keys in the fridge.
Not someone who still gets lost or forgets my bus stop.
The receptionist greets me by name, photocopies my prescription, and pretends not to read it.
Every month, I stand quietly, pretending not to notice their brows furrow at onelatrnthaftrnn, trying not to talk about triplicate authentication.
The receptionist returns three small pieces of paper to me, no longer attached, somehow no longer feeling triplicate.
Every month, I carry my three bits of paper to the pharmacy. The same pharmacy as last month.
The pharmacist does not know my name, but they know my script.
I give them my name. I get asked if I've moved (no).
I am reminded they have to order it in special, and I can't pick it up until tomorrow morning.
They ask if that's okay. (yes).
As if I didn't know.
As if, every month, a single day's delay might be the thing that's not Okay.
Every month, I wonder that I made it.
Every month, I wonder that it's worth it.
Every month, I get piss on my hands.