I hurt tonight. Not physically, but rather emotionally and mentally.
Tonight was therapy night, part of the ongoing care tied directly back to my gender transition. (ED: What? You didn’t know Our Lady was a transwoman? What fucking planet have you been on, anyway?) It was a difficult session, but it was a necessary one.
Outside of my wife and a few very close friends, I don’t discuss certain aspects of my life- dysphoria being among them. I typically couch these conversations in a wrapper of “shit isn’t/hasn’t been right” and “shit ain’t right yet” and “it’s a rough fucking day”. Those closest to me know what those phrases mean, without me having to burn more spoons that I don’t have in explaining them. In a way, the support network I built allows me to shy away from the necessary self-reflection.
The problem is when I use these phrases with someone I pay to help me accept, heal, and move forward. I did that tonight with my therapist, and she called me on my bullshit. So, I ended up spending half the session talking about dysphoria. Note: If you aren’t trans, you probably have no fucking idea how fucking unpleasant that is. Between the shame, the hurt, and the raw emotional pain that comes with opening and directly discussing the fact that your penis is fucking wrong – yeah, like I said, if you are not trans then you have no fucking idea what I am talking about. If you are trans, then you probably know exactly what I am talking about, and it still fucking sucks.
But…but it is necessary to have those discussions. They are needed to decipher out the puzzle of one’s self, to determine what – if any – medical interventions are needed to unite the body and the mind.
So tonight, my therapist and I talked about surgery. We talked about renewal, healing, hope, journeys, and next steps. She and I have talked about very important things before, but today there was a difference – because I don’t, as a rule, share that shit. But…I can’t keep going in a pattern of denial and self-loathing any more than I could three years ago when I started this journey. What I knew when I was seven, when I was twelve, when I was twenty-three, when I was thrity-eight – it’s all the fucking same. Salvation, for me, lies at the end of recovery room.
That room is a couple of years away, but it’s ever more likely to exist each day that passes. I’m having the same conversations with myself that I did three years ago: Do I want to wake up and breathe air, drink water, and eat food? Or, would I rather wake up and eat poison pie, all the while praying for the sweet release of Death?
“To thy own self be true”, said Bill Shakespeare, and he’s right. The decision to live authentically meant, for me, that my journey ended up being a bit longer and more complex than I originally thought. Even though I have a couple of years yet (and many more difficult conversations) yet before it is done, I have to be true to me. Thanks for coming along this journey with me, folks.
Also, I would apologize for the swearing, but fuck you.
Meditation: Transition, Wherein I Swear A Lot And Discuss Really Unpleasant Things by Andrea C. Hawkins-Kamper is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.