Have you ever had one of those times when you’ve read or seen or heard something and your mind just won’t let it go?
This is where I am at the moment, having read a comment to a post I wrote recently. I’m not going to point out which one or what comment, I’m sure the author will know what I’m talking about.
First of all I want to say I’m not angry. I am a little hurt and a tad confused about what was written, but that’s not the reason I’m writing this. It’s more of a matter of feeling as if the whole incident which prompted me to writ e the first post was somehow misunderstood, or maybe I just haven’t been as clear in my writing as I could have been. I do have a habit of chasing after the emotional aspects of things as compared to the actual incident or words used, and maybe I took things a little to far… See, I’m doing it again, so let me get to the point…
Over the past year, but more so for the past several months I have found myself moving forward in a way I did not expect. Having stepped out into the world as myself and not being slammed fro doing so, but actually accepted on a level I did not expect, I have found a need to be… well, me more. It feels right. It feels natural. It is what I should have been doing for a long time now and I finally found the courage to do it. As I am learning, there is truth in the saying, “Courage is what you have when you have else.” I indeed found courage when there was nothing left but the pain of my existence in that moment. When the thought of doing nothing was more than my fear of the unknown and I found myself compelled to step out into the world in a way I had never done before. Once i crossed the line, there was no going back and I knew it the moment it happened.
That does not mean I have not struggled to continue to take baby steps, to confine my effort to times which will cause the least disruption to my family, but there is limit and I have reached it on a number of levels.
Going out as my “old” self has been feeling more and more wrong. I has felt like a lie, to myself and everyone around me. Using my male name leaves an oily feeling on my tongue and my stomach queazy. Every time I return home finding I am disgusted with myself, sick at heart I have let one more day pass through my fingers having caved to the pressure I am under to not tip the boat, the not shake things up, to not being the tallest nail because it gets hammered down first.
I understand my loved ones need time and space to adjust and I have bent over backward to accommodate them and their feelings. I have drug my feet to the bone, driving myself to the point of physical pain to go as slowly as I can.
At every point I have waited, stalled and delayed until I find myself in tears for no reason. Sick at heart for the pain I know I am causing others and trying in vain to find some way to stop this train before it runs me over.
And here I am again.
The need to present my true self to the world grows with each passing day. The thought of being seen as something I am not grates on my nerves until I want scream.
Hearing the wrong pronouns tears at my heart and plunges me into depression.
The question I ask myself every single day is, at what point does my pain, my discomfort… my needs and desires become more important than those of my own family?
Is it selfish of me to desire to live an open and happy life content in who and what I am? Or should I just buckle down, accept this as my due because of he decisions I have made before this point?
Quite simply, does a line from a stupid move ale more sense than I do?
Do the needs of the many really outweigh the needs of the few or the one?
Yes, it’s corny as hell but it’s a valid question.
I’ve been told I need to slow down, that I am moving too fast. That I don’t really need to take the steps I have taken…
Is this true? Am I just getting caught up in the moment?
I don’t know.
I really don’t.
What I do know is I am sick at heart over what is happening. I want to weep. I want to scream. I want to grind my teeth until my jaw breaks. Every moment I am awake is lie. Every breath I take stinks of deceit. I feel like a fraud. A fake.
I have worn this clowns mask for so long it is graphed to my skin, this outfit is a straight jacket which keep me bound.
There are times I would rather die than go another day like this.
So tell me, am I just being selfish? Am I moving too fast?
Should I slow down even more than I have?
Maybe I should just pack all these scattered pieces of me, put them back in their box and forget anything ere happened because in the end, nothing is going to change and all I am doing is torturing myself.
Since it seems I can no longer see the forest for the trees…
You tell me.