Twenty Four years old

I have decided to keep the promise I made to myself many years ago. To be happy. The Many Horrible Things don’t visit me anymore. They kicked me out. They got tired of me.

I stopped Pretending, so they had no more ammo to use against me.

I lived alone, and they could not take the shape of my family, tearing me apart at night.

They were bored of me. There was nothing else left to take.

Once I had lost everything there was only things I could gain.

I was no longer afraid, but apathetic, after years of becoming numb to their tactics. There was nothing else to do but leave.

I am not as excited as I thought I would be about their departure. I thought it would make me happy. I’m not.

I try many different things to be happy. Men, drinking, not drinking, reading, staring at the ceiling, trying to Put Myself Out There, but it is not enough. I am confused as to why the things I usually like don’t make me get that nice feeling.

I remember my promise one night, after making a little house for my little simulated people on my computer.

I wondered if they were really happy, if I had controlled everything for them.

Then I realized that nobody controlled me anymore.

So I could be happy.

I finally gave myself permission to be happy.

It was a very underwhelming feeling. I sat in my messy room and looked around, wondering if I was in another nightmare. It could be possible. I had woken up inside a dream, and then another.

But no. This was all sadly real.

I take out my phone and decide to be happy.

I set up an appointment on my phone to the gender clinic, and everything is done. I am no longer an ant. I still don’t know what I am, but I don’t like being an ant.

---

I have told all my friends to call me New Name. New Name is happier, louder, and makes a lot of jokes. New Name goes to bars and hits on girls who don’t like him back.

That’s okay.

There are plenty of fish in the sea, but I’m afraid a fisherman might get me first. So I fumble over my words and don’t get a single fish’s number, yet plenty of attention from the fishermen.

That’s okay. I am now New Name, and everything is so much better.

I do not think of calories, or what people think, or if someone is watching me, I know it, I can feel it in my skin.

I might not be able to pay rent next month, but I’m not that worried. I cross the street with Laura, to the next bar, and pester them for whiskey. We bother the bartenders all night.

They don’t like me.

I don’t care.

The bartender’s name is Mike. He’s a skinny man, with short black hair, and brown eyes. He is happy until I walk through the door. I order things I cannot afford, and the very large and handsome bearded man who is trying to sleep with me buys them all.

“What’s your name,” I ask the bartender.

“Oh it's Mike.”

A small grin spreads over my drunken face and I laugh. The bartender doesn’t understand what’s so funny. I drink something I’ve never had in my life, but I know I want more, and the bearded man will give me whatever I want.

So I called out for the bartender.

“MiKe WaZoWsKi,” I yell.

He turned three different shades of red, and ignored me.

“MiKe WaZoWsKi, I need another uh...this.”

I hold up my fancy glass, from the last bar that I had stolen, and the bearded man grins at me, and I grin at him, and I tell him, I like your shirt and beard and face, and I want to get more alcohol, pretty please.

I wonder what he does for a living, but he never tells me.

I assume he sells drugs, because, of course, it's that kind of town. The dealers fix the pavement and buy neighbors cars, while the government bulldozes more trees and creates more housing no one can afford.

I continue to call out for MiKe WaZoWsKi.

MiKe WaZoWsKi ignores me, and the other patrons at the bar, giggle, loving his new name.

“MiKe WaZoWsKi,” I yell. “My cup is empty, so are my pockets! I need more!”

He tells me to stop or else I will have to leave the bar. I sulk, and the nice bearded man, who probably sells drugs and people, tells me it's okay, and he’ll order for me from now on. The rest of the night is a blur.

All I remember doing is singing Frank Ocean along with a man who was so flamboyant, he needed a warning label. A woman that had somehow brought in a black labrador let me pet him and feed him something that didn’t look right, and, getting the nice bearded, and possibly on the nation’s most wanted list, man’s phone number.

I lose it as I stumble into my taxi, because I am now so sloshed I cannot feel my face.

When I arrived home I hit my head against the front door and expected it to open. I know it can open. It’s a door, it's what they do!

My drunken brain doesn’t remember how keys work and I rub the door, telling it the same things I told the bearded man all night, believing if I told it nice things it would do what I wanted it to do.

You’re really cute, you can call me anytime.

I giggle and remember that doors need keys to open, and I quietly mutter to myself a sex joke about how the bearded man could unlock me any time and I stumble into my bedroom.

Now the world is spinning but I feel so happy. I had never had this much fun before.

I search through my shorts but I don’t have the bearded man’s number. I am upset. He was nice and let me rub his arm all night, told me I am so cute for a man. I tell myself it’s best because he might just skin me in his basement, because I am not used to such polite attention from a man.

I am sure that this is all a trick, and I’m still paranoid.

I lie on my bed, that has no frame, a thin sheet, and an ugly comforter, and I am so happy.

I wake up in the morning, and I am confused. I am so happy, I am sure this must be a trick.

I don’t have work, and I am expecting something to happen. I get on the bus to the library, and it’s quiet, and now I am overwhelmed. Will the bus explode? Will the passengers start to eat each other? Will I explode?

This is all just a simulation, and the guy who made me decided to let me be happy.

When I finally got to the library, I expected Ashton Kutcher to be there, to jump in and scream “Surprise!”

He would tell me that I am still dreaming, that I am not really free. That I am still pretending and not New Name. I imagine him jumping and screaming, saying, “You thought you made it out, but you didn’t! You’re still sleeping! Got you!”

I rub the blue patterned wall near the entrance of the library, and I am nervous. I know the trick to tell if I am dreaming is if I open a book and there are no words, but I’m afraid to open one up.

A concerned librarian watches me and comes over. Like all librarians she has the standard, Brown hair, Brown Eyes, Forgettable Clothes, Cute Face.

I need to stop checking out this librarian every time I come here.

She seems like she is worried that I am having a stroke from the way I am caressing the wall, and I tell her Everything Is Fine.

I am scared because I mean it.

Everything Is Fine, and so I go to the Featured Books Of The Month bookcase.

Everything Is Fine, and I pick up the first book that I see.

Everything Is Fine, and inside there are words and I know that I am not dreaming.

It is a strange feeling to no longer be dreaming anymore. To not think that happiness is a thing that is unattainable. I try to read while I sit in the back, somehow more silent than other parts of the quiet library.

I am still scared and excited, because I know without a doubt, that I am not dreaming. The possibilities of things I can do now are exciting. No more Horrible Things will get me. No more Sacrifices Will Be Made.

I check out a book on mystery, because I never read them, and I want to be New Name instead of Dead Name. New Name tries new things, and isn’t afraid to do simple things, like read mystery, buy new clothes, get a haircut, or go to the pool.

Dead Name could never do those things because it wasn’t allowed by Mother, or Dead Name would worry about what other people would think. Sometimes Dead Name would believe that simple things were impossible, when they never were.

I go home, and I am happy, because I never dream again.