This isn’t a plea for sympathy. It isn’t a “woe is me” piece. It’s a piece I’m writing because if I don’t, I’ll explode — into a million tiny fragments.

I’m transfeminine. That’s hard enough, I know, but we all carry our crosses. I’ve been on hormones for 15 years, and only recently had my medication stabilised after a decade of GPs missing high SHBG flags. Ten years of emotional yo-yoing. Back then, they handed me antidepressants. I felt suicidal, and yes, I was a mess. The system said: therapy. So I went. Again and again.

Now my meds have changed. Patches instead of necking 8mg of estrogen in one go. A steady drip-feed. It’s changed the way I feel about myself. I feel well.

I have a beautiful cis partner. She’s a professional; I work for myself. Her family is mostly great, though not all factions are as rainbow as we’d like. And me — I’m transfeminine, but I don’t always want to “pass.” I want to be myself. That brings challenges. Toilets, for one.

Since April, after the UK law change defining “woman,” I’ve essentially been declared societally disabled. Not by choice, but by the way the system itself has disabled my life. Apply the definition of “disabled” to me, and I tick more boxes than most cis people could imagine. It’s not a lie. The system has formally recognized that the system itself has disabled me. That paradox is the reality trans people live.

So why am I writing this? Because at 7am on a Sunday morning, I feel like a freak. And I have nowhere else to put my fear and disgust.

In just over 10 days, I’ll leave the town I was adopted into 55 years ago and move north to a fishing town on the Fylde coast. No big deal, some might say. But for me, it’s huge. The house is being packed up. Stressful, yes. My partner copes by distraction — TV, phone, silence. I cope by talking it out, letting the steam escape. We love each other deeply, soulmates when the dust settles. But right now, it’s a lot: milestone birthday, friends’ celebration last week, family celebration last night. All good, but too much at once.

And here’s the grain of sand I need to dump onto the sandcastle of trans history — a castle built and tended by giants like Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera. My experiences are tiny, half-grains of sand. But they still belong on that castle.

Picture this: a family meal in a small pub. Gluten-free menu checked (my partner has coeliac disease). Table reserved. Grandchildren there. All set for a lovely night to mark her milestone birthday.

She’s anxious, fussing over makeup and lashes. I decide tonight I’ll show more of my transfem self: suede low-heeled boots, black palazzo pants, feminine top, matching bandana, and a touch of makeup. I feel serene. A shandy in hand while waiting. We set off. I breathe through the nerves. She’s tense about her makeup. We arrive. She asks me to go in first. Fine. I’m bursting for the toilet. Drop her off, excuse myself, and head straight there. Disabled toilets have been my sanctuary lately — no anxiety, no drama.

But then: two doors. Male. Female. No third door. No sanctuary. Panic. Dissolving inside. I’m more visibly fem than ever in front of her family, trying to be friendly, build bridges, paint the picture of our new seaside home. And now I’m stuck between two doors, looking ridiculous. Quick calculation: I’m “not allowed” in the women’s. Yet I’m in women’s clothes, with paperwork proving my clinical position. ARRGHH. Next thing, I’m at the urinals, playing the role of “regular bloke.” Nothing to see here.

Inside, I’m dissolving. A man walks in, looks me up and down, and says nothing. I’m freaking out. I escape to the bar. Guinness in hand. Happy face back on. Remember: this is her birthday. This is not about me.

But it is. Because 45 minutes later, I need the toilet again. And again. The cycle continues. The more I drink, the easier I feel. The more I drink, the more I need to piss. The more I risk. Comments, looks, jokes. “Hey, you two look friendly.” “Gay?” “No, more than that.” “I think this one needs a hand holding his willy…” All behind the scenes. All night. By the fifth pint, the volume is rising, the crowd drunker, my nerves fraying. I ask my partner’s son-in-law if that guy’s gone. He shrugs. Walks away. By the end of the night, I’m spinning.

We drive home. Partner and son decompress with music and silence. I sit in the back, needing to decompress with words. I talk myself down.

By morning, cold sweat. Bursting to dump it all out. So here it is. Nothing went wrong. Nobody did anything wrong. It was all about toilets.

Because when you’re the only trans person in the room, and the only trans person at home, and your partner doesn’t have the brain-space to listen — you swallow it. You don’t ruin her birthday. You collapse into sleep exhaustion. And wake up to the same reality. Nine days from the biggest move of my life since I was three months old.

This isn’t a moan. It’s not a groan. It’s me saying: I am tired of feeling alone. Surrounded by people, yet alone. Everyone says, “Nothing happened, it’s fine, you look great, we love you.” Maybe they do. But the one who messed up was me. The menu was checked for gluten-free food. I never checked for an accessible toilet.

Cis people can’t imagine the pain this causes. I’ve tried to explain. They nod. “Hard.” HARD isn’t even the start of it. They say, “You look great, nobody cares you’re trans, we love you.” But who goes to the toilet alone? Who has my back then? Nobody, unless they’re trans. That’s where the terror lives. The isolation. The cold-sweat nightmares.

Who’s the freak in the family? Me. Why? Because I say I am. But I know I’m not. Welcome to the paradox of being a trans person who refuses to bend to the “you must pass” rules of life.

The really messed-up, ironic thing is: I can pass. I do pass. I can be “that woman.” I can, and I have, and I don’t have a problem with it when I want to dress that way. The rest of the time I’m little more than a cock not in a frock — and that’s when you fit out totally.

So yeah, I’m the one who feels fucked up. I’m the one who may have tarnished the evening, probably did. And for that, I sit here guilty, bad about myself, pissed off about my very existence. And yet I know I honestly tried my hardest in every way possible.

I ask myself: Did I have a meltdown? A panic attack? Did I leg it the moment it got too hard? No. I stayed. I put my best face on. I kept on keeping on. Why? Because I love my partner so deeply, I never want to hurt her, never want to get in the way of her cis life.

But here’s the truth: no matter how hard I try, I get in the way. Because I simply do.

Anyway, Stranger Things – Happy days?