Now, for ten years (3,653-plus days of gender-traveling) …

Note: I had every intention of having this up in time for the actual anniversary, but it’s been a crazy month or nearly two (???). Hence, my road to hell is well-paved now, but I have a good excuse! Really! Better late than never …

January 9, 2018.

At the Eric Ambel-Joe Flood Sunday Buzz matinee, Cafe Nine, 5-21-17

May 21, 2017, Cafe Nine, New Haven. At the Cygnus Radio Sunday Buzz show with Eric Ambel and Joe Flood. Happiness, a tinge of sadness and some touches of resilience. (Tom Hearn photo)

I’m not gonna rehash too much, as I wrote a rather long piece on the fifth anniversary of the Feast of My Epiphany – the night when the years of suppressing my gender identity exploded in my face with a simple, blindsiding question from my inner voice: “Can you do this?”

But this made it 10 years since that crucial night – 1/9/2008, 7 p.m. PST, sitting on the bed after work out in Fresno, where I lived at the time.

It’s been one hell of a ride since then … and it’s not over. After all, 1) People don’t live in vacuums; and 2) If you ain’t learnin’, you ain’t livin’. And I’ve certainly not been in a vacuum, and my gender trip is still a learning experience, for me as much as anyone.

But I can tell you it’s one of the most difficult, yet wisest, decisions I’ve ever made – to confront this after all those decades, take it head-on, and (hopefully) become a much better person for it.


The $64,000 Question is: How the hell did it get to be 10 years so fast? (The things I guess you always ask yourself when suddenly 46 becomes 56.) Also, now there are more people in my life than not who’ve only known me as Frannie 2.0, which is a wild-enough thing to ponder.

The wee hours, Sept. 7, 2008. The Million Elephant, Fresno. Never had a 10-foot walk (from my car to the front door) seemed so long. Or been more rewarding.

The last five years have been a real trip, good and bad. I moved home in August 2012 after The Fresno Bee, the paper for which I made my cross-country move from New Haven in 2004, let me go a second time. It’s kind of embarrassing to be having to move back in with your parents in your 50s, but I was confident that there would be many more jobs back East than in the San Joaquin Valley (where, in 2009, early in my first layoff, at the peak of the Depression, the official unemployment in each of the seven cities in the Valley was over 20 percent). I was planning to be home three months and gone, with a job worthy of a move home, and I could get on with a great new life.

What actually happened: a near-year of unemployment; hundreds of résumés without even a “you suck”; a part-time job on the news copy desk at MSN in Midtown Manhattan, which lasted two months before Microsoft dumped our entire department; Mom’s cancer (she had a very touch-and-go Fall 2013, where we almost lost her twice, but she’s still here); being hired to lay out pages at my old paper in New Haven (and I have very mixed emotions about that experience); my father’s second go-round with prostate cancer; blowing out my knee in December 2014

Aug. 16, 2009, at the dysfunctional Happy House, Fresno. Before heading to see Deke Dickerson at Audie’s Olympic.

while walking down a step heading to the 6 train at Grand Central (and then ripping it all up again New Year’s night); our whole department in New Haven being dumped before Christmas 2015 because, as the publisher had the balls to tell us, “You make too much money” (we were making $25-40K a year); holding my father’s hand as he slipped away in May 2016; beginning a part-time job two days after the funeral where the people are nice but the pay is horrible, where I drove nearly an hour each way three days a week because I was apparently too old by about 25 years to be hired for anything worthy.

But not all has been bleak. Occasionally I’m asked to talk about the gender thang to one group or another (and I’m always willing to help, or answer questions, if asked); I’ve been doing a radio show for five years on a Connecticut-based online station, Cygnus Radio; my old radio station, WPKN in Bridgeport, included me in a “Women of WPKN” fundraiser a few months after I moved home, and this past November I was asked to make an appearance on PKN’s monthly LGBT community show (interviewing Raven Matherne, a newly elected Stamford city representative, the first transperson voted into any office in Connecticut).

I’ve seen my share of great music (thanks to the kindness of friends); I’ve enjoyed my share of New Haven pizza (again, some of it thanks to the kindness of friends); I’ve made a lot of friends, more than I ever could have imagined; I’ve

Sept. 25. 2010. At my hangout/second home, the Revue in Fresno. Before my friends Megan and Dax got hitched. I don’t think I ever looked better than that afternoon.

written op-ed pieces for The New York Times (online) and the New Haven Register; I narrated a music documentary early last year (The High School That Rocked!) that has been screened in rooms from Providence to New Haven to Albuquerque; and I was interviewed last summer by Monika Kowalska, a Polish transwoman who runs The Heroines of My Life, a website devoted to interviews with transwomen around the world, and was honored to be included in the company of some pretty prominent badass women from our dysphoric tribe.

And also last summer, I finally achieved a lifetime goal by appearing on Jeopardy! – as far as either the contestant crew or I could figure, I was only the third transgender contestant – though my childhood goal of being a five-time champ was cut off at the knees in one of the most epically bizarre finishes in the history of the show. (It aired in mid-October.)

UPDATE: And as I began writing this, I also started easing into a new job. I can’t talk much about it, but the bare bones: This dropped into my lap in a phone call the last Friday of 2017. Two authors I know needed an assistant on a huge book project, and they contacted me. And after the least interviewy job interview of my life, I was in. I guess I can call myself a literary assistant. It’s one part transcriber of hundreds of hours of interviews, one part copy editor, one part gofer. And it is, indeed, work. But it’s only 10 minutes from home; no more fighting traffic nearly an hour each way on 84 three days a week. And while it’s a subcontractor deal, it’s full-time hours … and I’ll be making what I made at The Fresno Bee before my first layoff – nine years ago. FINALLY!

Plus, a fringe benefit: Being around published authors – and being hired at a human level of

New Year’s Eve 2011, the Starline, Fresno. Ringing in ’12 as my pal Blake Jones and his Beatles cover band, The Beetles, played on.

pay for my lifetime of skills – does wonders for my mojo. I had stopped writing for long stretches because, well, having the job world ignore hundreds of your applications for years kinda leads one to believe “Well, maybe I really do suck!” I’m easing back into writing for myself again, at last. A little bit of outside validation does go a long way sometimes. I mean, hell, I’m writing this!

Still, it’s been a struggle; the stress of nearly nine years of unemployment and underemployment have taken their toll on my psyche (not to mention my body, as my struggle with weight is my constant source of frustration), and I’m sure there will always be battle scars – instances and situations that will make me flinch and give me pause. Maybe a permanent fear that something might be too good to be true, and that the bottom will fall out when I least expect it. In fact, this new job situation, much like the Jeopardy! appearance, feels like an out-of-body experience. But yeah, it’s been an interesting life, and it’s about to take some more unexpected turns. Again.


I think the main thing I’ve learned in 10 years is that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself. (And death – I’ve been scared to death of death my whole life. Even more so after losing my father, plus suddenly realizing I’m 56, feeling some of the aches and pains of older folks, and seeing some friends and/or rockers die.)

June 7, 2012, the Revue, Fresno. A brief moment of serenity and humility. Two months later, I was heading home.

The trepidation I felt when I asked myself the above question, after all these decades, was overwhelming. Kind of an “Oh, God, don’t make me go through this!” moment. The fear of how I could transition in a red-state city such as Fresno. Why do I have to deal with this? Why me? Why Fresno, of all places? How will my friends react? How will my family in Connecticut react when the time comes? I didn’t want to put myself through all this. Or any. Not one bit of it. But maybe all my decades of depression were tied to this gender thing somehow. I needed to find out if so, and how much. I just needed to be myself and see where it all went.

And the end result was surprising.

I told myself three things when, after my first layoff in the spring of 2009, I had to accelerate my transition, as I had to seriously ask myself, “Am I gonna interview [for jobs] as Fran or as Fran?” I answered my question with “Can you really go back to living as a man?” (It was a mental speed bump I would encounter several times on the way to hormone therapy the following April, and I did think it was a good thing that I was asking myself that, just to be totally sure.)

With that settled, I told myself: 1) You’re not a freak; 2) You’re not a piece of shit; and 3) You’re not a second-class citizen and you won’t be treated as such. Where I, owner of the lowest of self-esteem, managed to find the strength to do that still puzzles and astounds me

Nov. 18, 2012. Back home, literally – in front of the apartment building where I lived the first four years of my life, Greenpoint, Brooklyn.

years later, But I internalized it – fake it ’til you make it – until it became part of my DNA. I learned to stride in heels figuratively as I was learning to do literally.

It also became a defense mechanism. This attitude is what I learned to project onto the world. As I discovered, this attitude comes with a certain degree of don’t-fuck-with-me. It also implied a degree of confidence – which is something I embraced whenever and wherever possible. And maybe people picked up on it and, to some extent, gravitated to it.

Going through gender transition, especially when coupled with hormone therapy, was pretty much like having a second chance at adolescence. Unlike my first one, where I was unpopular, treated terribly and probably developed a hormone imbalance in puberty that led to decades of depression, in this one I became popular on some level. I was one of the

May 5, 2013. Yale University Art Gallery.A room with a view.  (Paola Rubbo photo)

cool kids, and on top of that, I looked pretty good doing it, weight aside. In fact, on occasion, I used dressing up as a way to deal with the dark side – forcing myself to doll up, to care about how I look, and then going out, and most of the time all would be well afterward.

And also with that comes a certain degree of confidence I never had before. Not cockiness; that’s different. I still have my internal battles, fears and struggles, same as you. But I’m a little more at ease saying what’s on my mind, contributing to conversations. Whoever said “Little girls should be seen and not heard” should be posthumously slapped.


I also learned a few things about gender, and how it’s perceived.

One of the most wonderful aspects of the entire transition trip was that all my female friends, to a one, welcomed me with open arms, literally and figuratively. (Most of the guys,

March 10, 2015. Recuperating from my knee injuries and doing a show on Cygnus Radio from our family room.

too, for that matter; I only lost two people I thought were friends – both male, both back here in Connecticut – over my transition.) Not even a moment to question or pause – it was immediate and it was unconditional. I never thought I’d be invited to a bridal shower, or have gone out with girlfriends for makeovers or shoe shopping or group activities. (Although it’s been a while now – I really, really could use some serious girl time right now …)

Now understand, I’m a person who held the door for people of any gender when I was still 1.0, so my perspective was a little different to start with. But I noticed pretty early on how much more often men hold the door for me than in my past life – little things that gentlemen do for ladies. Or will greet me with a kiss (and I know it’s nothing sexual).

I also came to accept and enjoy where I am on the spectrum.

As a kid, I enjoyed what were considered “boy” things: baseball (even though I was the worst player in the Prospect Little League), Hot Wheels and Johnny Lightnings, football, hoops, auto racing (favorite drivers: Speed Racer and Richard Petty) and The Three Stooges, among other things.

But at the same time, I also had the heart of a girl. I was gentle. I was extremely sensitive. My first cue that maybe I was different was shoes, when I was about 5: ’60s white go-go

May 1, 2016, Giovanni’s Restaurant, Waterbury. With the folks. That was 2 1/2 weeks before my father died.

boots, Mary Janes and ballet slippers. Those were definitely not boy things. As I inched toward adolescence, I wanted to take ballet with the girls, hang with the girls, maybe let them dress me up and make me up and go hang at the mall or go to the movies. And I fantasized about being a girl and having a girlfriend.

(And it hit me years later: I was a cartoon junkie growing up, making me wonder now how I was a mainly straight-A student. But Bugs Bunny was actually a role model. Seeing him go from wisecracking wabbit with a New York accent to a hairdresser to a ballplayer to a gangster to Betty Grable at the drop of a hat – I would’ve loved to have been a changeling like that.)

The day after I moved home, I was reattaching the car dolly to the back of the rental truck before I dropped it off. My father was outside with me, and he asked, “Do you need a hand?” I told him, “No, I’ve got this. Besides, I didn’t trade in all my boy cards.” He snorted – that was pretty high praise from a guy who wasn’t prone to expressing feelings. I made my father laugh. That was huge.

Also, people hold certain perceptions about what women should know, what they shouldn’t, and what they should be able to do well.

I learned that early on at the poker table, first in Fresno (I used to sometimes play the $19

Aug. 3, 2017. Sony Pictures Studios, Culver City, CA. With my close personal bud Alex Trebek. During the first commercial break of my infamous appearance on Jeopardy!

weekday hold’em tournaments at Club One Casino, and after I started on the hormones, with the testosterone just about gone, my game got a hell of a lot better), and then back

home. I’ve only played live once so far since I came back – one Friday night about 2 1/2 years ago on a 1-1 table at Mohegan Sun, the smallest-ante table, where the small and big blinds are both $1 – and my patience, not to mention many young guys betting wildly into me (especially when I knew I had, ahem, the nuts), allowed me to walk away with $500 … and a raise of the eyebrow from my father the next day when I told the folks (and gave them $100 of it to enjoy a nice dinner).

I re-learned that – surprisingly, at least to me – when my Jeopardy! appearance aired in mid-October.

Dec. 17, 2017, Cafe Nine, New Haven. With Kid Congo Powers at one of his monthly Sex Beat DJ parties.

In Double Jeopardy, I got three of the five questions in Famous Battles correct (including an easy Daily Double about Antietam, for which I wish I had bet a lot more). And in the sports teams category, I got four of the five questions, and the other one I knew but was beaten on the buzzer. For months after, I’ve heard several comments along the lines of “You crushed the sports category!” with an incredulous tone, or “I can’t believe you were killing the guys on the sports category.” It’s been so long now that most people don’t know that I was a sportswriter for six years during the ’80s at my first paper, in Waterbury, and covered the Hartford Whalers for 2 1/2 seasons, as well as some stray Giants and Jets games, and some some stray Yanks, Mets and Sawx games as well. I even once was sent to England to cover a golf tournament. Or that, in the final months before my first layoff in Fresno, with most of my feature writers having taken the buyout, I was drafted to double as the night sports editor twice a week (where I worked with much of my poker crew).

Also, it did occur to me that some of the strangers among the 9 million viewers, the ones who lived outside of Connecticut and Fresno (where I got plenty of media coverage), might have seen me as a woman with a deeper voice, rather than 2.0.

Born boy or not, just the idea that a woman can do things well that have been traditionally the domain of the male still shocks some people. (Even though great strides have been made on this front – I mean, women have long served in the military, and people fought extremely hard to ensure that transpeople can serve – we still see that in fields across the work world, from science and math to journalism.) And that, in turn, shocks me. (Especially now that many of the things my father did at home have now fallen on me; all the work I did on the transition, and now I find myself being the, ahem, man of the house.) After all, in most ways I’m still the same Fran I always was. Just a lot better-looking.

The only thing that hasn’t changed, unfortunately, is my lack of that certain someone in my life. Most of my non-trans girlfriends have boyfriends, girlfriends or spouses, and the rest, I’m, well, not their type of girl. And I’m not about to go fishing in the online dating pool. I know: What do you want – everything? Still, there’s that sense of being, deep down, undesirable. And it does gnaw at me sometimes when I allow myself to think about it.


I’ve also learned a lot about judgmentalism and humility. After all, if I haven’t learned about judgmentalism going through a gender transition, or learned humility after nine years of wandering in the employment wilderness – and after losing in such a spectacular fashion on Jeopardy! – then I haven’t learned a damned thing, have I?

The place I learned about people making judgments on me, believe it or don’t, wasn’t the occasional troll (and I expected as much after Jeopardy!, and ignored all of that ignorant bullshit). Rather, it was from what is erroneously referred to as “the transgender community.”

There is no “community,” at least in the “Kumbaya” sense. We’re as different from each other as the non-trans world is from each other – in upbringings, in ethnic and religious backgrounds, in political leanings (and, just as I can’t understand Log Cabin Republicans, and maybe more so, I can’t understand transpeople who vote for Congressional representatives, let alone a president, that hate us so deeply).

I learned this early on – on visits to San Francisco, where I was taking workshops at the LGBT Center, as I was fully intending to transition and move up there and get a great job. Liberal, tolerant San Francisco. It’s bullshit. It’s a myth.

While my non-trans friends in SF, my rock’n’roll pals, embraced me just as hard as my friends in Fresno did, I encountered a lot of cliquishness and standoffishness and looking down imperious noses at me from transpeople up there, especially when they learned I lived in (gasp!) Fresno. I didn’t realize that my second adolescence would come with a few Heathers attached. (NOT to be confused with my bestie in Fresno, Heather, a Celtic warrior who told people, when I first transitioned, “If you have a problem with Frannie, you have a problem with me.” In the sense of the film Heathers, that is. But you probably knew that already.)

The next-to-last straw was the day I traveled the three hours up there to attend a trans job fair at the Center, and the princess (a transwoman) who was supposed to be one of our counselors, helping us on working to be employed again, asked me how I was doing, and in the middle of me answering, she turned her back on me to say hi to some of her friends walking by, and left me standing there like a dope for five minutes before I walked away … and when I called her on it in an email the next day, her response was “I’m sorry you feel that way.” The absolute worst non-apology apology one can give. And a year later, wouldn’t you know she did the same fucking thing again! That was the last time I bothered with the Center. Maybe, just maybe, I had to go through this trip by myself.

And later that year, the last straw: I interviewed for a job up there doing PR/marketing for the Transgender Law Center. Granted, there were several finalists, but I had a great interview; we went over the allotted hour. I was supposed to hear back within three weeks. Eight weeks later, I got an email – not from the director who interviewed me, but a form rejection from the administrative assistant.

It wasn’t the rejection itself that pissed me off; there was a one-in-several chance I’d be hired. It was how it was handled. An organization devoted to helping us, run by a transperson, and they don’t even know how to treat a job candidate who’s also trans, knowing damn well how difficult the job market was for transpeople to start with. Someone who came up with a job plan in three days, as they requested, who traveled three hours for the interview, and they leave them hanging two months and send a summary form rejection?

Fuck ’em. Just fuck ’em. I’ll go this alone. I swore after my SF experiences that I’ll never have anything to do with any LGB and especially T organization again. Six-and-a-half-years later I still haven’t. I’ve made out much better, and have been treated much better, in the non-trans world.

I also had to re-learn this harsh lesson when I moved home and would occasionally go to monthly trans nights at clubs. The organizers were wonderful; one came over to introduce herself to this stranger the first time I went to her event. And I did make some friends, met some great people, but I did feel the frost from some of the girls who would look down and past me. (I also learned that often, though not always, the part-time crossdresser experience was quite different from the full-time experience.) But the one instance that made me boil was when one full-time transwoman I met at some of these events, with whom I was a Facebook friend, sent me a message.

True, I didn’t like myself much at all in my 1.0 life, but I’m not ashamed of it, either – it was my life; it was what it was – and some of my throwback photos are in boy mode. And she sent me a message to the effect of “You’re such a beautiful woman, I wish you would stop posting photos of yourself as a man.” I was livid pissed – who the fuck was she to pass judgment on my life and my past?

But I’ve also had to do some learning as well. I wasn’t familiar with the realm of the gender non-binary when I first started my trip. I mean, in 20/20 hindsight, of course, I totally get it – that gender is a spectrum and not one or the other – but when I started out, I had no concept (and couldn’t comprehend it) of people who preferred “they” to “he” and “she,” and was kinda startled by it, by people who didn’t fit into one category or the other. (Maybe part of it was just being a career journalist and language bitch, with a lot of copyediting experience, who had a hard time with using a plural pronoun for a single person.) I gave myself a good talking to: “What the hell’s the matter with you? Can’t you see that their battles are just as valid, and as hard, as yours, maybe harder? What the hell are you doing? What are you thinking? Learn! Accept!” And indeed I did.

But despite the hurts I’ve encountered from my side of the spectrum, most of the world, trans and non-trans, has treated me well, and I want to pay it back and pay it forward. And I want to take the lessons I’ve learned and experienced and use them to move the ball forward, to foster understanding and win hearts and minds.

I’m supportive of my fellow gender travelers in the one-to-one and encourage them as much as possible as they tread their own paths. I’m glad to answer any questions from loved ones of transpeople, especially parents of kids who are transitioning or just out. (But I do tell people that all our experiences are different, and I can only speak from mine.) And I’ve spoken from time to time to groups – from college classes to a group of electrologists – about this trans trip and the best ways to deal with our dysphoric tribe. And if I knew I had at least a fighting chance, I’d run for office and take our civil rights fight to a national level.


I also learned that things – and people – change, and that acceptance cuts across all sorts of lines. And I learned in the place where I most expected to meet resistance. Well, there was Fresno, of course, a red-state, religious “right”-dominated city. But I’m actually talking about my hometown.

When my second layoff forced me to pack up and move home, I dreaded it. For one, it’s a very red town. Okay, there’s only one Republican I’ve voted for in my life, and it’s the mayor, who’s still in office 41 years later (having taken office when I was a junior in high school); he’s a good guy and cares about his town deeply. But in the big red picture, let’s just say the number of Trump lawn signs in ’16 deeply disturbed me, and that’s putting it mildly. Also, me and Prospect didn’t get along very well growing up. I took a lot of abuse from kids, a lot of “you faggot” and other things – not because I was overtly femme (which I wasn’t), but because I was slight, sensitive, blonde and one of the smartest kids in school. Wounds scar over, but they cut deep. After all, what I experienced launched decades of low self-esteem.

So when I knew I was moving back here, I did have some fears, especially as it became evident that my hopes of being employed and out on my own again within three months weren’t gonna be fulfilled. And as my parents got older and then got sick, and I started doing the weekly grocery runs at the local market, Oliver’s, I had to relearn the lessons I taught myself in 2009.

Another thing I had to tell myself was that this was not the same town I left in the ’80s. When our family moved here in 1965, the population was about 2,000. It’s now close to 10,000. Many of the people I knew growing up have since moved on; some have died. I had to remind myself that I was returning to nearly an entirely different situation.

But the pavement had already been laid down. Several childhood friends and acquaintances found me and friended me on the Book of Faces while I was still in Fresno, so I knew I had some moral support. And my mother’s circle of friends from St. Anthony’s, the church up the street where I was an altar boy for eight years, were totally fine with me – as was Father Mark, then the pastor, a year older than me. I found this out years later: Shortly after I came out to my family in 2009, she was at a church function where someone semi-spilled the beans about me, so he asked her “So what’s up with Fran?” She told him, and his response was “Don’t turn your back on him.”

The guy who runs Roman Catholicism, Inc., might have a hard time with transpeople, but that doesn’t always translate on a local level. Good people are good people, regardless of dogma, and to paint every religious person with the same broad brush – well, isn’t that what’s been done to my dysphoric tribe for centuries?

And on top of that, a couple of people who didn’t treat me very well in childhood apologized to me after I moved back.

And again, back to Jeopardy! There’s a page about my town on the magic Book of Faces, and a few days before my appearance aired, someone I didn’t know posted that I’d be appearing on the show. (And keep in mind that if some people in town didn’t know about Frannie 2.0 before, they knew then; maybe it was the screaming headline “CT transgender activist to appear on Jeopardy!” on the Hartford Courant’s feature on me.) The post got about 200 likes, and dozens of messages of encouragement and congratulations.

And after the show aired, I got about the same reaction on a subsequent post – with a lot of compliments and a lot of thanks for representing the town well. The first Saturday I did the grocery run after the show aired, the owner of Oliver’s came up and told me he saw the show and congratulated me, and some of the Oliver’s deli counter staff, as well as some of the crew at the Dunkin’ Donuts up the street, talked to me about it. And even now, there’s the occasional person who says, “I saw you on Jeopardy!

Again, this is not the same town I left. If anyone here cares about the trans thing at all, I haven’t heard anything (and I hope it stays that way). Maybe living the day-to-day, and people seeing me as living whatever a “normal” life is, truly is the best way I can move the ball forward. I mean, I call myself an “accidental human rights activist” on my Facebook profile, but maybe I really am a trans activist just by living and interacting. I’m working (and sometimes not working) and laughing and crying and raging and struggling and sometimes succeeding, same as the rest of the world.


I do ask myself occasionally whether I’d put myself through the same trip again.

Well, of course, I didn’t put myself through it; it was a natural thing, it confronted me, and I chose not to suppress it any longer. I kinda had to embrace it, whether I wanted to or not. And the stress was definitely hellish at times, and there were a couple of instances when I seriously considered taking a long walk in a short ocean – well, more than a couple, actually. But as of now, the positives have overwhelmingly outnumbered the negatives.

So … yes, I’d do it again. Well, all except the nine years of hell on the job front. I still don’t understand the cosmic reason for that.

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4 Responses to “Now, for ten years (3,653-plus days of gender-traveling) …”

  1. Sarah D. Says:

    Happy 10 yrs Fran! I’m glad things are looking up, even if it’s slow going. Forward through molasses is still forward, and Fresno misses you.

  2. Diana Mercer Says:

    What a great read! I know you still struggle with ….. stuff……but from my perspective, you’re doing SO GREAT! And as someone who struggles with chronic severe depression and anxiety, I know it ain’t easy. Love you much! Diana

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