Chapter 2 - Jason "Jay" Amatore

First look at transman Jason and his struggle with mental illness

“And if I make it through the day

Will tomorrow be the same?

Am I just running in place?

And if I stumble and I fall

Should I get up and carry on?

Will it all just be the same?”

• ‘Young and Hopeless’ Good Charlotte

The greatest gift to mankind is the 7-11 rewards program. Sleepless nights of anxiety-driven insomnia make for a long day and that delicious reward of a quarter-pound gas station burger or chicken sandwich with the world’s saddest dose of chipotle mayonnaise made it worth getting up late. Pushing the clock to the latest minute possible just to get that extra fifteen minutes of sleep that mean nothing in the grand scheme of the day. It was the busy Millenial way of life. It was my life; throwing on a combination of scrubs three to four days out of the week but trying to space the days so it looked like you had multiples of the same clothes even if the stains never changed places.

I look at my phone idly as an old man holds up the line with his lottery number superstitions. If this place could ever get more than one cashier on at a time it would truly be the lucky day. It’ll likely be another week or three of status update likes and random comments before I hear from Kate again. It takes a special kind of trainwreck to live on their phone and yet never answer it. Or drop it in the ocean and then take a month to get another. Both possibilities are equally as applicable.

Depression hangs heavy on me today. Even with the sun streaming in through glass windows decorated with daily deals it struggles to lift my spirits. I’m flat. Numb. Exhausted. Every day marching to the same monotonous beat with nothing to look forward to at the end of the week but spending more money on the expenses that give me a place to survive on this earth. A hole in the wall apartment with a ten year old car and too many loans taken out to pay for too many medical procedures thanks to my lackluster luck on the genetic lottery. I sigh and the old man finally takes his tickets and ambles out of the way.

“Hey there doll!” The middle-aged cashier smiles at me. Her voice is like a songbird in the drear of my aura. I can never remember her name but I’m in here enough to recognize those speckled cheeks and bright blue eyes anywhere. Her hair is blonde and frizzy, a remnant of the 1980’s pulled up into a bushy bun.

“Morning.” I try my best to smile, setting the chicken sandwich and an energy drink on the counter. I scan my phone coupon in and she hums a little as she taps the screen. I’ll never understand where this woman gets her zeal. The guy behind her stocking cigarettes looks like the kind of older gentleman who has a part time job to supplement his retirement income. With the luck I’ve had saving, I’ll probably be working two jobs until the day I drop dead.

“Off t’work today?”

“Always. Trauma center never sleeps.”

“I know that’s right. Try to have a good day! Keep your chin up!”

Chin up. Right. A hell of a lot easier said than done. Nodding to her I take my chicken and head out into the late spring afternoon. I can already tell through the foil that it’s overcooked but I can’t bring myself to give enough of a damn as I wash down the tough bites of patty with pure chemical adrenaline. Caffeine was the most wicked temptress. I run my fingers over the ripped up steering wheel cover I’ve been meaning to replace for the last six months. It had seen just as many miles as I had, the compliment to a pair of seat covers I never used now that I had nice leather interior. A used luxury vehicle was still luxurious at ten years old to a poor boy.

Setting my phone up on its dash mount I put on something to try and lift my spirits. It works sometimes. Once the medication kicks in it’ll do the rest of the work. Some days I felt like I was on top of the world and others I was grateful enough to be functional. From the outside it looked like I had everything together a twenty-something guy could ever want: a steady job that would become a career, a wife, friends, a reliable vehicle, a roof, two lazy cats. I could make you think I had everything figured out after having a built myself a new life halfway across the country. Living the simple life and loving it. Managing to stave off paying the full student loan payment amounts, always just enough to keep it out of default. Sure, I will probably never have a home, medical bills sentenced my credit to the firing squad, I’ll never be able to live comfortably after I get old and my body finally leaves me on the side of the road somewhere but who needs a comfortable, secured, promised future?

Now if only I could get my brain on the same page.

Thirty minutes or so later, I’m back in the same Old Port I left the night before. Weaving my way through roads constructed for horses back before flow of traffic was a construct. I had a deep appreciation for the history of this place, sometimes imagining what it must have been like back in the heyday of shipment by water and textile milling. Back when the tarot cards I kept in my bag could have made me the favor of a king. Or gotten me burned as a witch and heretic. The Catholic church never lets you have any fun. My destination is a former home turned into rented office space, another relic of the simple times. I spend an hour a week here learning how to reform myself from an absolute dumpster fire into a more regulated, socially acceptable human being.

A caregiver’s job is to raise. To nurture. To tend. It’s my job: a guardian and caregiver at heart. I’m a big brother, husband to a disabled woman, and found my calling in the field of healthcare. Taking care of others comes easily. It’s natural, to want to see them smile and make them feel better. To help those around me be the best people they can and maximize their quality of life. Sitting on Anna’s couch I can’t fathom that same feeling. Bless the woman for never forcing words out of me but the challenging of deeply-seated emotional trauma and self-hatred is exhausting and painful no matter how gentle one tries to make it.

“Maybe I’m just broken. I don’t f*****g know. I should be over this by now.” My deck is in my hands, shuffling the cards nervously. I fumble and a few fall on the carpet. I sigh, trying to remember to breathe through the frustration.

“No.. You’re not broken, Jay! You’re hurting. It’s okay to feel hurt and angry.” Anna’s voice is soft and sympathetic. “You were a child growing up doing normal kid, normal teenager things. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I shouldn’t still be hurting! It’s been how f*****g long now?” Breathe. Just breathe.

“You’ve made such progress! Remember, waves. They come in waves. Feelings come, feelings go. Just breathe.. Let it move through you. The thought comes in and you wave to it and just let it walk on by. Just stay present.”

Present. Right.

I leave unconvinced. I don’t doubt that she’s right but I struggle to imagine ever seeing myself in that light. To think that I could ever see myself living for my own benefit. I live for those around me. My purpose is those around me. I shove my hands in my pockets and look over the top of the district to the towering hospital figure in the near distance. Disenchantment settles. The looming existential dread that I’ll spend most of my life weaving through its halls and settled before a microscope counting fragmented, ailing cells. At least behind the scope there’s only the bacteria to judge me and they already have way more culture than I’ll ever have. It’s automatically a lost battle.

Present.

I sigh. I’m numb as I push my legs back down the hill to my car.

Stay present.