I am sorry, I have received your Documents.

I burst out laughing from behind my computer screen at the hastily written message from the Providence agent in the little chat box. It is once again time to submit an insurance claim, a now monthly task to get reimbursed for electrolysis sessions.

Yes, person, I’m sorry too.

I don’t write this in the message box. Instead, I extend a thank you for processing multiple receipts, superbills, and a gender letter that my therapist wrote, all in a neat little form that should say “MONEY PLEASE” at the top but is way more diplomatic about it. Send. Another claim is in the books.

The sessions are going incredibly well, by the way. We’ve taken a really aggressive approach, weekly sessions for the last three months, and we’re now at a point where it is now just one 2 hour session a month. It’s less of an up-front hit, since I am paying for these directly, and then trying to get reimbursement later.

When I first began submitting claims, I met a wall of resistance in getting them processed. The first claim took 2 months, repeated calls, and a PDF of Oregon House Bill 2002 to get them to move forward with it. When they did, I learned that Providence classified electrolysis as general surgery, and I would first need to meet the deductible before they would reimburse me. Sigh. I guess they weren’t openly breaking Oregon law, but they were sure being a butt about it.

By the way, HB 2002 is a pretty rad piece of legislation that was signed into Oregon law in 2023. It barred all insurance providers operating in the state of Oregon from denying many common gender affirming procedure insurance claims by labeling them as “cosmetic”. For trans people with dysphoria, these are far from cosmetic. Often, these kinds of procedures directly alleviate that dysphoria; the last post I wrote touched on dealing with such feelings. It’s disappointing that the total costs are not covered completely, but that’s where we are right now with Providence.

I got up from my computer, successful in my quest to get the claim in on a regular cadence, and finished packing. The annual tradition of Seattle Pride was imminent.

Dude, can you play a song with a fucking beat?

The sweet voice of Chappell Roan filled the air before the chorus of Feminomenon blared out of the speakers. I was in my dear friend Corey’s car, along with my effects, bouncing our way to Seattle. Earlier, I had taken a train from Portland to Longview, partly because I wanted to spend $60 total, not each way. Partly because this journey was fast becoming a tradition on the weekend of Seattle Pride. I make a playlist (as I often do for a lot of things SHUT UP) and we bop for the next few hours in between chatting about life. I have a lot of great things to say about Amtrak trips, but honestly, this was way better.

The playlist was very queer. Kesha, Gaga, Charli, Chappell, plus all of the club bangers. In all, I think I got as close as possible to 5 hours long. I love a short theme to a playlist, but I also wanted enough music to last until we were at our destination, unloading our suitcases, regardless of any traffic disruptions.

As it turns out, someone had to go and discharge a gun in their car on the FREEWAY OF ALL PLACES. The entirety of I-5 Northbound was closed for a couple of hours, and we started feeling those effects as far south as Olympia.

We did manage to get past Southcenter as they’d reopened the highway as we continued to get close and made it to our host’s place unscathed. My Seattle bestie, Bonnie, ensured we had the princess-est(?) of princess parking directly out front. We had a delicious dinner of pasta and a hearty meat sauce. My proud Italian half, from my mother’s side of the family, was beyond sated.

An important thing that needed to be done before retiring for the evening was nail painting. I had neglected to get them done before the trip, and I’m still very shaky with doing them myself; blame the missing decades of practice. Bonnie meticulously helped with each nail, even if it took a couple of tries to find the right color. It always does. It was a sweet bonding moment, and I’m forever blessed for our burgeoning friendship.

Full and with finally dry and very sparkly nails, I collapsed on the pullout sofa and drifted off to sleep.

Saturday was PrideFest in Capitol Hill. It is six blocks long from Roy to Cal Anderson Park, and the entire street of Broadway is closed off and flanked by vendors. It’s an absolute joy to walk through, and it’s a staple of our weekend tradition.

Before we left, we made a plan if something… bad were to happen. It’s sad and depressing to be forced into thinking about something that dark on a weekend that is supposed to be celebratory. It is good to have a plan, but I desperately hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.

The fit was a pair of Chuck Taylors, emblazoned with rainbow flames, thin tights from Snag with orange, white, and pink stripes (more on that later), a black mini kilt with pink, white, and blue pleats, and to top it all off, a crisscrossed black cami. I’m sorry, but a girl loves her puns.

We got there and walked. A lot. My wee ankle — she was not very happy as we rolled into the afternoon. It’s a management issue at this point; well-fitting shoes, orthotics, and resting when she is angry. It stems from an old break in high school that, even with intense physical therapy as part of the recovery, requires much more attention.

At the end of the festival, there were a couple of marches starting up from the end of the cordoned-off street near Cal Anderson Park. It was very fitting that the first one was a lesbian march. Thanks to the caution, my ankle was doing a little better, so off I stepped into the street and joined in as the march overtook us. This was my first Pride being this loud about being both trans and a lesbian, and there I was with my wee little flag colored tights just out there existing. As the march reached the end and dispersed, I beamed a smile from ear to ear. This was great.

As the evening rolled around, we found ourselves at one of the bars, Neighbors, where there was a dance party. We set up shop at a corner table. The energy was pulsating with no intention to let up. I don’t think I’ve danced as hard or as long as I did that night. Ankle be damned. We would take it easy tomorrow because I need this.

I had held onto a lot lately far too tightly than one should. Frustrations about my health issues and the unending doctors’ visits since November, and still no closer to figuring out what’s wrong with me. The state of current events on a multitude of fronts. Being a trans person in this country at this particular time. The constant deluge of obstacles with updating my name (which is a story for another time).

It’s exhausting.

It’s all so fucking exhausting.

It’s supposed to be. It’s supposed to wear you down. It’s supposed to be the thing that breaks you.

Not on Pride weekend, though. To hell with that.

So there I was, angry ankle and all, dancing akin to a senator from Chandrilla. No additional context. Go watch Andor if you haven’t already, it’s great.

A couple of people in our group remarked to me afterwards that it was a joy to witness me being that free. I smiled and thanked them. The day and night were as cathartic as they could have been.

Sunday was indeed a recovery day, but not in the traditional sense. We made our way down to the Seattle Center, where there was a second Pride event where the parade had ended. We skipped the parade because that would have meant more walking, and today was about self-care. We brought picnic blankets, food, plenty of hydration, and parked between the International Fountain, one of the event stages, and a drink cart. The center of a Venn diagram, as it were. We had the fountain to cool off in and the stage provided the perfect soundtrack throughout the day.

The sun was out, and so were copious amounts of glittery sunscreen because we do what? TAKE CARE OF OUR SKIN, that’s right. We took turns providing shade with outstretched fans, but the sun never became unbearable, and it was just the right amount of outside time. My inner Cali gal, though long removed from her natural habitat, still enjoys a cloudless sunny day. Even if she’s acclimatized to the Pacific Northwest after years of living here, and is now a delicate Northwest flower whenever it gets above 85 degrees. Yes, she still brings her umbrella places when it rains, in spite of the haters.

The evening was blissfully peaceful with a pizza dinner and plenty of lounging. The internet was recently abuzz with the news of a Spaceballs sequel, so we did the obvious thing and watched the original. It was very cozy.

As I wistfully returned to Portland on the train early on Monday morning, because the end of every adventure is always a little melancholic, I was reminded of a couple of things. I’m still ruminating on them now, and that’s why it’s taken a little longer to get this post out. The first is that I have some pretty incredible people in my life, and I need to remember that often, especially when the brain weasels taunt me by saying the opposite.

The second is that this is exactly why we need Pride. That weekend was a very pure form of courage, of being as loud as humanly possible, when I don’t second-guess myself and just do. It took me 30+ years to finally come to terms with my identity, to stop running away from who I am authentically, and I’ve been growing in confidence for the past 5 years. Each day gives me, her, that much louder of a voice, more confident of a step forward, in a way that can’t be quantified, much less legislated, bullied, or shamed back into hiding by anyone.

It just is. And that’s all it needs to be.

Bíodh misneach agat. 💜