As I stand on a train platform, my feet are cold and firmly rooted in the ground. I see the world differently and it seems that I don’t actually know where I’m going.
Its been almost a year now since I’ve affirmed to myself, my identity as a woman. It’s not as scary as I imagined. It’s not as fulfilling as I imagined. It’s not as final as I imagined. Basically, my concept of self is all that has changed. Friends and acquaintances, coworkers see me the same way. Changes in my appearance and how I carry myself are seen as the fashions of a gay man, if they are noticed at all.
Paradoxically I’m a lot more sincere, but when I say things like, “thanks!” or, “I think you’re really smart!” it comes across as sarcasm. Literally everything I say is flat.
The most surprising thing is that it doesn’t really matter how I see myself, people see me the way they want, in the way that makes sense to them.
So I’m trying to look at this with a cold, objective eye. Thankfully, when I look at myself in the mirror, it is not with cold eyes. I like myself now. I couldn’t say that before.
I hated myself for failing, for miscommunicating, for being painfully awkward. For everything, from forgetting someone’s name to losing a friend. I could never forgive myself for these things. But tomorrow is another day. And I hope that these memories, my regrets, won’t define me anymore.
A detail that is lost in all of this is my parents. Its always been messy with them, as they’ve been separated for as long as I can remember.
My Mom knows that I’m her daughter and my Dad thinks that I’m his son. This is difficult, and I turn over and over in my mind how I can fix it. It’s a strange schism to live with, which I couldn’t believe for awhile. My Father and I had drifted apart over the past year and I could have sworn that my Mom told him, but she didn’t. It’s Thanksgiving soon and I’m worried about what to do. I’m afraid to talk to my father about this. Maybe we’ll never speak about it.
My Mother was in disbelief when I told her that I’m her daughter. She still holds out hope that it’s a passing phase, that I’ll work it out, that it’ll go away, which hurts. When I first told her, she said I was incorrect. Then once she believed it, she felt upset for me, that I would be subject to such a fate.
I honestly don’t know what to make of this. And I try not to think of it that way.