This is another little theme that has been rolling around in my head for a while now. Been thinking about writing an essay, and finally getting around to it.

I remember when I was in the fifth grade, ten or eleven years old, and my springer spaniel had to be put down due to illness a week after she went from being the family's dog to officially my dog. I loved her to bits, but my parents wouldn't let me skip school to see her to the vet. I knew the time of her appointment, and as that time approached I became more and more inconsolable. I spent most of the day trying not to cry and I sat out recess on The Bench where kids had to sit when they were being punished. It was the deepest loss I had ever experienced at the time.

I remember when I found out that I wasn't the only person in the world with gender dysphoric feelings. I came out to friends from school and a couple friends from church and more often than not they disappeared soon after. One of them outed me to my little sister at their homecoming dance, ruining my sister's night and igniting a firestorm that still smolders in my Mormon family 13 years later. There were varying degrees of loss and betrayal in each of those friendships as they sizzled and popped and vaporized on the hotplate of my being transgendered. It was the deepest loss I had ever experienced at the time.

I remember in 1997, when my father finally had to be told the truth about why I had stopped going to church and why I was not going to go on a mission for the Mormon faith; the faith he had converted to and that had shaped his life for more than thirty-five years and mine for almost twenty. It very nearly killed him by further stressing his already strained heart. I had expected the family's love, which had been nurtured through the Mormon faith, would hold and they would recognize how necessary it was for me to transition from their son and brother to their daughter and sister. The sluice gates were finally dropped on familial connections which were then some of the last bonds of support I had. It was the deepest loss I had ever experienced at the time.

I remember in 1998 and 1999 when the FBI all but arrested me for the $2 million robbery of the bank vault where I worked. Again, most of my friends distanced themselves from me, some slowly, some rapidly. There was one guy, Eric, I had known for five years, he had almost married my little sister after high school. He and by proxy his little group of friends were the only ones that really helped me through that time, emotionally. I started to develop feelings for Eric after that, but things were complicated with me being transgendered and him having had a relationship-gone-bad with my sister. I finally decided to tell him about my feelings, but he killed himself two days before I was going to see him again. The loss I felt there was too great and overwhelmed me.

I remember in 1999 and 2000 when things had finally gone quiet with the FBI and Eric shot himself. Without the support of good friends and with only vague support from family, I was foundering. Unable to deal with the loss of my first crush, I lost faith in my abilities as a writer when I was unable to pen anything for a memorial wall in Eric's honor. I found myself in emotional depths that had previously gone unsounded by me. As no one seemed to believe in me, I lost faith in myself as well. There existed there a group of people that helped me find solace in the only places they knew themselves; at the bottom of a bottle, or the end of a pipe or syringe. I came to trust people with such provisions as my friends until one of them raped me. The loss of this final illusion tipped me over the edge, and I made it back to my apartment where I tried to kill myself with a bottle of percocet and about half a pint of vodka.

When I finally woke up, I had finally woken up. I used the shock of the rape and waking up not dead to get myself cleaned up and back in the world. For once loss was working in my favor. Things began to get better as I started working real jobs again and could finally start affording medical care I needed to transition. As my body slowly started to reflect the gender I've always known myself to be, I gained confidence. Things were finally looking up.

I remember in 2005 when I tried to go to work and felt like I was dieing. As I was walking to my car in the heat of a Las Vegas June, a splitting headache upset my stomach and began to blind me. I made it back to my apartment and managed to call into work. That was the day I lost my ability to work. As my illness has progressed I've lost the ability to do more and more of the things I've always enjoyed as I lost mobility and stamina. I lost my two bedroom apartment as I lost my savings. I lost the furnishings of that apartment and my library that I had loved so much. Occasionally I find myself reflecting on all the activities I may never do again, or the simple things I'd like to do with my boyfriend but might never feel well enough to, and those losses still manage to rattle me.

I've become rather intimate with the subject of loss over the years. I've learned to let go of things. I've also seen that loss can be the manure that can help you grow. With the loss of my health I've taken up writing again. My writing introduced me to a good friend who introduced me to the love of my life. The loss of my belongings, freed me to get out of a bad situation with my family and eventually move in with my love. I could have done neither if I had to cart around a bedroom, an office, a living room, a dining room, and a kitchen. I'm happier today than I ever thought I could be, so even as rough as it was I can not fault the path I've taken to get where I am.