I wouldn't say that the last few days were exactly "bad brain" days, but as the expected (common, near-unavoidable) things that make healing take longer than the minimum possible happen, my mind can't help but wander down a few corridors as I lay in bed.

I began posting some of this on Bluesky yesterday, but decided that I'd rather the space and quieter place to think about a time in my life over 20 years ago.

Charlotte Builds a Nest

I first moved to Centretown in May 2004 when I signed a lease for a small bachelor(ette) apartment on the top floor of a 1912 walk-up at 254 Cooper. It was apartment 19B.

Although the price and location did the heavy lifting to convince me ($695/mo - Cooper between Metcalfe and Elgin. Much more than the apartments in inner-ring suburbs, but affordable for the area), when the rental agent showed me the super cozy space, I knew right away it was home.

Through that summer I began to build my little nest: I would eventually get a couch, a table for my computer (and a $3/mo dial-up connection), curtains, framed art, candles, décor, the works. Freed from my last place of squalor (a glorified stairwell landing in a now-demolished house off Preston) and roommates I didn't get along with, I really wanted to make it my space.

My post-high school efforts to suppress my gender feelings had long ceased to be effective then and the year before, I met an actual trans person for the first time (the boyfriend of a TA I had a be-her/be-with-her crush on), so things were roiling inside and hard to keep down. I remember getting into a pretty bad fight with one of my more socially-conservative roommates in 2003 when Halpern v Canada hit the news.

While I was too nervous to consider coming out at that time (financial dependence/precarity being the biggest factor), I remember wanting my little nest to match the pit I was trying to climb out of. So, while I chose blues as my theme (such boy), the place was quite domestic, cozy, clean, and fresh-smelling.

It was definitely Charlotte's apartment (though I'd have probably named myself Emma then - which I'm glad I didn't in hindsight). It was definitely not ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇'s apartment, no matter what the lease said.

Scope Creep

Though I would not see the problem at that time (you don't when you're in the midst of it), it was also when I began restricting quite severely. My living space was being re-fashioned, my life was being re-fashioned, I had at least found a ladder that could get me out of that pit, so why not work on the biggest thing? (My body)

The more aggressively I'd repress and the less comfortable I was, the more I'd eat, and I had been on a steadily-expanding trajectory since feeling the need to repress beginning in 1998 or '99. We had moved to Timmins from South Porcupine and I was expected to become more serious about my future.

By the time 2003 rolled around, I was compulsively overeating, drinking far too much, and trying my absolute darnedest through food and drink to convince everyone around me that I was "one of the guys."

Nobody ever really bought it, but they couldn't point to why, which just made me off-putting to non-queers, while also setting off gaydars. If I were ever interested in men, I had options.

So when I signed the lease to my apartment, I had never been heavier. ▇▇▇ lbs. Through that spring and summer, I worked overnights for a large blue-themed retailer at Lincoln Fields, slept all day, let my hair grow out (that was my traditional step one), cleaned myself up and started eating better. Of course, better meant better nutritionally diverse and, well, nowhere near enough.

By the time Christmas rolled along, I thought I was doing really well, but it also hadn't exactly escaped my notice that people had come to regard me differently, that I was developing a few health problems, that my clothes didn't fit so well, and that family had become quite worried. I remember weighing myself before an ordered and unplanned visit to Timmins, and I was ▇▇▇ lbs * 0.38.

Of course, I knew this. Weighing myself and beating myself up over the number was practically a hobby. I welcomed "number go down" and it was what I was supposed to do as a good person. As a good woman.

An Internal Trolley Problem

I welcomed "number go down" enough that, at my Mom's urging and facilitation, I was welcomed to the Ottawa Hospital's eating disorder clinic outpatient program the following Spring.

The program was effective in getting me back on track as far as eating was concerned. I don't credit the methods as much as my need to comply with instruction, though I'm sure they were as effective as possible with such a pernicious illness.

One challenge I found with the structure of the program was there seemed to be little space for working through other issues, or at least a reluctance (inability?) to refer out. So, on more than one occasion, when I wished to talk about my gender feels, it was never really the time or place if I wanted to go beyond a supporting mention. I don't think they were used to dealing with closeted transsexuals.

Still, I found occasion to explore: part of the program was to become reacquainted with, like, doing normal things with people. Like eating in a restaurant or shopping.

I remember one event was to visit a Value Village, and with the seven other girls in the program, I took the opportunity to purchase myself a few things. A few proper things. A pair of skirts, a few tanks, wedge sandals, etc. It felt good, and I felt that it was a bit of an example of being accepted.

The (Queen) of Wishful Thinking

Somewhat quickly, though, it became clear that what I was trying to approach was not being understood. I wasn't actually being accepted. My confidence was at that point, quite fragile, so any thoughts I had at possibly climbing a second rung of that ladder were quickly shoo'ed away.

One of the other patients and I caught feelings for one another (well, two, really, but that was a bit of a mess for another post), and began dating. As we began getting more serious, the hopes I had that she would have been understanding, supportive, or otherwise fine with who I was - who I actually was - evaporated.

It turned out that the woman who enthusiastically helped me choose my clothes at Value Village, bring them back to my place, see them on me, and hang them in the closet left at some point before we made it formal wasn't there. The woman who accompanied me to other stores to buy more proper clothes other times, a mirage.

Not wanting to disgust her and risk losing her entirely, I purged the clothes and tried to explain that it was just all part of my post-treatment rediscovery.

Once again, scared and disappointed, I had flipped the switch on the proverbial trolley, and sent the street car hurtling toward my trans self.

Of course, she really never did trust that I was cishet (lol), but I think the lie allowed us both to have something and a few years later, we got married.

(Not Quite) Back on Track

...and five years later, we separated.

The divorce came three years after that. We had nachos.

When she sat me down on the couch one Spring afternoon and told me that she would not like to remain with me, I remember feeling hurt and scared, but there was also a sense of relieved.

We hadn't been getting along as well for some time, I was back in school (I did well! Summa Cum Laude! Highest GPA!), less fun, and drinking more during our social occasions. Unfortunately, a closeted trans woman didn't make for a fun drunk. More a sad one.

All-in-all, it was too apparent that I was not the person she needed me to be. I never would be either.

And frankly, vice versa.

I will always appreciate her courage, however, since it's unlikely that I would have. I'd probably just grow more distant, bitter, quieter, and have drank more. A longer beard though consumption choices.

The third thing I did after telling my parents that my marriage was over and going on a long photo walk, was to wait for her to leave the house and I did what felt right: I got on a bus to Billings Bridge and visited the Payless (rip), the traditional footwear friend to trans women across the continent.

If the me I was pretending to be wasn't good enough, then Id be the real me.

...or not.

At least not yet.

It would take six more years for me to get back on the ladder's first rung again.

I just needed a new and loving relationship (Hi Kathleen! 💜), a stable job (it's no coincidence that I first raised gender - not just liking some pretty things - after I got my indeterminacy), a full wardrobe I'd never get out of when at home, and the threats associated with far-right occupation of my neighbourhood to climb the second, third, fourth, fifth rungs and get myself out of the pit in April 2022.

Nevertheless

In spite of my time at 254 Cooper Street being at best a mixed bag, I always hold on to the good parts and whenever we pass, I remember fondly the summer I finally felt like I had a space of my own that reflected who I was.

It turns out that nothing has been able to take that good feeling away from me.

July 23, 2026