I invite everyone to read this piece on Vox about a short story and the impact it can have on readers, on non readers, on editors, and on its author. I won’t attempt to summarize.
I will say, though, that the Vox story about the pseudonymous author Isabel Fall is heartbreaking enough, but the concluding sentence is an entangling tongue of Hell’s fire, binding me in a paralytic agony. The heat sears ever deeper, even to the bone, when I strain against the materiality of my confinement. It is an injury of the 4th degree that violates what we thought we new about the merciful destruction of our nerves with our flesh. My very marrow feels the heat, boiling in its attempt to escape this inescapable sensation. There is no relief from the pain. There is not even a reduction in the rate of its increase. I cannot even feel distraction; I gain not even a moment’s freedom from the qualia of my torture when Hell’s mouth rises up to consume me.
I wonder if there is any non trans person on earth who could ever understand.