README.txt

by Chelsea Manning

I sent an email to Master Sergeant Adkins, attaching the selfie I’d taken in February at Tysons Corner Center, of me in a blond wig and lipstick. I labeled it “Breanna.jpg.” “This is my problem,” I wrote. “I’ve had signs of it for a very long time. It’s caused problems within my family. I thought a career in the military would get rid of it. It’s not something I seek out for attention, and I’ve been trying very, very hard to get rid of it by placing myself in situations where it would be impossible. But, it’s not going away; it’s haunting me more and more as I get older. Now, the consequences of it are dire, at a time when it’s causing me great pain in itself.” I told him that my entire life felt “like a bad dream that won’t end.” I tried to delete it after I’d sent it—regret closed in and overwhelmed me instantly—but by then it was too late. My superiors, from both the intelligence and operations sides of the unit, effectively ignored the picture and the email. I was too useful to the unit.