Big Dreams, Die Hard
There have been only a few dreams that I’ve wanted in my life. Because of who I am and how I was raised, some of those dreams were never within my grasp. Still, I tried to reach for those dreams several times in my life. Against all hope, against all rationale, I kept trying. The reality of those dreams was that some of them actually were impossible, I may have not known it then, but it was made plain to me in time. I had to make my peace with things that were medically impossible of course. That was a huge factor in my repression and denial for years. Only, I thought that it was medically impossible to change my body in significant enough ways that I would be seen as female. I had been proven wrong on one aspect of one of my dreams. Sure, I would never be able to carry a baby and to give birth, but I could be female for all intents and purposes otherwise.
Realizing that I could have part of one of my dreams has made me search out the other dreams that I’ve always had. Some of those other dreams are still within reach, and I still can make them happen. Ride my motorcycle all over the western parts of the states, totally possible. Swim in both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans before I die, halfway there. Climb to the top of a really big mountain, I got over ten in view from my bedroom window, shouldn’t be a problem. Build my own chopper, I’m sure I can do it when my finances are straightened out.
There are a lot of things that continue to be outside of my grasp though. And it’s not only a fact of biology that dictates my inability to achieve those dreams. I will never be a good chess player, I know the rules, but I suck at strategy. I’ll probably never get to see China, Japan, England, or any other nation on the other side of an ocean. Even if I could get a passport sorted out from all the legal mess, I doubt that I’ll ever be able to afford it. I may be able to make my body look mostly female, but I’ll never be attractive, and I doubt that I’ll ever be with a man the way I should be. Why would a man want me when he’s got plenty of other women to pick from that don’t look like a hulking beast? Bottom surgery is for me, so that I can live with myself, I’ve given up hope that I’ll ever get a guy. But being a writer was another big one, a really big one. I’ve wanted to be a writer for over twenty-five years.
I’ve bought books on how to write. I’ve followed at least a dozen different methods for writing a successful book. I’ve written for nationally distributed magazines reviewing products, I’ve written for blogs, for my high school paper, and any random person I could talk into letting me put something together. Flyers, handouts, advertisements, class schedule descriptions, even a bio or two for friends which they never used. I was told that you get better at writing by doing more writing, so I’ve tried to write more than ever. This blog, another blog, poetry, articles, opinion pieces, novels. I’ve written so much that I find myself sitting at my computer, staring blankly at the screen with a blinking cursor because I forgot what I was supposed to be writing this time.
It doesn’t seem to be helping me though. Even when I think I’ve made some progress, somehow my strides forward are revealed to me as nothing more than walking in place. I’m on a treadmill, a hamster wheel. I’m in a nightmare where no matter how much forward progress you seem to make, you never go anywhere, and the specter of the world’s ridicule is always about to grab you. And yet, I’ve persevered, I’ve persisted. Because everyone told me that is how you do it. Because I’ve seen others do it and succeed. Because I’ve wanted to succeed at this more than I’ve wanted almost anything. I’ve given up before, and I still came back to this. I’ve walked away and said that I’d never try again, yet, I still came back. Even during my worst repression, denial, depression, PTSD, rage issues, and suicidal thoughts, I’ve written.
I’m about to give it up again.
Part of me thinks that I’m overreacting, part of me is saying that I should step away, clear my head. But part of me is saying that if it wasn’t true, shouldn’t I have something to show for my effort by now? Shouldn’t I have at least gotten paid for something I’ve written? When am I going to admit that I’m not good at this? When I pay to be published? When I pay for the paper to be printed on? When I pay for the advertising to try and get people to buy my work?
There are people out there who are truly shit at writing. Just like there are people out there who are truly shit at any number of things. I can recognize that I’m not very good at chess and I’m okay with that, but I keep slamming my head into the wall over writing? Maybe I’m just shit at this and I need to recognize that. But I don’t know what else I could do. Writing is what I have, besides my gender and sexuality issues, writing is the only thing I’ve honestly wanted in my life above everything else. I could happily give up all the rest, just to be a writer. And maybe I’m just a shitty writer.
Big dreams really do die hard.