Restrooms Revisited
Today I give you seven points and two addendum to consider regarding the rights of transgender people to use the restroom that feels most appropriate to them.
1. Did you ever notice that in the debate over which restroom or locker room a trans person should use, transgender men are never discussed. Curious. A person might be inclined to assume from this that the entire movement to keep trans women out of the bathroom that fits their gender identity is just patriarchal bullshit designed to perpetuate the myth that women can't take care of themselves, and need men to look after them.
2. Many times the person arguing against trans women using the restroom will conclude with a parting shot along the lines of: "If you had a daughter, you'd feel differently!" As it turns out, I have two daughters. They are both well past the age where they need a parent (or other trusted adult) to accompany them to the bathroom. However, when they were that young, their mother and I always made sure they were looked after. I would assume that a parent who expresses the above stated opinion is also a parent that ensures that their young child is similarly supervised. In fact, don't all responsible parents do this as a matter of course? To the people doing this to make your point, I say the following: "Quit it!" It's logically inconsistent to assume that young children are using public restrooms on their own under any circumstances.
3. "Aha!" They say to me, "The fact that you ensured that your daughters were being supervised when using public restrooms proves our point!" No, not really. I will agree with them that there are people out there that have an evil intent aimed at young children, and that it's every parent's job to ensure their child's safety. I'm pretty sure those people are not trans women, though. An opinion that's backed up with both statistics and anecdotal evidence. By the way, just for the record, I think pedophilia is an utterly reprehensible crime.
4. Did you know that it's already illegal in all 50 states to attack or otherwise sexually assault another person? Shocking, I know. In other words, it doesn't matter where an attack takes place, it's already illegal. There is no reason for new laws to make it 'extra' illegal because it happens in a women's bathroom or locker room.
5. I call this next point the "Linebacker in a Dress Bait and Switch." This is a favored tactic of opponents of trans woman using the women's room. It goes kinda like this: If we allow trans women ("men" is the word they would use there), to use the women's room; then any man can throw on a dress and stroll right into any bathroom or locker room designated for women. This, of course, would provide these men with a 'target rich' environment to pursue their nefarious deeds. The image that always accompanies this argument is a huge muscled dude with a buzz hair cut and leering grin wearing an ill-fitting dress. Take it from me: there is not one trans woman alive for whom this is a preferred fashion statement. Also, let me drop this little "truth" bomb on you: Most authentic trans women want to get in and out of the bathroom with as little fuss as possible. The last thing we want is a lot of attention. But that doesn't stop opponents from claiming that this "linebacker" image represents a typical trans woman.
5A. By the way, for any of you cis-male opportunists out there, you can't just say "I'm transgender!" and have everything magically change. Most trans folks have gone through an extensive series of steps: legally, mentally, and psychologically during the transition process. So, by the time a trans person has gotten to the point of using a 'different' bathroom a lot of hard work has already been done by a variety of people.
5B. In another interesting aside, I've heard a few male opponents of trans bathroom use say something along the line of: "I sure wish I'd known I could have done this back when I was in school. I would've just told my coach I was a female and then I could have showered with the girls!" (ha-ha-ha) In particular, I've heard this from Mike Huckabee - a conservative opportunist who would lose a battle of wits with a box of hammers. Umm, Mike... I think this comment says a lot more about you, as opposed to being a cogent point for opponents of transgender bathroom rights.
6. Did you ever notice that in all the debates, no one ever mentions homosexuality. What I mean is this. Opponents often use the scare tactic of declaring that if trans women use women's facilities, (again, they would use the word "men" here), then every other woman will feel as if they are being "ogled"; and that they are potentially fueling the sexual fantasies of trans women. I can't deny that this might happen, for the simple reason that some trans woman are sexually attracted to other woman. (And others are attracted to men, and some are attracted to both, etc., etc. You know, kinda like what happens in every other group of people the world over.) But haven't people who are sexually attracted to members of their own sex already been using the same restrooms and locker rooms as the objects of their affection since, I don't know, the beginning of time? In all the "sturm und drang" regarding homosexuality over the years, I've never heard an argument that gay and lesbian folks should be kicked out of their respective public bathrooms and/or locker rooms. Just sayin'...
7. Okay. For the sake of argument. Let's assume that every argument that the opponents of transgender bathroom access promote are correct. Basically that trans women are total horn dogs looking to rape and pillage their way through every women's room in America. In making this assumption, I'm only referring to authentic trans women, and not men who take on this identity in order to pursue their heinous goals. (I've already discussed those "cis" men in items 4, 5, 5A & especially 5B.) One problem, though. Most trans women are on some form of hormone replacement therapy. This process is specifically designed to suppress the production of testosterone, and, at the same time increase the amount of estrogen in their bodies to levels that are similar to an average "cis" woman. Let me put this in more blunt terms: If I tried to fuck anything right now using my archaic genitalia, it would work about as well as trying to shove a piece of cooked spaghetti through a pin hole. (And once again, assuming that such an assault did take place, it's already illegal.)
Other than that, I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving. Until next time.
Saturday, November 30, 2019
Wednesday, November 20, 2019
Number 67
My Trans Manifesto
Hi. My name is Nora, and I am a transgender woman. I 'officially' began my transition on June 21, 2018. That was the day I walked out the door of my house and introduced myself to the rest of the world. In other words, that's the day I began living full time as the woman I had come to realize I was. I was 52 years at the time. The understanding of my true gender identity had come later in life than usual, perhaps; but the truth of gender dysphoria is that there is no 'usual'. Before that day, however, my life as Nora had already started to take shape. I had begun telling friends and family what was going to be happening. Especially important in that process were my conversations with my two (young adult) daughters. I also did a lot of clothes shopping.
It's now November, 2019, and my life is good. I am mostly happy and content as Nora. My transition from male to female is perhaps the most emotionally fulfilling, intelligent thing I've ever done. Further, and this is directed at the many misguided, ill-informed, and frightened nincompoops out there, it is one of the sanest things I've ever done. Which brings us to the point of this essay. If you are reading closely, the word "mostly" from above probably jumped out at you. I have grown both weary and angry at the plethora of malicious and ignorant misinformation that is directed towards the trans community with mind-numbing regularity, from a variety of different groups whose one commonality is the stupidity and shamelessness with which they spout their drivel. I'm here to set the record straight.
Let's begin by dropping in on a recent taping of the television game show Jeopardy.
(Fade in)
(Fade out)
So here's the point. Many critics believe that being trans isn't a real thing. They claim that thoughts of gender dysphoria are the products of mentally unstable minds. In other words, they claim the brain of a trans person is already defective, and, as a result, produces defective thoughts of being transgendered. Problem is, none of these titans of idiocy have camped out in my brain. (Or the brains of other trans people, for that matter.) How can they claim that my mind is defective, without taking a little stroll around my head so that they might better understand my story? As Alex and the Jeopardy writer's have so succinctly pointed out, the biggest difference in the brains of trans and non-trans people is the fact that only transgender people tend to wonder about being transgender.
Let me be clear. I am not claiming that trans people couldn't benefit from the assistance of mental health professionals. Only that we're no more or less fucked up than the general population. It is true that the percentage of trans people in therapy is much greater than the general population. ("Ah-Ha!" claim my foes, "She just admitted we were right!") But you try to make your way in cultural environment where many people treat you with disdain, hostility, and violence that ends in murder far too often. No wonder we're in therapy - we need help dealing with all the hostile ignorance the world throws our way.
For you doubters out there who think my brain is defective, or that I "chose" to be trans, I offer up my own journey. Hopefully, by the end of it, you'll realize how little "choice" had to do with it. For most of my male life, I was a frustrated cross dresser. That is to say, I very rarely dressed in women's clothing, although I did think about doing so frequently. I believed this to be a sexual fetish, and nothing more. I wasn't proud of it, though. In fact, I was hugely ashamed. I desperately wanted to be rid of these thoughts, and a vicious circle developed because I couldn't. In an attempt to distance myself from these thoughts, I pushed them away from me and did my best to bury them deep. In other words, I never thought about, or examined them in a thoughtful manner; and for certain, I never talked about them!
In 2015, when I was 49 years old, I took stock of my life. By most measures, it was good life. I was in a stable marriage (although my wife would die, unexpectedly, in early 2016). Our two children were healthy, strong, and accomplished. However, there was a little "tickle" in the back of my head that left me vaguely unsettled. Among other things, I had struggled all my adult life with finding stable employment - a situation that I was at least partially responsible for. I decided to see a therapist. I also decided that I would be completely honest for the first time, and divulge, to another living person, my crossdressing fetish.
Many things happened over the next few years. The first significant event occurred when I reluctantly, and with great hesitation, told my therapist that I had a fetish for women's clothing. "So" she responded, rather nonchalantly. In that moment, the mountain of guilt that I had built up over many years began to dissolve. After a time, she referred me to a therapist who dealt almost exclusively with issues related to gender identity. You see, by this time, my therapeutic journey had begun to consider whether or not gender dysphoria was the source of the little"tickle" in the back of my head.
I desperately wanted the solution to be anything other than being transgender. I did not want it in my life. There was never a thought of: "Well, this seems like fun, let's give it a whirl!" Such a diagnosis scared the ever-loving shit out of me. I kept trying to short circuit the therapeutic process by claiming that we'd investigated this "whole gender thing" enough, and that maybe we should move on to something else. However, slowly but surely, the 'onion' layers that made up the core of my soul, kept getting peeled back and exposed. I was fighting a losing battle with myself. Finally, in March of 2018, I started my therapy with the following declaration: "I am a transgender woman, and I want to transition." It was the first time I said those words out loud, and when I did, I felt a peace and contentment that had eluded me all my life. Finally, I had scratched the 'itch'. But let's be clear about one thing: This wasn't me choosing to be transgender; rather it was me finally acknowledging the truth. My truth.
At that, I can't help but wonder if I've changed your mind. Since there's more than a good chance that many of you are already LGBTQA+ or allies; I'm probably just preaching to the choir, but whatever. If nothing else, the process of writing this has been an exercise in helping me process the many recent changes in my life. To whit: most of my life, I've claimed that I don't care what other people think about me. Another recent therapeutic breakthrough, however, made me realize that I actually care a great deal about what other people think of me. The truth is, I care too much. I believe my 'transifesto' is an effort to reclaim my story for myself, rather than for others.
So to all the haters out there; the angry TERFs (trans-exclusionary radical 'fatheads', in my book), who erroneously think I'm a threat; the moronic social conservatives who delightfully embrace a stance of intentional ignorance; and those who are simply too lazy to try and understand something beyond their own experience; I offer the most intelligent rejoinder I can come up with: "Piss off." I cannot make you accept what I know to be true. However, I can stop you from renting space in my head, where your thoughts and negativity do me no good whatsoever.
To the rest of you: Old and new friends who have embraced me with love, affection, and enthusiasm; my family that, albeit with a great deal of confusion, accepts the new me - I have no doubt that it has been a lot to get used to after 50 years; the health care professionals that have held my hand, given me tissues, and gently guided me along; and most of the general public, who if they even notice, respond with everything from enthusiasm to indifference; I offer a very sincere word of "Thanks." The only choice I've ever had was how I chose to live out the truth. To that, I can only repeat, with a slight change, what I said many months ago: "I am a trans woman, and I choose to transition." In fact, I embrace it.
It's now November, 2019, and my life is good. I am mostly happy and content as Nora. My transition from male to female is perhaps the most emotionally fulfilling, intelligent thing I've ever done. Further, and this is directed at the many misguided, ill-informed, and frightened nincompoops out there, it is one of the sanest things I've ever done. Which brings us to the point of this essay. If you are reading closely, the word "mostly" from above probably jumped out at you. I have grown both weary and angry at the plethora of malicious and ignorant misinformation that is directed towards the trans community with mind-numbing regularity, from a variety of different groups whose one commonality is the stupidity and shamelessness with which they spout their drivel. I'm here to set the record straight.
Let's begin by dropping in on a recent taping of the television game show Jeopardy.
(Fade in)
"Alex, I'll take 'Gender Identity' for $1,000."
Answer: "If you don't spend a lot of time wondering about it, you're probably not."
Question: "What is, 'How do I know if I'm trans?'"
Answer: "If you don't spend a lot of time wondering about it, you're probably not."
Question: "What is, 'How do I know if I'm trans?'"
So here's the point. Many critics believe that being trans isn't a real thing. They claim that thoughts of gender dysphoria are the products of mentally unstable minds. In other words, they claim the brain of a trans person is already defective, and, as a result, produces defective thoughts of being transgendered. Problem is, none of these titans of idiocy have camped out in my brain. (Or the brains of other trans people, for that matter.) How can they claim that my mind is defective, without taking a little stroll around my head so that they might better understand my story? As Alex and the Jeopardy writer's have so succinctly pointed out, the biggest difference in the brains of trans and non-trans people is the fact that only transgender people tend to wonder about being transgender.
Let me be clear. I am not claiming that trans people couldn't benefit from the assistance of mental health professionals. Only that we're no more or less fucked up than the general population. It is true that the percentage of trans people in therapy is much greater than the general population. ("Ah-Ha!" claim my foes, "She just admitted we were right!") But you try to make your way in cultural environment where many people treat you with disdain, hostility, and violence that ends in murder far too often. No wonder we're in therapy - we need help dealing with all the hostile ignorance the world throws our way.
For you doubters out there who think my brain is defective, or that I "chose" to be trans, I offer up my own journey. Hopefully, by the end of it, you'll realize how little "choice" had to do with it. For most of my male life, I was a frustrated cross dresser. That is to say, I very rarely dressed in women's clothing, although I did think about doing so frequently. I believed this to be a sexual fetish, and nothing more. I wasn't proud of it, though. In fact, I was hugely ashamed. I desperately wanted to be rid of these thoughts, and a vicious circle developed because I couldn't. In an attempt to distance myself from these thoughts, I pushed them away from me and did my best to bury them deep. In other words, I never thought about, or examined them in a thoughtful manner; and for certain, I never talked about them!
In 2015, when I was 49 years old, I took stock of my life. By most measures, it was good life. I was in a stable marriage (although my wife would die, unexpectedly, in early 2016). Our two children were healthy, strong, and accomplished. However, there was a little "tickle" in the back of my head that left me vaguely unsettled. Among other things, I had struggled all my adult life with finding stable employment - a situation that I was at least partially responsible for. I decided to see a therapist. I also decided that I would be completely honest for the first time, and divulge, to another living person, my crossdressing fetish.
Many things happened over the next few years. The first significant event occurred when I reluctantly, and with great hesitation, told my therapist that I had a fetish for women's clothing. "So" she responded, rather nonchalantly. In that moment, the mountain of guilt that I had built up over many years began to dissolve. After a time, she referred me to a therapist who dealt almost exclusively with issues related to gender identity. You see, by this time, my therapeutic journey had begun to consider whether or not gender dysphoria was the source of the little"tickle" in the back of my head.
I desperately wanted the solution to be anything other than being transgender. I did not want it in my life. There was never a thought of: "Well, this seems like fun, let's give it a whirl!" Such a diagnosis scared the ever-loving shit out of me. I kept trying to short circuit the therapeutic process by claiming that we'd investigated this "whole gender thing" enough, and that maybe we should move on to something else. However, slowly but surely, the 'onion' layers that made up the core of my soul, kept getting peeled back and exposed. I was fighting a losing battle with myself. Finally, in March of 2018, I started my therapy with the following declaration: "I am a transgender woman, and I want to transition." It was the first time I said those words out loud, and when I did, I felt a peace and contentment that had eluded me all my life. Finally, I had scratched the 'itch'. But let's be clear about one thing: This wasn't me choosing to be transgender; rather it was me finally acknowledging the truth. My truth.
At that, I can't help but wonder if I've changed your mind. Since there's more than a good chance that many of you are already LGBTQA+ or allies; I'm probably just preaching to the choir, but whatever. If nothing else, the process of writing this has been an exercise in helping me process the many recent changes in my life. To whit: most of my life, I've claimed that I don't care what other people think about me. Another recent therapeutic breakthrough, however, made me realize that I actually care a great deal about what other people think of me. The truth is, I care too much. I believe my 'transifesto' is an effort to reclaim my story for myself, rather than for others.
So to all the haters out there; the angry TERFs (trans-exclusionary radical 'fatheads', in my book), who erroneously think I'm a threat; the moronic social conservatives who delightfully embrace a stance of intentional ignorance; and those who are simply too lazy to try and understand something beyond their own experience; I offer the most intelligent rejoinder I can come up with: "Piss off." I cannot make you accept what I know to be true. However, I can stop you from renting space in my head, where your thoughts and negativity do me no good whatsoever.
To the rest of you: Old and new friends who have embraced me with love, affection, and enthusiasm; my family that, albeit with a great deal of confusion, accepts the new me - I have no doubt that it has been a lot to get used to after 50 years; the health care professionals that have held my hand, given me tissues, and gently guided me along; and most of the general public, who if they even notice, respond with everything from enthusiasm to indifference; I offer a very sincere word of "Thanks." The only choice I've ever had was how I chose to live out the truth. To that, I can only repeat, with a slight change, what I said many months ago: "I am a trans woman, and I choose to transition." In fact, I embrace it.
Friday, November 8, 2019
Number 66
Female Realities
A couple of things happened recently, and I found myself silently thinking "welcome to the world of women, Nora." I thought I'd mention them, along with a few other things that came to mind.
1. I had a mammogram last week. My dysphoria spiked a bit, as I was worried about being perceived as an interloper in a uniquely female centric world. But here's the truth: I'm a woman, I have breast tissue, and a family history of breast cancer. In truth, my nurse/technician was wonderful (go nurses!) and immediately put me at ease. While I was in the changing stall, I noticed a number of pink band-aids in the the small trash receptacle. "What's with those - do they take a blood sample, too?" (Note to any men reading this: All the women are laughing at me right now.) Turns out they aren't band-aids, but adhesive strips with a small metal 'bb' in the middle. These are placed over the nipples to help orient the mammogram's image. The things you learn! Anyway my results were positive, which is to say, negative. I do have 'dense' breast tissue, which apparently means I need to be slightly more vigilant than if I did not. The heated robes were a nice touch.
2. I carved the absolute hell out of my ankle shaving the other day. Now, I have nicked myself plenty, and even cut my legs a few times. This time, however, I almost fainted from blood loss. I thought I was going to have to call 911 and have an emergency skin graft placed over the wound. And the only f*cking towels in the bathroom were white.
3. Speaking of blood, in the last month I have participated in a handful of conversations with other women about menstruation. Did I say "participated?" What I meant to say was, I listened quietly while the other women discussed their periods.
Small Break to Discuss My Old Life: Now, all-in-all, I think I was pretty chill about this whole topic. I wasn't like my brother (love 'ya, Bart), who brought home frozen peas when my sister-in-law wrote down "pads." I knew what products my wife used, and had no problem shopping for her if need be. With my two daughters, I didn't go out of my way to have 'period' discussions with them, but again, I could ask if they needed anything and shop for them, if necessary. I knew what was up when the heating pad came out. In the female centric world of elementary education the topic of menstruation occasionally came up (especially among fourth and fifth grade teachers, if you catch my meaning); but it wasn't like I went around seeking conversations on the subject.
OK, let's continue. (Note to any women reading this: Men often wonder what women talk about when there are no men around. Most men won't admit this, but they do. It is my experience that men believe women are mostly talking about sexy lingerie, child-birth, and periods. How disappointed the would be if they knew the truth: Except for less sports, it's mostly the same mundane shit they talk about.) The significance of these recent, matter-of-fact conversations, is the fact that they happened in front of me. During the ebb and flow of conversation, the topic turned in that direction, and then just as quickly headed somewhere else. You know, normal like. I think what I'm trying to convey is that the other (cis)women were comfortable enough with my presence among them (as another woman), that the conversation followed its natural course. In a small, but significant way, that's really cool.
4. Seriously, what the f*ck is the deal with the pockets in women's pants? They're as small as Trump's fingers. (I just realized that I usually get at least one Trump zinger per blog entry - I think I'll make that my calling card)
5. The unstoppable gravitational pull as you begin to sit down on the toilet, only to realize halfway down, that the seat has been left up by the previous user. (f*cking men)
6. The wonderful opportunity to be able to express a full range of human emotion. (As opposed to the self-imposed, buttoned-up, reality of most men; which definitely included me). In many ways, this is the very best thing about my transition: The freedom to express my emotions more fully and honestly. I feel so much more my authentic self!
Until next time.
A couple of things happened recently, and I found myself silently thinking "welcome to the world of women, Nora." I thought I'd mention them, along with a few other things that came to mind.
1. I had a mammogram last week. My dysphoria spiked a bit, as I was worried about being perceived as an interloper in a uniquely female centric world. But here's the truth: I'm a woman, I have breast tissue, and a family history of breast cancer. In truth, my nurse/technician was wonderful (go nurses!) and immediately put me at ease. While I was in the changing stall, I noticed a number of pink band-aids in the the small trash receptacle. "What's with those - do they take a blood sample, too?" (Note to any men reading this: All the women are laughing at me right now.) Turns out they aren't band-aids, but adhesive strips with a small metal 'bb' in the middle. These are placed over the nipples to help orient the mammogram's image. The things you learn! Anyway my results were positive, which is to say, negative. I do have 'dense' breast tissue, which apparently means I need to be slightly more vigilant than if I did not. The heated robes were a nice touch.
2. I carved the absolute hell out of my ankle shaving the other day. Now, I have nicked myself plenty, and even cut my legs a few times. This time, however, I almost fainted from blood loss. I thought I was going to have to call 911 and have an emergency skin graft placed over the wound. And the only f*cking towels in the bathroom were white.
3. Speaking of blood, in the last month I have participated in a handful of conversations with other women about menstruation. Did I say "participated?" What I meant to say was, I listened quietly while the other women discussed their periods.
Small Break to Discuss My Old Life: Now, all-in-all, I think I was pretty chill about this whole topic. I wasn't like my brother (love 'ya, Bart), who brought home frozen peas when my sister-in-law wrote down "pads." I knew what products my wife used, and had no problem shopping for her if need be. With my two daughters, I didn't go out of my way to have 'period' discussions with them, but again, I could ask if they needed anything and shop for them, if necessary. I knew what was up when the heating pad came out. In the female centric world of elementary education the topic of menstruation occasionally came up (especially among fourth and fifth grade teachers, if you catch my meaning); but it wasn't like I went around seeking conversations on the subject.
OK, let's continue. (Note to any women reading this: Men often wonder what women talk about when there are no men around. Most men won't admit this, but they do. It is my experience that men believe women are mostly talking about sexy lingerie, child-birth, and periods. How disappointed the would be if they knew the truth: Except for less sports, it's mostly the same mundane shit they talk about.) The significance of these recent, matter-of-fact conversations, is the fact that they happened in front of me. During the ebb and flow of conversation, the topic turned in that direction, and then just as quickly headed somewhere else. You know, normal like. I think what I'm trying to convey is that the other (cis)women were comfortable enough with my presence among them (as another woman), that the conversation followed its natural course. In a small, but significant way, that's really cool.
4. Seriously, what the f*ck is the deal with the pockets in women's pants? They're as small as Trump's fingers. (I just realized that I usually get at least one Trump zinger per blog entry - I think I'll make that my calling card)
5. The unstoppable gravitational pull as you begin to sit down on the toilet, only to realize halfway down, that the seat has been left up by the previous user. (f*cking men)
6. The wonderful opportunity to be able to express a full range of human emotion. (As opposed to the self-imposed, buttoned-up, reality of most men; which definitely included me). In many ways, this is the very best thing about my transition: The freedom to express my emotions more fully and honestly. I feel so much more my authentic self!
Until next time.
Tuesday, November 5, 2019
Number 65
I Heard Her Laugh
To fully understand why what I'm about to tell you means so very much to me, I need to explain a few things first.
If you've been paying attention recently, the first two will things require very little explanation, as they're kinda what I've been writing about. (1) I recently returned from a two week trip to disperse my wife's ashes at various places significant to her life. In that way, I finally felt as if I put her properly to rest. (2) Also recently, I unearthed and came to terms with my own feelings of both homo and transphobia. As a result, uneasy feelings that my transition had somehow devalued my marriage to Rebecca were finally put to rest.
The third thing I need to explain is my mind-trippingly, bizarre dream world. One of the common side-effects of anti-depressive medication is a dream life that is more vivid and weird than otherwise. Let me state, conclusively, for the record: "Yup." I don't remember my dreams in any conventional sense. After one or two minutes of vague awakeness, almost all details of my dreams are gone. At best, I am able to recall a small snippet, or maybe a couple of details. Mostly what I recall is the 'mood' or 'emotional tone' of the dream, and nothing else.
That's a good thing too, because for the most part my dreams are a heady stew of intense violence, bizzaro imagery, and unlinear plotting. Frequently, when I'm involved in a dream, but also in a semi-consciece state, I try to intentionally wake myself up, in order to escape whatever fucked-up scenario my sub-conscience has served-up at that moment. Unpleasant doesn't even begin to cover it.
Interestingly enough, though, there does seem to be some sort of crazy internal logic to it all. What I mean is that there are common themes and images that often come up. For our purposes today, I only need to tell you about my 'Rebecca' dreams. After she passed, I don't remember dreaming about her for a long time. I kind of wondered about that. But when she did start showing up, I began wishing she hadn't. You see, the common 'mood' or 'tone' when she would appear was one of disappointment and unhappiness (with me). Quite often she would express her desire for the two of us to divorce. These dreams struck such disturbing chord in me that I would feel relief when I awoke and remembered that the reality was that she was dead.
Well, this morning, as I was in the sub-conscious state right before awakening, I was in the middle of one of my typical stream-of-conscious, outlandishly plotted dreamscapes (seriously, I have no memory of what all was happening), but at one point Rebecca was there. I could see her, but I also think she and I were on the phone together at the same time. In any event, something funny happened in the dream, and I heard her laugh.
For the first time in almost four years, I heard her laugh. And I recognized it. It was her laugh. My heart leapt inside of me in amazement and joy! For our entire life together we had laughed together so, so many times, and to hear that sound again was the gift of an angel.
Why did I finally have a dream like this now? Did it have anything to do with the recent events of my life that I mentioned above or was it coincidental? I don't know. But more importantly, I don't need to know. The only thing that's important in all of this is reflected in today's title: I heard her laugh.
To fully understand why what I'm about to tell you means so very much to me, I need to explain a few things first.
If you've been paying attention recently, the first two will things require very little explanation, as they're kinda what I've been writing about. (1) I recently returned from a two week trip to disperse my wife's ashes at various places significant to her life. In that way, I finally felt as if I put her properly to rest. (2) Also recently, I unearthed and came to terms with my own feelings of both homo and transphobia. As a result, uneasy feelings that my transition had somehow devalued my marriage to Rebecca were finally put to rest.
The third thing I need to explain is my mind-trippingly, bizarre dream world. One of the common side-effects of anti-depressive medication is a dream life that is more vivid and weird than otherwise. Let me state, conclusively, for the record: "Yup." I don't remember my dreams in any conventional sense. After one or two minutes of vague awakeness, almost all details of my dreams are gone. At best, I am able to recall a small snippet, or maybe a couple of details. Mostly what I recall is the 'mood' or 'emotional tone' of the dream, and nothing else.
That's a good thing too, because for the most part my dreams are a heady stew of intense violence, bizzaro imagery, and unlinear plotting. Frequently, when I'm involved in a dream, but also in a semi-consciece state, I try to intentionally wake myself up, in order to escape whatever fucked-up scenario my sub-conscience has served-up at that moment. Unpleasant doesn't even begin to cover it.
Interestingly enough, though, there does seem to be some sort of crazy internal logic to it all. What I mean is that there are common themes and images that often come up. For our purposes today, I only need to tell you about my 'Rebecca' dreams. After she passed, I don't remember dreaming about her for a long time. I kind of wondered about that. But when she did start showing up, I began wishing she hadn't. You see, the common 'mood' or 'tone' when she would appear was one of disappointment and unhappiness (with me). Quite often she would express her desire for the two of us to divorce. These dreams struck such disturbing chord in me that I would feel relief when I awoke and remembered that the reality was that she was dead.
Well, this morning, as I was in the sub-conscious state right before awakening, I was in the middle of one of my typical stream-of-conscious, outlandishly plotted dreamscapes (seriously, I have no memory of what all was happening), but at one point Rebecca was there. I could see her, but I also think she and I were on the phone together at the same time. In any event, something funny happened in the dream, and I heard her laugh.
For the first time in almost four years, I heard her laugh. And I recognized it. It was her laugh. My heart leapt inside of me in amazement and joy! For our entire life together we had laughed together so, so many times, and to hear that sound again was the gift of an angel.
Why did I finally have a dream like this now? Did it have anything to do with the recent events of my life that I mentioned above or was it coincidental? I don't know. But more importantly, I don't need to know. The only thing that's important in all of this is reflected in today's title: I heard her laugh.
Saturday, November 2, 2019
Number 64
I'm Not Brave, Just Desperate
One of the comments I hear from supportive allies quite frequently is one telling me how brave I am for coming out as transgender and going through the gender confirmation process. I am always struck by this, as it is completely discordant with how I feel about my transition. You see, I am going through all this because to not do so would be a little bit like dying. Once I knew my own truth, transition was the only way forward for me. I don't think of what I'm doing is brave, just necessary.
And it can be a long and lonely path, despite many supportive people in my life. It's a lonely path when I walk into a women's bathroom and wonder if my presence will cause a disturbance. It's a lonely path having my archaic genitalia poked and prodded with a laser or electrified needle designed to rid the area of any hair. It's a lonely road when I walk into a store wondering if this will be the time someone calls me a "freak" or "pervert." It's a lonely path when my depression and anxiety exacerbate my worst fears - whether they're truth or fiction. It's a lonely road when my president continues to make it easier for others to devalue my basic personhood just because it's politically expedient for him to do so. It's a lonely road when I am referred to using the 'wrong' pronouns.
Though I have shared with you my history with anxiety and depression, I have done my best over the last few years to keep details about the loneliness and fear that come with my diagnoses to myself. I do this for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is my desire to not bother or concern my friends. Silly, I know. I have many wonderful friends who would tell me, a la Bill Withers, to 'lean on them.' But the truth is, I don't. There are times when my demons overwhelm me. Where the best I can do is crawl away, sob, and think my sad and lonely thoughts.
I'm writing this as I'm (thankfully), coming out of one of these episodes. For some reason it seems important to share this side of me. But it's not because I'm brave. The specifics of my journey may differ from yours, but you have walked a long and lonely path of your own at some point in your life. And just like me you didn't go down that path because you were brave - you did it because you had to. I have a friend who often says: "The only way out, is through." Amen, sister.
One of the comments I hear from supportive allies quite frequently is one telling me how brave I am for coming out as transgender and going through the gender confirmation process. I am always struck by this, as it is completely discordant with how I feel about my transition. You see, I am going through all this because to not do so would be a little bit like dying. Once I knew my own truth, transition was the only way forward for me. I don't think of what I'm doing is brave, just necessary.
And it can be a long and lonely path, despite many supportive people in my life. It's a lonely path when I walk into a women's bathroom and wonder if my presence will cause a disturbance. It's a lonely path having my archaic genitalia poked and prodded with a laser or electrified needle designed to rid the area of any hair. It's a lonely road when I walk into a store wondering if this will be the time someone calls me a "freak" or "pervert." It's a lonely path when my depression and anxiety exacerbate my worst fears - whether they're truth or fiction. It's a lonely road when my president continues to make it easier for others to devalue my basic personhood just because it's politically expedient for him to do so. It's a lonely road when I am referred to using the 'wrong' pronouns.
Though I have shared with you my history with anxiety and depression, I have done my best over the last few years to keep details about the loneliness and fear that come with my diagnoses to myself. I do this for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is my desire to not bother or concern my friends. Silly, I know. I have many wonderful friends who would tell me, a la Bill Withers, to 'lean on them.' But the truth is, I don't. There are times when my demons overwhelm me. Where the best I can do is crawl away, sob, and think my sad and lonely thoughts.
I'm writing this as I'm (thankfully), coming out of one of these episodes. For some reason it seems important to share this side of me. But it's not because I'm brave. The specifics of my journey may differ from yours, but you have walked a long and lonely path of your own at some point in your life. And just like me you didn't go down that path because you were brave - you did it because you had to. I have a friend who often says: "The only way out, is through." Amen, sister.
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