Really Living

You don’t live with depression, you just exist. I’ve existed with depression since before I can remember, but it all got worse the day I turned seventeen. The day my parents had their accident.
But that’s in the past.
Today is my first day working at Off Your Trolly Electronics, and I’m getting right nervous about the whole thing.
I didn’t get much shut eye last night because of the prospect of working again, Claude told me the same thing that she always does, “You can’t worry about what other people think of you, because if you worry about that, you’ll never get sorted the way you need.”
So I shower, get dressed and tell myself that I am not going to think about how other people see me.
I fasten my white button up to my neck and tuck the shirt tails in.A frown creeps across my face at I step up to the bathroom mirror. Despite the fact that I have my hair cropped short and I haven’t worn makeup for six years, since my parents died, I still see the feminine smoothness of my cheek, the soft blue eyes that I got from my mum. I make a rueful expression at myself and run slender, too dainty fingers through my damp hair.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door and my sister’s soft voice speaks through the wood, “Oi, Gray? You finished yet?”
“Yea”
I turn to leave, glancing in the mirror to adjust the fall of my shirt, hiding the slight, unwanted swell of my chest.
Claudette smiles at me when I clear the bathroom, ruffling my perfectly messed hair as she passes.
“Don’t muck it up, ‘kay?”
The flippant yet caring words bring a smile to my face, and I nod. “Now why would I do that?”
With that I make my way to the front door of the small two-bedroom flat that we share, grabbing the two biscuits and my travel mug that Claudette had set out, piping hot Earl Gray steaming from within.
Exiting the building, it’s instantly harder to breathe and, like every morning, I have to fight off the strangling claws of a panic attack. The noises assault me all at once, the bustle of traffic, murmuring of passing strangers, even the beat of my own heart it seems. That first moment is always the hardest throughout the day and the feeling passes without incident, allowing me to make the short stroll to the tram station.
I keep to myself once I get seated and pull out a book. In public I try and keep the attention away from me; some people have no filter and I hate answering questions. That is precisely why I look forward to starting this job; nobody questioned the fact that I filled in the male box when my application asked for gender, and they left alone the subject on why I hadn’t worked in over a year.
Other potential employers had asked these questions of me and many more that I didn’t think affected my ability to work. Apparently they did, because I was not contacted again. Off Your Trolly Electronics didn’t care, they just wanted somebody to stock shelves.
The whole way to Cardiff from where I live in Newport, a woman stares at me, making my skin crawl. So I huddle up behind my novel, trying to make my already slight form take up less space. She says nothing throughout the grueling ride, she just watches me, a strange quizzical expression on her aged face.
Her relentless stare has my nerves buzzing restlessly behind my eyes, and I struggle past the unreasonable urge to panic.
Focusing on my breathing and swallowing my ire usually helps, so I enlist that tactic.
It barely works.
Once the tram arrives, I flee from the metal death trap as if something is chasing me, quickly making my way to my destination.
Although, it is only a short stroll from the tram station to Off Your Trolley, I still manage to lose my way three times.
This is why I left early.
Finally, I find the blasted place, my shaking hands worrying at the hem of my shirt. A tall woman, clad in a white button down blouse and black pencil skirt approaches me when I move to clock in, a wide, inviting smile spread across her cherry lips.
“Why, you must be Grayson, our new stock clerk.” Her voice is melodic and smooth.
I nod meekly. “ Aye, that’ll be me.”
“Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Patricia Gillons, but you can call me Patty for short, everyone else does.”
She holds out a delicate, hand, each manicured fingernail painted to match her lipstick. Patricia inspects me silently as I politely shake her hand. It is normal for people to look down on me, with the fact that I only measured five foot two. This woman manages not to though, despite her easily six foot stature.
I search my pockets for the small card that I had been given when I was accepted. For a moment, I have this dreadful thought that, on my first day, I forgot my clock card, but my fingers graze it in my back pocket and I pull it out. Patricia watches me as I swipe myself in and step away from the wall.
“Let me show you the stock room” she pipes up. My thoughts are so scattered that I almost forgot she was there.
I nod again and when she turns towards the back of the store, her three inch heels clicking away. I follow her.
***
My first day goes fairly well, I meet my coworkers and they all seem just as friendly as Patricia. The work that I was given to start off with was learning the shelves, and how things were sorted. I think I’ll like it here.
As I walk back to the tram station, I think quietly to myself about the people that this excursion has introduced me to, the first and foremost being Patricia. She is the manager and showed me about the place, telling me about how Off Your Trolley is a fine establishment and deserves fine employees. As she talked, I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by her soft American accent. Second would have to be Marton, he greeted me with an indifferent grunt, but Patricia told me that he treats everybody like that. Then there’s Allan, he is to be my shelving partner and he seemed nice, but slightly confused when he looks at me. Understandable, but uncomfortable.
Before I know it, I’m on my way back to Newport. So lost in my thoughts, I don’t even notice that the same woman spotts me again, most likely on her own way home from a day's work, and resumes her startled, staring contest.
When I get back to the flat, Claudette is just leaving for her night classes, she is training to become a physician. I have the place to myself, which has both good and bad sides to it.
First, before I can relax alone, I have to check every room, every wardrobe, to make sure that I am alone. After I do that, all is well and I can carry on.
I make my quiet way to my room to undressed, and change into something more comfortable: A pair of black baggy trousers and a grey pullover. I ditch my shoes under my bed and shuffle to the kitchen. I stop halfway and turn back. The small sandwich I hand managed for lunch is enough for the day. Sleeping is more desirable anyways.

I sit like this for the whole ride, scrunched up behind words that I can’t even focus on, every one of my muscles tense and fidgeting.
Getting off of the tram is better, and I take my first deep breath since boarding. I find Off Your Trolly much easier this time.
My appearance must give way to how I feel, because Patricia approaches me, like last time, but her painted lips are pursed in slight concern.
“Rough night?” She asks quietly. I nod briefly but don’t verbalize my thoughts.
Yeah, rough night, rough morning, rough tram, rough existence.
She leaves me be and I go find Allan to show me the ropes of shelf stocking.
That commences and the day goes by just as sluggish as this morning, if not slower. I take my lunch with Allan and Marton, but we don’t say much the whole while, but during that time I realize I have to use the toilet. Dread engulfs me at the thought of using a public lavatory.
It’s not the sanitation, or the act of relieving myself that threatens my fragile calm, its the question I face every time.
Which bathroom to use?
If I go into the boy’s bathroom, I am shunned and cause discomfort, but if I use the “socially accurate” room, I feel out of place and judged. So I hold it for the remainder of the work day, thinking myself a coward.
Miraculously, I get through the day without breaking down or messing myself. Making the trek back to the tram station is hell incarnate, people bustle everywhere and I can’t help but feel in the way. I’ve always been bad about evading people, and today is no different. The evening rush hour seems to surge out onto the streets as I do, all heading the opposite direction as me.
Boarding the tram is almost a relief and I finally catch a break: the owl woman is absent as the tram leaves for Newport.
I can’t find the energy to read on the way back, so I try my hand at winding down by watching the unremarkable countryside pass by.
Claudette has the night off from her classes and is lounging out on our couch when I practically run through the door. She sits up, watching me with concern creasing her features.
“Gray, what’s the matter?” I shake my head manically and rush past her, heading straight for the refuge of my bedroom. Claudette’s right behind me the whole way and I feel bad because the door slammed in her face, not making contact, but I’m sure it comes close. I rest my back against the door and take in heaving breaths, unbridled panic forming in the way of tears spilling from my eyes.
“ Gray! Grayson! What happened?” Her gentle, worried voice is level with my ear; she must be kneeling down.
I thump my head against the thin wood and close my eyes, irrational thoughts flooding my mind. Clutching my knees to my chest, I open my mouth to tell her, but I can’t find the words because, in truth, nothing really happened.
It was my own out of sorts head that marred the day.
“I-I don’t know,” I manage to get out past my rapid hectic breathing.
“Did somebody say something?”
“N-no, I just… everything…”
I can’t finish and I cover my head with my arms, struggling to calm myself as I hyperventilate.
There’s a soft sound from behind the door as I imagine Claudette shifts to sit down, much the same as I am.
After a good while I am calm enough to speak without sobbing.
I look up from my knees at my empty room and speak softly, my words laced with resignation, “I think this was all a mistake Claude. I can’t do this.”
The other side is silent for a moment and I have the sinking thought that she’s left, but her voice breaks the still air.
“What would Mum and Dad say if you gave up now, on your second day back?”
My response is bitter and childish. “‘Bad girl, Gracie! You can’t quit now. I don’t understand what’s gotten you so worked up.’”
Claudette sighed audibly and in my mind’s eye I see her shaking her head, “Granted that was a rank thing to bring up, but you can’t give up so soon, we’ve gotten so far.”
I take in a shaky breath and wipe my face “Okay… But just because you want me to.”
I struggle through the next week on wobbly legs, taking it slow and not bringing any extra attention to myself. I have basically settled in nicely in my position when a new register clerk is hired.
The woman struts into the store like she owns it, her bubblegum heels pronouncing her every bouncing step. She is slightly heavy around the hips and her tan pants do not do well for her. Her hair is a mouse brown and cropped into a shaped bob style. She wears a white t shirt that is just too small on her frame. She looks at everyone with her small nose pointed up, even Patricia. She accepts the offer to call her Patty and gives her name snootily; Meredith.
If I thought that second day was hell, then I’m in for something lower than that, something worse.
I glimpse it in her eyes as she is introduced to everyone. Her crystal eyes snag on me, something nasty growing in her gaze. It isn’t until the second day that she takes action, first by asking questions. I only hear bits of her conversation with Allan.
“So what’s the deal on Gray?” The woman asks, only partially trying to conceal her interest.
“He seems awright. He got ‘ere just last week.”
“Are you sure you should call Gray that?”
“What?”
“He.”
“Well yeh, that’s what he is right?”
“Can’t be sure, Gray looks like one of them.”
My muscles tense up at the way she says that, with such amnesty that my
stomach turns, stopping me in the middle of placing a wireless mouse up on its shelf.
***
She keeps going around like this, planting her seeds of distaste in everyone she speaks to, and by the end of my shift, I can feel the turning of tides. I think about it on the ride home, bigger things on my mind that the persistent stare of the owl woman.
When I get back to the flat, I tell Claudette of the newcomer, and her features cloud with something close to dread. “Did you say anything to her?”
“‘Course not, I’m not a complete twit.”
“Good, this woman is looking for trouble, and confronting her will only muck it up further.”
I feel to blame for the strife that sticks to my sister’s expression through the rest of dinner. Afterwards, I quietly retreat to my room, curling up under my sheets early.
The next morning I don’t eat my breakfast; I just get ready and leave, my stomach practicing backflips. The tram ride drones on and doesn’t take long enough.
When I enter the store, everything is quiet. Allan is manning the register this morning, but he doesn’t look at me.
I step lightly to the back of the store after clocking in, my mind oddly calm, but far from serene.
This feeling goes on until lunch, where I am confronted by Meredith. Standing behind her are Allan and Marton.
“Oi, Gray?” Meredith's voice is all but caustic, my reaction is sluggish as I look up at her, my hardly eaten biscuit clutched in one hand.
The woman’s face is screwed into a triumphant grin already.
“We’ve got a little wager going you see, and we need to ask you a question.” It was more informing me than asking, her tone insists.
I swallow the bit in my mouth, it goes down like a sticky lump, clinging all the way down.
“Yeah?” The coolness in my voice surprises me.
“What’s your full name?” My stomach does one of the tricks it was practicing earlier.
“Umm… Grayson Leo Dain…” Is that all she wanted? Not so bad.
She smirks and Allan sniggers, the other seems lost. “We mean on your birth records.” My gut fails at its flip this time and just plummets.
When I move to respond I find that I am devoid of saliva, my tongue clicking against the roof of my mouth, “M-my name is Grayson Le-”
“Really? We aren't blind. Usually something like you is tricky to spot, but you stick out like a sore thumb!”
All of a sudden I feel very small, “I… I,”
I can’t find the words, all I can think about is something. She just called me a thing, how can I respond to that? I can’t.
She sneers, her small white teeth peeking out from coral lips. “See, I told you it was a trans.” Laughter all around and I nearly expel the little that I had eaten today.
Thing, it ,thing, it... What’s the matter with her? I’m still a person, not a thing, am I not?
My body starts to tremble slightly, a thin sweat breaking out at the nape of my neck.
“And the way you move around!” She nearly cackles, “It’s- it’s like you know you’re an abomination!”
My eyes bore into the plate in front of me as I struggle to not drop tears onto the plastic, I fail. Claudette said not to confront her. It can’t get much worse than this… can it?
“Just a scared little girl who thinks she’s a boy!” Her chiding tone breaks me and I drop my food, rushing from the table, and away from the now roaring trio.
I run out of the building, not caring about my shift, moisture blinding my streaming eyes. I flee to the tram station and nearly sob aloud when I realize that there’s a twenty minute wait for the next shuttle back to Newport. I shakily find myself a deserted bench against the wall and huddle there, realizing that I had left my things back at Off Your Trolley.
I hide my face with my knees, covering my head with my arms and wait what seems like hours before a feather-like hand hand settles on my shoulder, scaring the daylights out of me.
I flinch violently and look up, my heart thudding sickly in my chest. Claudette stands in front of me, her features frightful. I don’t know how she’s here but she is, and the little composure I have flies out of the window. I stand quickly and embrace her, sobbing quietly into her shoulder. She shushes me gently and smoothes my hair.
“Your manager called…” Claudette spoke softly, “She said that you ran out… Can you tell me what happened?” I shake my head and swallow the massive lump in my throat, my tears spent for now.
We remain like that for a moment before she brings me to arm’s length, her fingers gently gripping my shoulders.
“Whatever happened, it’s okay now. We’ll work through this like we work through everything else, together. She offers a supportive smile, and I supply a weak one in return.
We wait for the tram to get here together, I sit next to her almost numbly, still feeling rotten.
***
With help from Claude, Patricia gives me the next two days off, reassuring me that this is not giving up, but recuperation, which I need greatly.
I spend the rest of that first day in my room, swaddled in my warm blankets and staring at my blank wall. Claudette checks on me periodically, but overall leaves me alone.
The second day my sister doesn’t let me hide any longer, she makes me curl up on the couch instead, gradually encouraging me to come out of the shell that forms when things like this happen. By tea time, I’m able to tell her exactly what happened with Meredith. She’s fuming by the end of it, and on the phone minutes later.
She talks on the telephone for a long while, on occasions speaking heatedly, I feel like a child, being pampered after a bully stole their lunch at recess.
The third day is better, I get something down at every meal and Claudette makes me take a shower, finally; after almost four days I smell pretty foul.
On the morning of my return to Off Your Trolley, I’m a nervous wreck. I don’t know how this is going to work. What if Meredith decides that she isn’t through with me? What if they confront me again? I couldn’t handle it the first time, how am I to act this time?
Claudette’s words help me a lot, and they’re not even intentional, or directed at me.
Patricia calls her to check up on me and she responds with, “Yes, he will be there today. My brother won’t let something like that get in his way.”
And I don’t.
When I get to work I am prepared for war, figuratively speaking. I have it in my head that I will not let that woman call me a thing again, but Meredith is not here. This gives me a measure of relief, but also a good deal of confusion.
I approach Patricia on the matter and she tells me, with a careful smile, “She was discharged for showing poor manners and did not fit the skill set. She was still on her probation period, and she pushed the boundaries too far with confronting you like that.”
My whole body sighs with me and I struggle not to smile. Patricia does it for me.
The other two are gifted with permanent write-ups and they bother me no more.
I’m able to work in peace, although now it is my sole responsibility to stock the shelves during my shifts, which is fine.
I stay with Off Your Trolley Electronics, working diligently. Claudette convinces me to see a psychiatrist and I am put on a medication for my anxiety. I still have to deal with it daily, but now I have better adept tools in which to do so. The most important thing is that I do not let my short comings hold me back in be the person that I know I can be.