Washington Blade contributor Isaac Amend has published a new book, “Hurt Capital,” chronicling a range of topics related to his transgender status, a personal struggle following a psychotic breakdown, and more.  

BLADE: Why did you write this book and why now?

ISAAC AMEND: In college, I was an avid writer for the Yale Daily News, and tried to prepare myself for a good writing career, taking classes with Pulitzer Prize-winner Michael Cunningham, and other notable authors, including Anne Fadiman and Cynthia Zarin. But when I got out of college, I spent six or seven years in the real world, outside of Ivy gates, racking up experiences to write about — whether it was falling in love with a woman, getting hit by a car in Cyprus, or being manic for 13 months straight. But once all of those things were done, I went back to my literary roots, frantically scribbling books and articles in my room at night. Now I want to have some sort of writing career, and I can partly thank the Blade for that, as you welcome most of my op-eds. 

I felt like it was important to write about bipolar disorder in very honest and raw terms. I experienced a psychotic break from reality when I was 19 years old that I felt ashamed to tell everyone in my life about, but now I want to come clean with it. Recovering from a psychotic break is a complicated process, and I’ll never really know if my mind has fully recovered, but I do know that because of my break from reality, I’m able to tackle difficult problems in life without getting scared. I feel like it’s also important for the general public to know about how much hurt and pain transgender people feel on a daily basis, hence the name “Hurt Capital.” 

BLADE: Who’s the audience for your book?

AMEND: It’s funny, this is a question that all authors need to answer in a book proposal to agents, and I did exactly that, querying dozens of agents. My book has three target audiences. The first are expats, or expatriates. These are people who live overseas — either on embassies in South Asia or in suburban compounds on the outskirts of Moscow. These are the places that I grew up in, and I felt “genderless” for some of my time as an expatriate, frolicking to and fro with not a worry in the world as I grew up in Pakistan and India. I want to connect with other people who have lived overseas. 

The second target audience for my book are twins. I have an identical twin named Helen who is my best friend. I’m constantly trying to be a good brother to her, whether it’s helping her move apartments or buying her groceries. We connect on a very deep level, and I’m sure that my gender transition partly shocked her and in some ways, may have made her feel upset. It’s a unique phenomenon when one identical twin wants to be a man, and the other one wants to stay a woman. I’ll never fully understand how God made me bipolar and trans while he made my twin sister non-bipolar and cisgender. 

The third target audience for my book are individuals with mental health issues. I want to connect with other people who have also gone through psychotic breaks, been manic, talked at the speed of light, felt depressed, or felt so anxious that they had to pop a lot of pills and stay in bed. I want to connect with people who suffer from schizophrenia, bipolar, ADHD, and OCD, among many other diseases. These disorders are so complicated in nature, but we need to be honest about their dimensions and how to best treat them. 

BLADE: How long did it take to write and what was your process? 

AMEND: The book didn’t take me long to write. I churned out around 5,000 to 7,000 words in one week, then I had a 500 word per day policy — it’s a policy I implement with all of my books. I would write 500 words per day usually at a bar at night. I was living in D.C. back then and would frequent Nanny O’Brien’s, a well-known Irish dive bar open late. I would pull out my iPhone and write 500 words (but usually more) in Google Docs. There were all sorts of characters at Nanny O’Brien’s — bartenders who would scream at me if I didn’t tip enough, people from the Russian embassy, and famous politicos who would bring their golden retriever in tow. I almost got into a fistfight there with a Russian diplomat, but still miss the memories that bar curated. I even told my landlord at the time that I associated Nanny O’Brien’s with the book. 

BLADE: What are you thoughts on how the new Trump administration has attacked trans rights and do you see any hope in the near future?

AMEND: It’s a travesty, what’s going on. The new administration is cruel beyond belief, yet I still retain some semblance of hope for the future. I see our nation as divided, but a nation that still elects an almost equal amount of Republicans to the presidency as it does Democrats. Most large cities in the U.S. are dominated by progressive people who understand the value in diversifying sexuality and gender identities, and celebrating that diversity. I always tell people to “vote with their feet,” as in, if you have the privilege of being able to move to a new location, move to a city that is full of liberal minded people. But many trans youth don’t have the privilege of moving; they are stuck in schools full of students that bully them for their gender. Indeed, there is a massive mental health crisis happening among trans youth. The Trump administration has banned everyone under the age of 19 from receiving gender affirming care, and that is cruel. I have spoken openly about my belief that adolescents and other youth should be able to access puberty blockers, and I maintain that stance. 

This seems out of left field, but I’ve seriously thought about pooling money together to pay for trans youth to receive medical care in Canada. It’s sort of a gauche idea, because trans youth presumably need to stay in school in the U.S., and their parents would have to agree to them going up north, but the idea still persists in my head. I guess I dream of ways that these kids can feel better, and receiving care in Canada comes to mind. 

BLADE: What’s your message to young trans kids who are frightened during these difficult times?

AMEND: Keep your head up. Older trans people like me are fighting for you to have better lives. If someone tries to put you down in school just remember that they are putting you down out of an insecurity they harbor about themself or the world. Secretly, they feel inferior. Don’t forget that the qualities that you bring to the table — your unique gender and/or sexual identity — is what makes you beautiful. 

BLADE: There are many queer memoirs out there; what’s unique about your story?

AMEND: My story is intersectional, meaning I weave a story about a transgender man who is also bipolar and is a twin and grew up overseas in Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, India, Russia, and Jordan. It’s not a one-dimensional story. It’s rich and complicated with tales of being manic and going on testosterone and being psychotic and hoping that I don’t lose all of my marbles in front of my twin and little sister and the rest of my family. I speak of KGB henchmen in Russia and spooks here in D.C. (kind of like that Russian diplomat who almost tried to punch me). I speak of many things—not just being queer.

The following is an excerpt from “Hurt Capital,” which is available now at Amazon and other retailers.

Dear Mom,

The pills in my bathroom cabinet are sitting next to each other like fifteen linebackers on a football field. Bolton. Edmunds. Greenlaw. Wagner. Warner. The Chiefs are winning, and I haven’t even spotted Travis Kelce yet. They’re all famous–each single pill bottle–each capsule I need to swallow with orange juice at night. I get the high pulp kind, now, from Trader Joe’s, that costs around four bucks. Semi pulp doesn’t put the tablets down fast enough. I’ve got every kind of med imaginable since my first episode ten years ago. 

Bipolar has never felt so bad. But it’s also never felt so good. The mania that lasted for a year last September has crept away, but its high still remains in my head. At least partly. Partially. Essentially. Basically, it was awesome. I celebrated at every turn. Went walking for hours on end, only to feel my breath creeping into my lungs, and out, past midnight, when I dreamt of fairytales and candy cane land and piles of dollars stacked so high in front of Rick Ross. So high that he forgot he sold coke. I forgot he sold coke. I forgot a lot of that year, Mom. 

Iwant to be like Rick Ross one day. I want to star in a song with Drake. Rapping about lemon pepper chicken and taking my celebrity son to French Montessori. I want to be a hustler, a gangster at every turn, a coke warlord just fiending for a kingdom. The kingdom I create is in my mind: it’s ruled by Dostoevsky and Tolstoy and even Pushkin. I named a cat after Pushkin. Russian writers have never felt so real. I want them to come back from the dead and resurrect themselves–all polished and everything. No wax. I remember visiting Tolstoy’s grave with you in Moscow, when henchmen roamed the city at night and CIA officers were prowling the embassy’s corridors. I was scared in Moscow. Scared back then. Scared of my female body. But now it’s a male one, and I’m a son. I’m your son, Mom. But I’m troubled. Very troubled indeed.  

I went to a soccer game again. We are named Footyholics. We played near Logan Circle, in the backyard of a school, and I swear the soccer ball was going to kill me. It hit my head, with a bang–not a whimper–and zoomed past some crust on my earlobes. My black stud almost shook for a bit. I clenched the ring you got me on my index finger. You got it from Delhi, and now I’m remembering things back there as well, when you and I lived in India. But there are many things I still can’t remember, Mom. Just trust me on that one. Trust me. 

Here’s one thing I do remember, though: getting in that car accident with you. In Delhi. You were all up in the front seat, and Helen and I were in the back. And a motorcyclist went clamp on the right window, and his flesh and blood were splayed all near for us to see. He died that day, and I think that’s the first time I ever saw you cry. I only saw you cry a second time, when Dad was in Kabul, and you missed him like hell, and Phoebe had a tantrum on the National Gallery steps, and you drove us back home, teary-eyed, and you just sat crying that day, in the DC suburbs. And there was not a damn thing I could do about it. 

We lost the soccer game. Footyholics lost. But we grabbed a few beers after, at a place near the traffic circle, where expats and missionaries and bankers were fiending for a beer as well, all alike, just as I was fielding for a kingdom in my head. I swear this city is ruled by sociopaths sometimes. They just crawl around here, like ants around a hill, waiting to wreak havoc. 

At the bar we were sitting outside, on a wooden table, and we all ordered some beers and some tacos and stuff. And some burritos with chicken. And I swear I shouldn’t drink, but I’m just like your husband–there’s nothing that tastes better than alcohol in this world, Mom. But beer is bad for me. It’s bad for a guy who thinks a soccer ball is going to kill him. At the restaurant, I spotted a street sweeper brushing away leaves. I suddenly fixated on the sweeper: on his crew cut, his black boots, his leather skin. I thought he was manic for leaves. I also thought the waitress hated Jesus until a cross kissed her neck. I thought many things, Mom, and none of them were true. 

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