Good morning from Albina press. 12 days out of surgery. Begin most mornings without pain, after the first week. Usually end up with a little by the end of the day, doing my living. Still a few weeks outside of sex. The only ache is when lust enters my heart and body.

Surgery was about as big a deal as everyone warned me it would be: not much, and a huge one. From a physical standpoint, it hasn't been much. Achy days. Can't pick up a bag of groceries. A lot of time spent on the couch. A sudden wave of exhaustion about noon or so. The strange emptiness of a place that was once filled with such anxiety. A velvet purse empty of coins.

But what has been a big deal is how it's one less layer of anxiety. One place I know that regardless of the way the world goes, if hormones go away, if I'm forced to dress like a man, no one can take this surgery from me. I did this. I did this with stubbornness and will. I did this with tears and pain. I made my body configure more to how I want it to be. And for that, I will be ever grateful. To my doctor. To my lovers and friends who talked to me about this. To myself. I did this. And I am transformed.

Besides the surgeries, though, I am also settling in to the unemployed life again. I signed papers that make it so I can't talk about the layoff publicly, or say anything bad about my former employer. I blame no one except the shitty economy, and a world of anxiety.

So I'm getting up on sundays, and reporting my re-employment attempts. I'm searching all the websites. I'm getting myself out there. And I'm turning on professional writer protocols. Letting myself write a lot and think a lot. Live in paper. Live in books.

Unemployment came at the perfect time for recovery.