I still think of you, although it’s been five months since our three days of being in each other’s lives. I still think of what you said to me. “I am a female. I’m not confused, I know what I am.”

I think of all the things I want to do to you. I envision your hideous face smashed into the wall behind the nurses’ station, over and over and over again, until you are drowning in your own blood and begging me for mercy, which I refuse to give. I picture me finding your place of residence, your personal phone number, and those of your family; disseminating these details on the worst websites I can think of; and launching a ceaseless and widespread harassment campaign until you’re finally driven to suicide.

I imagine these things, and worse, because I want you to feel the pain that you carelessly inflicted on me. I want you to feel as powerless against me as I did against you, as a staff member of a hospital I had done everything in my power to not be a patient in and failed. Even now, when you come to mind, my heart races, and I’m filled with the same adrenaline I had as I rushed towards you, about to do God-knows-what, before you ducked into the staff room, slamming the door in my face.

But – and even now, I hope this hurts you to your core, you who are indifferent to me and have most likely forgotten I exist – it’s not about you, personally. Not really. You’re just the cardboard cutout stand-in for every indifferent mental healthcare worker who has either subtly or not-so-subtly slighted me, who has attempted to control me, who has unwittingly or not abused their absolute power over me. You, in my mind, are the intersection of this person and also all cisgender people, who have also indifferently driven me to the brink since before I even knew what gender dysphoria was, let alone that I experience it.

It infuriates me, how long your influence has stretched across my life, longer than many people that I’ve actually deeply cared for. And I know that the depth and length of my fury towards you proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my lapse in inpatient hospitalization has been attributable not to my mental stability, but to my phobia of having to deal with an ignorant cow like you ever again.

I called the head of the hospital you work at, shortly after you made The Comment. It was a Sunday, and I never got an answer from him. He’s rich. He doesn’t have to work on weekends, and he doesn’t have to care about the mistreatment of patients in his massive money-maker posing as a place of therapeutic value, especially one that’s transgender. I regret not pressing on it further. It would’ve showed you right, to say that to me and then proudly show me your name badge. I want you to be afraid. I want you to lose your job, your home, your dignity and pride. I want you to be unemployable, to die another groveler on the street. Maybe then you’d know what it’s like to confront a person in a position of power over you and have them stare right through you.

For a while, I comforted myself by imagining you (and every other person who contributes to the horrible system you work for) burning in Hell, in eternal agony. I never entertained any delusions that I wouldn’t end up there myself, but it was delicious to imagine myself watching my “enemies” burn beside me, as I laughed at them, forever.

I know that such a thing doesn’t exist. I know that Hell is not a place, but a state of mind, and that many of those who inhabit it are those who deserve it the least. I know that you’ll never face consequences for what you said, or any other horrible thing you’ve said or done, up to and including the indifference with which you enforce the bullshit rules of a megacorporation whose profit comes from exploiting the mentally ill.

There is no justice, on this Earth or beyond it. The communist revolution isn’t coming; neither is my own personal revolution, against you, my father, high school bullies, or any other person who haunts my personal revenge fantasies. And when we all drown in the greed of the rich, there will be no ironic eternal punishment waiting for each of our respective roles in the constant shitshow that is human life.

I just hope that, by writing a vindictive 783 words about you, that I can finally let you go.