Reconstruction of Countess Blackwell

The last three years of my life has taken a lot away from me. I can still remember feeling on top of the world. I can still remember performing in front of 10,000 people in Miami. I can still remember traveling up and down both coasts. Seattle. San Francisco. Los Angeles. San Diego. New York. Philadelphia. Charlotte. Miami. I can still remember walking in zero degree weather in Minnesota en route to an amazing dinner. I can still remember sitting poolside in Phoenix with a pair of Timberlands on. It was 110 degrees. Externally, my past life was legendary. Rockstar shit. I lived it. I loved it. Internally—I was a complete disaster. There was a gaping void inside of me that no amount of drugs, traveling, and fucking gorgeous women could fill.

Flash forward a few years. Internally, I have never been happier. I can only speak for myself, but as awful as transitioning can be in countless ways, the solace that I feel inside is priceless. I had to give up my past life to birth this current life, and even with all of the trials and tribulations, I would make that trade a million times over. It has come at a significant cost however, and significant is an understatement. I have spent much of the last three years in isolation. I went from traveling the country multiple times a week to not leaving the house unless it was necessary. 

While my internal life has improved, my external life has unraveled. Of all the things taken from me, the inability to earn a steady living the past three years has hurt the most. I love to work. I always have. I worked as a teenager even when my mother preferred that I did not. I love to be of service. I love to be of use. It provides me with a sense of purpose. I derive a lot of pleasure from it. Between debilitating depression, agoraphobia, the excruciating process of healing from a litany of traumas, I have not been able to be who I want to be, and contribute how I want to, and that has fucking killed me.

If it were not for two extremely special women in my life, and so many of you, I have no doubt that my current position would be much worse. In fact, I doubt that I would be here at all. I am done hiding. I am done healing. All I want to do now is contribute. All I want to do now is pay it forward. All I want to do now is earn a steady living. This desire is so intense, I decided to say fuck it, and use my previous identity to get a vanilla job. Trauma, triggers, whatever be damned. I want to be clear—women like me should not have to make such a Faustian Bargain. The reality is, I do. It is 100% legal to fire someone for being trans. Fine. 

While the job will be rad, it will not be enough. Which is why I started the Countess Blackwell Reconstruction Project. I cannot stress how important this is to me. The women in my life have done so much for me, and now there is nothing I want more than to do right by them. When I say everything I do, I do for whores, that is not sloganeering. It was whores who picked me up while I was down time and again. Whores who affirmed me when I hated what I saw in the mirror. It was whores who would not allow me to give up even when I wanted to badly.

The only thing I want for the holidays is to earn a steady living. The only thing I want for  the holidays is to give back to the women, especially the two women in my personal life who have given me way more than I could ever ask for. So please, please—consider contributing to the Reconstruction Project if you can (there is rad shit waiting for all who do) or please, please, share my shit as far as it can possibly go. I accept and understand that a bitch like me will have to work three to four times harder to get where many can with a snap of a finger. So be it. Challenge accepted. I love you all. 💋🖤

Countess Fucking Blackwell