I'm Still Here, Despite Myself
Hope you’re ready for this…
CONTENT WARNING: This particular newsletter deals with self-harm, and contains descriptions of it. If that's something that might make you want to engage in similar activities, you can stop reading here now.
PLEASE DO NOT ATTEMPT ANYTHING THAT IS TALKED ABOUT IN THIS NEWSLETTER; YOU WILL LIKELY DO IRREPAIRABLE DAMAGE TO YOUR MIND AND BODY!
This essay should not exist.
I should be thriving in a world where discrimination against LGBTQIA+ people is non-existent, or I should be dead.
I tried to harm myself twice. I was unsuccessful each time; something in my dark abyss of a brain would not allow me to die and began taking measures to make sure I did not. After the second time, I got it. (Not exactly by my own choice, but I really did need it). But many of us are afraid to; the ever changing landscape being plowed up by a convicted felon who by the language of the United States Constitution shouldn’t have even been allowed to run for office a second time means that every time we interact with someone, we are potentially in danger of being exposed and ‘treated’ for our ‘mental illness’.
This is the story of my spiral.
It began in November of 2024. It continued into 2025. By late January, other factors had increased my despair and a major change in my life left me vulnerable to intrusive thoughts. And as they got stronger, I felt that the only way out was six feet under. I want to share this with you not to brag that I got incredibly lucky, but to maybe give you the reader a bit of hope (if you’re like me), or a bit of outrage to fuel an open revolt against this dictatorship led by white, male dicks who claim to be acting in the name of Christianity.
My name is Bobbi Elle, and I am a trans woman. I denied it for many years of my life, but on December 26, 2021, I could deny it no longer. But enough about the past; I finally accepted myself for who I am and began to take the steps needed in order to become the person I thought I could never be. From my first trip to a used clothing store to pick up a few things (knees shaking the entire time), to my first appointment with a doctor to discuss my options, to holding those first doses of Estradiol and Spironolactone in my hand, attending my first Pride as my authentic being, my first trip out en femme, my first T4T kiss, much of the three years since that Sunday night sitting alone on my couch have been the happiest in my entire life.
And then Donald Trump happened. Again.
I was trying to quit smoking at the time; the morning after the election, one of the first things I did was drive across town to the tobacco store and buy a carton of my brand. Everything else was going to burn down in his wake, so I figured burning a few more off while watching the all consuming flames couldn’t hurt. That afternoon at work, a place where I had yet to come out, I was extremely irritable. My read of the situation was to trust nobody; I live in a heavily Republican voting area of Ohio, and until I had reason to assume otherwise, considered everyone I had to deal with to be a potential enemy of me and my very existence. I was able to get past the constant fear after a few days, but in the back of my mind there was still the lingering distrust. It eventually evolved into an extreme dislike of men, but more on that later.
I began seeking out allies. The goth lesbian at the Walmart, a wonderful Black woman down in the testing lab. I began wearing a Trans pride button on the inside of my shirt to identify myself to fellow LGBTQIA+ travelers and let them know they were safe in my presence. I still didn’t feel safe.
I began going out one day a week to pick up groceries as myself; up until this point I was still mainline boy mode unless I was leaving the small town where I live. It was quite a surprise to my allies when I began appearing in my blue bob wig and feminine clothing; they were all very accepting, especially the ladies down at the tobacco store. I started going to LGBTQIA+-friendly night clubs; I shared a kiss with a trans woman near closing time on the dance floor in chunky heeled boots that left my feet hurting for days after. I met a gorgeous non-binary individual by opening my Notes app and typing out “I LOVE YOUR WHOLE VIBE” in the largest font possible, and we sat and talked for 20 minutes. They constantly reassured me that I was needed here, and that I deserved my happiness. But during the day, while still in a male disguise, I still didn’t feel safe.
After Trump’s inauguration and the flood of Executive Orders that seek to dismantle things like DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion) initiatives, ordering government departments to erase any mention of trans from years of collected data, and denying us the right to change our gender marker on official paperwork, the irritability returned with a vengeance. I was now outright hostile toward any cisgender, hetero normative individual in possession of a penis. A hostility that boiled over eight days into the Trump administration. The attempt to revoke funding for Medicaid programs that my mother depends on absolutely broke me, combined to send me into a rage, which I proceeded to take out on a pair of men who were being their usual selves.
The next morning, I got the call. At 8:15am, the job I had held for nine years was over. I was removed from the job site. That early monring phone call began the massive spiral that nearly kept me from writing this essay; it made me want to die.
The first two days, I was numb. I just laid around; thankfully I was feeling quite ill so it all worked out. On day three, I made a few efforts to land a new job, but once again just couldn’t do much. In between job hunting, I was desperately reading every document I could about fleeing to Canada as an oppressed refugee. Hitting dead end after dead end just left me drained, physically and emotionally. I was sleeping for no more than 90 minutes at a clip, and unable to achieve REM sleep. A short, dreamless ‘slumber’? No; it was more of a temporary shutdown.
Day four began with me holding an insulin pen. I use a combination of long-acting and short-acting insulins to maintain a healthy blood glucose level. Most days the long-acting insulin is good enough to keep me in check, as long as I watch what I eat, so I had a nearly full pen of short acting insulin. I placed a needle on the end, turned the dial to its maximum dispersal setting, and injected myself. Then I injected myself again. And again. Nearly two milliliters of insulin were now in my body. And all I had to do now was lay down and wait for the end.
But the end was not coming. A panic response went off in my brain: I need to live. I checked my blood sugar; it was down to 40 mg/dl. A normal, healthy level of blood sugar is between 70 and 180 mg/dl. I chugged a sugar free energy drink; I dug through my closet to find a bottle of glucose tablets and began consuming them. I hurriedly ate a bowl of cereal for breakfast. Within four hours, I had returned my levels to normal, and the crisis seemed to have passed. I proceeded forth with my day, counted myself lucky, and resolved to move forward. Unfortunately, I have a habit of occasionally breaking promises, especially ones I’ve made to myself.
When the sun set on that fourth day, the intrusive thoughts returned with a vengeance. I began to think of myself as a failure, not just because I’d failed to keep employment, but because I had been unable to go through with ending my existence. Another night with no sleep. Another night of being consumed by darkness both internal and external.
The next morning, day five, began with filling my pill case for the week ahead. I pulled out my medicines and started.
I take citalopram to help me deal with a continuing depression that first settled in around 2008 when my little brother killed himself. Like me, his life rapidly fell apart and he spiraled, despite his best efforts. In his case, however, he chose to pull a trigger to end his internal suffering. I had always felt guilty that I was unable to do or say anything to prevent him from taking that step. And about a year later, I spoke to a therapist, and was given the citalopram to help me make it through the day.
At 10 mg, it was going to take quite a bit to take me down. I figure I consumed at least 500 mg of pills to achieve my aim. I put on a YouTube stream of ‘Mystery Science Theater 3000,’ took the Trans Pride flag down from my wall, draped myself in it, and laid down. I was certain that this time, the end would come.
But it didn’t come. After 90 minutes without being able to even get to sleep, body shaking from my accelerating heart rate, the same panic response kicked in a second time. I quickly slipped on a pair of shoes, grabbed my wallet, hurriedly stuffed it into my coat pocket, and jumped in my car to drive the short couple of miles down to the hospital.
The intake nurse admonished me for that as soon as she saw my vital signs; my heart rate was 165 beats per minute. After a short evaluation, I was placed in a room within the emergency department for eight hours of observation. Probably the most humiliating part of the experience was that the only room available was a children’s room; there were birds painted on the walls, stars pressed into the ceiling tile, and not much in the way of privacy. The second most humiliating part was having to strip out of my clothes and into paper scrubs that were at least two sizes too big; every trip to the bathroom across the corridor involved a struggle to hold onto the pants that would have rapidly fallen off of my frame with but a single misstep.
Once my condition had stabilized, I was asked to meet with a social worker to evaluate my mental state and determine if further treatment was warranted. Despite my protests that I was fine and would not requite a stay in a psychiatric unit, I was sent to one. It took several hours to arrange transport, so I spent much of the afternoon laying in that children’s room, staring at a digital clock on the wall counting down the hours until that next step would be taken.
Sometime after 6pm, the ambulance finally arrived. I told them I didn’t want to get on the cart, as any true fan of Monty Python would in this situation. Despite the chuckles from the ambulance attendants, neither of them responded that I would be stone dead in a moment. I will give them their due for the abject professionalism they were able to maintain in this situation. I was strapped in, loaded up, and soon on my way to the place I would call home for the next three days.
I conversed with the attendant monitoring me en route; impressing the guy with my knowledge of the roadways we were taking to get there. Not bad, considering I couldn’t see a damn thing out the windows because the lights were on. All I had to go on was the feel of the asphalt under the tires and my own internal map of roads I’ve been driving (and riding on) for all of my 43 years.
We arrived at the unit, a little over 20 miles away. A security officer escorted the ambulance attendants and their cargo (you know, me) to the third floor ‘Coping Center.’ After a quick tour of the area, I was shown to my room and given a clean pair of cloth scrubs to change into, along with towels and hygiene supplies. I quickly showered; it had been over a day since my last one and after a day of pumping myself full of SSRIs in an attempt to never have to face another day, I was a stinky, sweaty mess.
After an initial evaluation by the on-duty staff, I was free to spend the evening as I wished. The final group activity of the day was just getting underway, but I was tired. I retreated to my room, laid down on the bed, and returned to the empty shut-down mode I’d been experiencing for much of the last week. When I awoke 90 minutes later, I was a mess again. The HVAC system was set too high for my personal preference; after a few minutes, the pillowcase was soaked with the sweat pouring off of my head. The rest of the night continued in much the same manner: periods of ‘sleep,’ followed by longer periods of trying to get back to sleep. Pacing back and forth. Popping my head out into the corridor to check the clock (the rooms were not equipped with them). The night staff asked if they could give me something to help me sleep, but considering the events that had brought me into their care, I declined.
The next day began with a check of my vital signs and additional evaluation. By 8am, the breakfast cart had arrived. Since I didn’t have the opportunity to order the day before, I was given the house tray: scrambled eggs, turkey sausage, oatmeal, an English muffin, and fat free milk. Never been a big fan of English muffins, but everything else was at least edible. More than edible; the last thing I had eaten was a grilled chicken breast and a side salad about an hour before the ambulance ride. I was famished.
Once breakfast was done, the activity therapist arrived to begin the day’s group sessions. We did some stretches, stated our goals for the day, and raised any issues we might have as a community. Between sessions, the unit’s attending doctor took me aside for a further interview and evaluation. He had me lay down on the bed as he rocked my head back and forth; this was apparently to check for the possibility of a brain tumor. Such a thought had never occurred to me; I’ve never had any significant headaches outside of illness or the occasional sinus blockage. I listed the non-psychiatric medications I was taking, and orders were issued to begin administering them.
We were then encouraged to look over the menus in our welcome packets and determine what we would be ordering from the kitchen for the next twenty four hours. I chose a cheeseburger with side salad and soup for lunch, meatloaf with corn and more soup for dinner, and a custom omelet for next day’s breakfast.
The second session was about coping and stress management. The activity therapist had brought way too much paperwork with him, and had a bit of difficulty sorting through it all. Thankfully, getting that stuff organized was right up my alley, and helping with that allowed me more engagement with the group than I probably would have had if I just kept sitting there staring blankly. Once that was done, it was free time again. I retreated to my room for a bit more dreamless sleep, and then the lunch cart arrived. The cheeseburger was serviceable; he hospital has a commitment to plant-forward meal planning so it wasn’t anything close to real meat, the soup was a lovely tomato basil, and the chicken Caesar salad was off-putting. The chicken was the sort of pre-cooked strips you’d find in a bag in your grocer’s deli section, which had sat in the salad too long, robbing it of its flavor. I made sure every non-breakfast meal going forward would include that wonderful soup.
Then it was time for a bit of art therapy. We were given markers, blank boxes, and sticky notes. The aim was to design a box to your liking while writing encouraging notes to your fellow community members. I had to step away for a moment to speak with a social worker, who evaluated my post-stay needs and began making arrangements as needed to secure what I needed after my release. I kindly asked if I could get a ride back to the hospital I had checked myself into; she said she would see what she could do.
The next session was the one I was looking forward to the least: coping and spirituality. I was baptized in the United Methodist Church at the age of 12, had dated the daughter of a Lutheran minister in high school, but as I grew up I grew away from the Christian interpretation of God. For many years, I called myself an Agnostic, but the truth is I am an Atheist. I was fully prepared to counter whatever talking points this pastor coming to talk to us would throw out.
‘Finally, a battlefield where my intellect could shine,’ I coyly thought to myself going in.
Turns out there would be no battle on this day. The man was very charming; the sort of ‘relatable young man of God who doesn’t thump a bible in your face’ guy you never expect to run into. I even had a chance to help clarify a point he was trying to make, relating it to a ship at sea and a high tide. He was very appreciative of the help, and in the moment, I was glad to give it.
Dinner was alright, but by the end of that first day the meals were less of a concern to me now. I spent much of the remainder of the night in the common room, watching ‘The Office.’ The channel playing it was in that sweet spot where Jim and Pam decide to get married and discover that she’s pregnant. It was during this lounging period that I had the most affirming experience of the entire stay.
An older social worker took the chair next to me, and asked me my name. She then asked if there was something I preferred to go by. I hadn’t disclosed to anyone that I was trans at any point so far, but she had read my file and knew that I was transitioning. She called it a wonderful experience and related the story of someone younger than her who was on the same journey.
And then she asked if there was anything she could do to make my stay more comfortable. I asked for a shave; two days since a razor had last touched my face and I was looking scruffy. Not as scruffy as I did before 2 ½ years of hormone replacement therapy, but still discomforting. A few minutes later, a staff member with a razor and some shaving cream asked if I was ready. I had immediately taken a liking to her when she checked my blood sugar prior to dinner; she reminded me very much of that non-binary person I had shared an intimate moment with a week prior. I actually had to double check my phone when I returned home just to make sure they weren’t the same person.
The rest of the night was a much happier blur than the one before. I still wasn’t sleeping much, but I was finally beginning to feel more relaxed and less stressed about my current circumstances. Sometimes, all you need is to talk it out with someone. Other times, it takes being talked to by someone with kindness and understanding that you never thought you’d find in a place like this.
The next morning began in much the same way; vital signs were checked, breakfast was served, evaluation, and medication. The day nurse apologized that they just didn’t carry any estrogen tablets, but she did have Spironolactone available. I also acquired a nice bruise on my stomach at the site of my insulin injection (administered by her; I wasn’t allowed to hold anything with a needle in my own hand unsupervised). We didn’t find it there until the next day, and we had a pretty good laugh about the whole thing.
After the morning session, I returned to my wood box resembling a bed and closed my eyes. I was beginning to drift off when the day nurse came into my room, with the day shift security officer in tow. My mother, whom I had avoided making any contact with since my arrival, had filed a missing persons report since she had not seen me in two days. Since I had not been feeling well, and did not leave a note before panic driving to the ER, she was worried that I was lying out somewhere in a diabetic coma. I quickly grabbed a phone to tell her that I was fine, and dealing with the bad thoughts that had crept into my head. I didn’t tell her because I didn’t want to worry her, but she’s a mother so she’s going to worry anyway, you know how mothers can get. After reassuring her that I was fine and still alive, a weight was lifted from my shoulders. The entire reason I had begun this dark path to death’s door was to give her one less thing to worry about, but somehow, the knowledge that she still cared finally allowed me to begin healing.
The day kept getting better: the day nurse had managed to scrounge up some estrogen for me! I’m not saying I greedily consumed it as soon as the cup of pills was in my hand, but it did not spend much (if any) time in that little paper cup. I also got my clothes back; not only had they been laundered, but one of the nurses had taken the time to remove the string from the sweat pants that I had quickly thrown myself into before that fateful drive. Mostly I was just relieved to be wearing underwear again.
From the time I had tried to swallow all those pills two days before, my perception of time had slowed significantly. What seemed like an hour to me was closer to about 20 minutes of actual time. Once I had estradiol in me, that perception began to change. My internal clock was resetting itself, as it were. I was much more willing to open up outside of group sessions; myself and two others who were admitted on the same day began talking to each other. One of them had tried to overdose on insulin, same as me. Their attempt was a bit more successful and they had spent a couple of days in the same hospital as I prior to arriving at this place. The other was dealing with complicated bereavement from the death of a child, who was a little bit younger than the brother I was unable to save all those years ago. Seeing these facets of my own experience through the eyes and words of others gave me the strength to go on.
That night, still uncertain of when exactly I would be leaving, I slept well. Still in short bursts, but more restful. And for the first time in at least a week, I began to dream again.
I was up early on day three. Anxious to get the day started, and hopeful that it would be my last here. After vitals, medicines, and another wonderful omelet, I finally received the news I had been hoping for the most: I would be discharged. My joy at returning to something resembling a normal life was somewhat tinged by the sadness of missing my new friends; the three of us who were admitted on Sunday were more stable than when we checked in, but the communal strength based on our shared pain would be different now. We wouldn’t have each other to rely on, to stay in touch with. Though separated, would we still be able to carry on? It’s only been a day, so I can’t say for sure. I seem to be doing all right for the moment.
And what of the others? The ones who had arrived after us? The ones who were there before us? One person had suffered horribly at the hands of someone who claimed to love them; would they be able to pick up their pieces and move on if we weren’t there to support them?
I was the second of our three person group, the ‘Class of Sunday’ as I began calling us, to leave. Just after 1pm, a taxi arrived at the hospital entrance and I was escorted down the elevator to return to the real world. The ride was mostly quiet; I admit I spent most of it attempting to coax my phone back into life to catch up on everything I had missed. But with zero percent charge and no cable available to me, it was a fruitless effort.
23 miles later, I was standing next to the car that I had seemingly abandoned the previous Sunday. I knew that it had been a cold three days, but with no weather forecast to check, I honestly wasn’t sure if it would start again. And what if, in my panic, I had done something to damage it? The fact that I had even made it those few miles to the hospital was something of a miracle, considering the condition of my body at the time. Nervously, I opened the door, sat down in the seat, and turned the key. My fears were immediately allayed by a running engine, despite the short squeal of a very chilly serpentine belt. I moved the gear lever into drive, and off I went.
More worries began to consume me on the way home. Obviously there had been a police presence at the house. Had someone I hadn’t told yet found my trans flag, or the underwear that hadn’t made its way to the laundry hamper yet? Would they find the empty pill bottle I had left on the coffee table, the only visible hint that I had done harm to myself?
Those fears melted away as soon as I had put my key in the lock, and stepped through a door I thought I would never be walking through again. My mother, a 62 year old saint of a woman, asked me if I was okay. My brother, a 32 year old ex-Marine, came running from the next room over and immediately embraced me in a bear hug for the ages. And for the first time in nearly a week, I began to cry. I cried not for my failure to execute the plan, but for the untold worry and concern I had put these loved ones through during my temporary confinement.
After a few minutes of appreciation and a request that I should at least leave a note next time, I retreated up the stairs to check on my things. The flag I had draped myself in, the one thing I wanted to on me as I walked into the valley of the shadow of death, was right where I had left it.
I haven’t got around to putting it back up on the wall yet; in fact, as I write this, it it draped across my midsection. It will one day be returned to its place of honor and pride, but until then I will keep it as close to my heart as I possibly can. Just because a heart is healed doesn’t mean it can’t break again, and my identity will help me to keep it together no matter how bleak the coming times may seem. I will continue to be as loud and proud of who I am as I want to be; I will fight for us as long as there is still blood in my veins and strength in my fists. They can’t erase us, and thanks to a desire to live that’s far stronger than my intentions, I can’t erase me.
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