meaning

…And so it’s a struggle to find meaning.  Transitioning used to be meaningful and now it’s over.  I’m telling people that the cosmetic procedures I’m considering aren’t going to change who I am, which is good, transitioning sucked.  But it provided some hope; it was like, ‘Oh, there’s this endpoint where I’ll be okay.’  And I am okay.  Just okay, and tired.  Very, very tired.

I’m trying to be social and people like me, I’m able to form new relationships.  Someone even asked me out half-assed.  It’s just that I know, know in my soul that none of it is permanent.  That no relationship can be counted upon.  It’s all bullshit and lies; exchanging business cards when it isn’t really necessary.  And I can’t undo this knowledge.  It’s a steep and surprising price to pay in order to be in my right body and my right mind; knowing what my erased life feels like.  Like the ending to It’s a Wonderful Life, except there’s no one to wave a magic wand and turn it all back again.

 

I find that the last shred of meaning is writing about my new life.

Someone shakes up the spacetime continuum every few weeks, changing everything.  Leaving me in the same location with the same genome and social security number, and a collage of memory like a broken mirror;

Lost in a daydream, I think of the person I love.  She touches my hair, touches my neck in a certain place, and it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

I sit in bed, head to my knees, eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed with the knowledge that I will never, not ever understand my body.

 

Tonight I’m a capable, charismatic, healthy human being who can do anything she desires, and I just want to go home.

 

square zero

I’ve taken to blending out.  It’s like blending in, but in addition to looking normal you try your damnedest to go unnoticed.  It’s like passing, it’s related to passing.  I hate that term ‘passing’ like ‘pass for a woman.’  I don’t even care anymore, just as long as no one sees me, which is ironic.

 

It’s anticlimactic, ‘passing.’  It’s getting back to square zero, where everyone starts, “Oh look it’s a baby boy.”  The birthright, your gender.  I get a gender.

I wonder how I could have explained this to myself a year ago, if I could go back in time; that I go by a female name with a mostly female body, that I don’t live in the same place or have the same job.  That, all told, it cost about $20,000 (not including doctors’ visits and most prescription costs).  That our only real ambition now is to get through the day without feeling like crawling under a rock, to go unnoticed.  To live quietly, our painless lives.

 

Relatively painless.  I don’t know what I would have done or said if I had heard this a year ago.  I think I would have felt joy.  I think I could have lost consciousness.  I think I might have hugged me, I don’t know.  Why do I think about these things?

 

mundanity

Suddenly it seems like not such a big deal, everything.  I’m a trans woman, life goes on.  Some people get it, some don’t.  It really doesn’t matter in the long-run.  There are other things in life than one’s gender and the implications thereof, opinions thereof, actions and words, on and on and on.

When I open my eyes, I see that my situation is routine, uncommon but routine.  And it’s my business to live my life and get on with it.

 

I never knew that cold mundanity could be so breathtaking.  It’s like a miracle or something.

 

cis-topia

I never used to think about the inhumanely petite women, flawlessly airbrushed across the media.  I wasn’t worried about gender bias in science, or the sexism of it all.

And once I joked to someone, “You know, if you find yourself in a support group, then you know you’re in trouble.”  It was really funny.

 

Now everyone’s put-off when I wear a necklace that shows under my collar.  I want to scream.

I’m not a freak and I seriously don’t care!

I wish it was true.

 

faith and irony

I used to be free.

I was a child who read science books.  My two best friends were girls.  We would wait for our parents after school and talk about life as we knew it then.  They were my secret friends.  It had to be that way because they didn’t want anyone to know they were friends with a boy, but it didn’t matter after school when everyone was gone.

Puberty was the most traumatic event of my life.  I began to see my two friends differently and was not at ease around them, I couldn’t relate.  Five years passed before I had another close friend.

 

I was beset by night terrors during my first year of puberty.  Shearing, crystal-vivid dreams of stretching across infinite space – into death itself.  I became obsessed with death, the fact that I would die.  I had panic attacks, crying fits of sheer terror.  They increased in frequency until they happened every morning at eleven for two weeks.  I had panic attacks about the panic attacks, knowing their terrible regularity.  My hands are unsteady as I write this and cold sweat drips down the sides of my body.  I remember these days like yesterday.

My mother was a single mother and she did the best that she could, but she could not foot the psychiatry bills.  She was at work most of the time that summer and I was on my own.

I looked to science and found no relevant information about death.  I looked to God and the clergy asked me to have faith.  In the meantime, I lost myself in digital worlds, Mario, Zelda, Baldur’s Gate.  This made things worse as I lost touch with reality.

I did find God eventually and the terror subsided.  But I was like a windup toy, just happy to be moving forward.

 

My stumbling journey into manhood was a forgotten chapter in my life.  I would occasionally have one of those dreams, drink a glass of water, and carry on.  But I never gave much thought to that period of time, until recently.

Now I am afraid that I lost a part of myself when my mind was soaked in testosterone and that she will never return to me – that my dreams and waking fears of death were singularly real.  I am all but forced to question the wisdom of this world’s design.

 

The irony of this is lost on me, and I hope that the past can be undone.  I don’t know how or when or why, but maybe someday.