Every time I keep an eye on Mom while applying black enamel on my nails - I am wondering whether she thinks that I made a mistake and want to get back but don't confess. Or she considers me being stuck between genders as if genders were gangways. And I don't look at Mom when applying coloured enamel. Because either I don't apply the coloured one, or apply but remove immediately and get the black back: an anxiety for the identity turns out to be stronger that desire to experiment. Every time I tell that now I have difficulties to get acquainted with someone and the transition made me - trans*gay - lonely so badly, I feel my shame and condemnation or compassion of others: oh yes, trans*people are always lonely and no one needs them. As if I ought to be a model, happy person; so, if I am not one, then my transition is a lie, a fiction and a self-delusion.