Dear diary

Dear diary, hello... Today I find myself again thinking about those first few days — like I can't let go of that moment. It’s been almost a month, and I keep coming back to this cursed point. Over and over again. Maybe it’s my brain trying to come to terms with what happened. Or maybe I just can’t believe it’s not all some crazy delusion. Damn it, I’m still Steve Harrison somewhere deep inside, not ‘Chanel’ or whatever everyone here calls me.

The irony is that I used to laugh at people with names like that, and now I’m one of them. Chanel. Seriously, it sounds like a caricature just begging to be mocked. And plenty of people have mocked it already, especially when I tried to explain who I really am.

But no, that’s not what I want to talk about today. Even after all this time, I still can’t forget that humiliating beginning. That first week... when I saw my reflection in the mirror for the first time and nearly smashed it in rage. Full lips, wide hips, and... breasts. I, a former white guy, with huge damn... No, I don’t even want to write that word. Damn it. They’re so heavy.

I tried to prove the truth back then, remember? Probably half the office laughed at me. I wasn’t just trying — I stood in the middle of the room and shouted at the top of my lungs, ‘I am Steve Harrison! I don’t know what kind of prank this is, but I demand someone explain what the hell happened to turn me into a woman!’

And do you know what happened? They all just listened in silence until I ran out of words, gasping from anger and desperation. And then… Oh, how I hate that moment! That jerk Pete, the guy from marketing, walked up to me and said with this mocking tone: ‘Hey, Chanel, if you pull another one of your white drama queen stunts, we’ve got a whole room where they’ll explain everything to you. Calm down, babe, don’t scare people.’

I remember feeling a shock run through me when I realized that nobody, nobody was taking me seriously. I couldn’t even prove my own identity to them. I... I was like an empty space. No, even worse — they laughed at me. Whispered behind my back while I tried to get just one person to look me in the eye and hear me. But all they saw was ‘that weird girl Chanel.’

And so… that’s how I started speaking softer. I stopped shouting. Because every time I raised my voice, all I got back were lazy smirks and comments like ‘calm down, babe’ or ‘let’s not be dramatic.’ I remember when Maria from HR gave me that whole speech about ‘the effects of stress on women’ and ‘maybe you need to take a break, sweetie?’ I just stood there, listening, wanting to run away. Because… they pitied me. Or pretended to pity me, winking at each other.

And now here I am, sitting in this body for a month. A month! And… learning. Learning to be ‘Chanel.’ To be this new me that everyone but me sees as the only me. I don’t even try to say out loud that I’m Steve anymore. It’s pointless. Not because they don’t believe me — but because every time I said it, I felt even more humiliated. Like I was doing something wrong, not them.

But even if I stopped resisting, there are things I can’t forget. Like that first subway ride, when some guy just pressed me against the wall. Silently. Eye to eye. I wanted… to say something rude, to demand he back off. But as soon as I opened my mouth, he sneered and growled, ‘What’s the matter, kitten, you think you’re the one in charge?’

I froze. My voice, those high notes, my fragile shoulders, and these long eyelashes — all of that against his massive body and a look that screamed, ‘You won’t do anything.’ And I didn’t. I just looked away. Damn it, I still shake with shame when I think about it.

And the worst part — it’s Mark. He’s always around, always supportive. He shows up every time I’m about to break. He comforts me, helps me, even says the words I so desperately need to hear. I still can’t believe I’m in a situation where the one reliable person I have is a guy I’d have looked down on in my old life. I definitely wouldn’t have let him hold me like this and reassure me, telling me it’s all going to be okay.

But here I am, relaxing in his arms like an idiot. And I... I like it. I really like how he looks at me. How he holds my hand. How he gently strokes my hair when I’m curled up after another humiliating day at work. I feel… safe. And, damn it, that scares me. It scares me more than this world, more than my reflection, more than the possibility of never getting back to my old body.

Sometimes I think: what if I just… give up? Just become the person everyone sees. A girl, Chanel, who needs Mark and his strong arms, who silently agrees to these changes and just… accepts it all?

But I can’t. I’m Steve, right?