I am writing to formally document what I can only describe as a sustained and deliberate campaign of chaos directed at me — your host, your person, your literal reason for existing. I have housed you for forty-some-odd years. I have fed you iron-rich foods and carried you across many states, even countries, and have never once asked you for anything unreasonable. And this is what I get.

I would like to say I’m surprised. I’m not. But I am putting it in writing because I want there to be a record.

I need you to understand that there is no dignified way to be standing in the grocery store checkout line, a full cart of responsible adult purchases in front of me, when suddenly my entire body decides it is on fire. Not warm. Not flushed. On fire. Like I swallowed the sun and it’s staging a protest. I may be able to keep my mouth shut, but I cannot control my face — I never have been able to — and resting bitch face in the middle of a hot flash reads as unhinged in a way that is difficult to walk back. So now I’m standing there, sweating through a cardigan I put on because I was cold ten minutes ago, and the teenager at the register is looking at me like maybe he should call someone.

He should not call someone. There is no one who can help me. That’s the point.

I would like to submit the above as evidence of willful disruption. I have not slept a full night in longer than I care to admit to anyone, including my doctor, who I have started lying to because I spent most of my life being told “just lose weight, it’ll fix everything.” And even though I lost the weight, it doesn’t change the conversation that much — now it’s just “well, let’s talk about hormone therapy,” which means I have to make a decision, and I don’t have the bandwidth for decisions.

Which is why I wholly understand the need for women to be in sub/dom relationships, because seriously — fuck decisions.