“Keep your gaze down and say little,” I tell myself. It is silly and ridiculous to consider that someone would be so upset by someone using the restroom. Something all people use and is a commodity accessible to most. Inaccessible to others. Inaccessible to someone like me.

“I am no fool; I am aware of where I am and those that watch me,” I tell others. I am not in a place where I can safely use my preferred bathroom of choice. The gender neutral bathrooms are a whole building away, and I only have five minutes before I must be seated in my chair, with the fidgeting quelled in theory.

“I am not at a place in my transition where I outwardly pass to cis-hetero individuals,” I explain to others, and myself. I explain this over and over to others, but mostly myself. I must convince myself for my own safety. The memory of the last time I attempted to use my preferred bathroom bubbles to the surface and I feel my chest seize in fear. The heavy weight of expectations and the politically charged atmosphere of this campus is a burden. The vehement gazes, the uncomfortable turns, and startled words exchanged in a pocket of space that matters to no-one. That matters to me.

“Excuse me, pardon me,” I say to people as I search for an open stall. I always move fast, hoping no one will speak words that cannot be taken back. I move fast hoping no one will be able to perceive me and see something is wrong in their eyes.

Once sheltered in the cramped space of the stall, it matters to no-one who is housed inside of the narrow chamber, and I have a moment of reprieve. I take a breath, the smell of stale cleaner, excessive floral perfume, shit, piss, and body odor is pungent in the air. It provides no comfort but I can breathe easier when no-one is watching.

All too soon, I must depart the porcelain sanctuary. Exiting the stall, I work fast to ensure no one can say anything to me. I never have a chance to fully dry my hands because I am too hurried, too afraid of what someone might say or do.

I flee the restroom and rush to my classroom. My fidgeting for the restroom is now replaced by the adrenaline and anxiety coursing through my system.

I am so sorry if I am distracting. I mentally say to the professor upon returning. It is something so silly and embarrassing to explain. The coffee has run its course through my system, but my fidgeting has not quelled.

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I am walking down the street. Winter’s breath has left nothing untouched. The brick streets hold patterns of the icy tendrils left behind by the dense fog of winter's caress. The intricate patterns of the ice shifting across the cracks and pockets of something man made; a reminder that nature is ever present and will always be there to overcome man-made structures. Frost that has built atop another on the branches of trees perfectly spaced along the street bow under the weight of winter's burden, as if to reach out to me in greeting. The sharp intake of air is met with the frost forming in small patches along the gums of my teeth and throat. An abrupt greeting but a welcome one nonetheless because of the reminder I exist in this beautiful space of nature. There is limited time to appreciate such beauty this morning, as I walk down the street.

The heavy clunk of my boots is but a small fraction of the noise polluting the air. The sounds of construction, vehicles racing by, conversations held in shivering breaths, and dogs yipping their excitement of being outdoors are strong in the depths of my ears. Construction workers shout above and the raucous sounds of metal striking metal and the whine of a saw rips through the air. A baby begins to cry as a couple exits a coffee shop, the cold air and sounds of work ripping them from sleep’s embrace. Adults nearby begin to coo and urge the baby to calm down, while their dog's bark pierces the air with irritation and curiosity from the wailing of the child. Winter’s heavy chill clings to everything in the air and is quick to frost the tips of my eyelashes and hair peeking out from my toque. I see glimpses of others on their morning commute to work, appointments, and grocery shopping. Similar strands of frost have graced their features, accenting the wrinkles of age, and sleep deprivation, an affliction we all share. Steam rises from open mugs of coffee, tea, hot chocolate and cider that add to the swirl and nauseating smells of gas and oil populating the air. The keffiyeh bound around my nose and face loses its fleeting warmth as winter’s chill sinks into the fabric, and I stop walking to adjust my winter attire.

The cradle of safety from the overwhelming noise lies dormant with the uncharged batteries of my headphones in the bottom of my backpack. I hear every unbearable noise increasing in volume around me, as I continue walking down the street.

The engine of a diesel truck roars and puffs of black smoke fill the thick and suffocating chilled air as it tears down the street. An American flag and a Canadian flag waving proudly to the people it passes by in a blur. Another truck rallies behind it, in bold taped letters on the side of its exterior, “Trump Prevails!” Another truck, “Fuck Trudeau!” “Deportation En Masse!” “Annexation!” “51st State!” Images of automatic weapons framed by Confederate flags, American flags, and Canadian flags. The drivers lay onto their horns and shout from their windows, provoking the others on the street getting into their vehicles to join them in some sort of honking praise and support. Cheers and wallops can be heard from the half finished buildings towering above. The same pedestrians soothing the crying babe, laugh, shake their heads, and continue on their morning walk.

I am frozen in an alcove on the street.

I am terrified in an alcove on the street.

I need to walk down the street. My breath comes in short, chilled puffs, my mouth freezing as I stare agape in horror. Winter’s chill invades my throat and I can’t catch my breath. Fear grips me, holding me in place against the frosted building. The initially overwhelming sounds of the morning commute are drowning in the violent drumming of my heart. The alcove is small, narrow, and cramped. It provides enough shelter from the searchlights of the xenophobic, bigoted, wardens and their watchdogs of hate. As quickly as the trucks enter the space, they are gone; carrying their incessant honking and proclamations of animosity with them to other sections of the city.

I was not discovered or hauled out before them and shot like a mutt in the streets. Something that exudes extreme and absurd imagery on this morning commute to work. Surely, there are other horrible outcomes to consider before going straight to the bullet. Verbal degradation? A physical beating? Personal items stolen? Filmed and chased down the road? For many, there are not so many scenarios. To others, it is nothing more than the natural order of things. Those who are different. Those who do not fit within the white cis-gendered heteronormative narrative are an anomaly that must be rectified, by any means necessary. A sentiment that has been used by humans in the deep past, and recent present.

These scenarios paralyze me, but I need to walk down the street because the fact remains that I must continue to serve in this society. The walls of work will not shelter me from this fear and hate, but they will provide better hiding places. I need to make it down the street. I watch as people continue on as if nothing happened. I am the oddity in the narrative, and my paralysis will only give me away to those who continue on with their morning commute. Lest I provoke the ire and gaze of hateful people, and their complacent watch dogs, I continue to walk down the street.

Children running and playing without a care in the world. Children holding unsure conversations held in cautious voices, cushioned by gentle encouragement from the adults. While fingers pull and tie at the quickly fraying cotton strings in hopes of crafting a semblance of a bracelet. A rapt shriek fills the air and a small boy falls to the ground crying. I am the first on my feet to help him, bringing with me my bag full of bandaids and polysporin. I kneel before the child and examine him as he tearfully tells me of being stung by a hornet. I nod dutifully and apply the bite cream that makes him cry more from the chemicals stinging and healing the open wound. A tired sigh escapes my lips as we’ll have to move the whole camp out of the field to avoid further incidents, and the paperwork I will have to fill out comes to mind. I feel my shoulders sag at the thought of having to tell his parents of what happened today, and I can practically see the reactions unfold before my eyes, as the young boy gets up and starts running around again.

What will tomorrow bring? Breaking up fights, bandaging bloody knees and scraped elbows, listening to empty conversations about the latest social media trend, and indulging in the whims of twenty eight-year olds are very likely. What conversations will I have with their parents? Which parent will attempt to brush me under the carpet? Which parent will have “accidentally” packed peanuts in their child's lunch? What paperwork will I have to file forty-five minutes past my scheduled time? Work pressures weigh heavily in the back of my mind, and the expectant wave of anxiety that accompanies it is nowhere to be found. Instead, defeat and exhaustion are what plague my mind and body. Is this burnout?

The soft mew of my kitten calls my attention, and the puffy orange cat saunters his way across the peach linoleum floor. I watch as he shashays up to the tub and eyes me suspiciously. I extend a wet, sudsy hand towards him. His pink nose sniffs the soap on my hands, and the bubbles pop as he does so. In protest, he steps back. I laugh too loudly for the small room and startle myself with how foreign it sounds. The emptiness of the sound brings me back to the exhausted state of my body and my mind. Is this burnout?

Fatigue has ravaged my body and it has become the state of being, the state of living for myself and for others. They say that knowing others feel the same as you brings comfort, but I only feel sorrow, anger, and defeat. Is this the new normal for living?

I shift my weight in the tub. Droplets of warm water slide down the steaming skin of my thigh. The watery beads shift course and follow the grooves of the faded scars dug into the flesh. How do I stop these encompassing feelings of growing apathy and hollowness?

The warmth of the water fades as time slips away from me as I stare at the scars on my leg. There is no comfort in this cradle of burnout.