The only time I can make choices about how I want to look, act, communicate is when I’m inside my apartment, at the end of the day. Often exhausted, I try my best not to think about how I will have to do it all over again tomorrow. The weight of these minute-to-minute compromises is compounded by the fact that because of my fear of violence from men, I seldom dress the way I want to in public and wear makeup only on weekends or when I’m performing. This means I’m often still seen as a man. As painful as it is to be seen as the embodiment of my fears, the real agony comes from feeling that I am
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