I keep trying to collect my thoughts to put together that reflective post I intended to write on my anniversary, but I’m finding it difficult to construct clear points, even just for myself.
Yesterday, it occurred to me that many of the issues I’m struggling with boil down to a very frustrating truth: I miss myself.
It’s frustrating because I am currently me, as I always am and have been, so how can I miss myself? But that’s what’s happening. At my core, I’m the same person. It’s a big theme in trans discourse and the Big Conversations with friends and family when coming out - being trans doesn’t make you a different person than they thought you were, it just makes you a more genuine version of yourself. And that is true. However, what I’m finding out is that, in a more existential way, I have unintentionally separated myself into two distinct Selves in my own head.
Let me give the most direct example, as this is what made me realize that missing myself was what was actually happening. When I think about old stories and memories from my life, I see those things as events that happened to me, both then and as I am currently. However, when I tell an old story to someone who didn’t know me then, I find that the story does not convey the same message.
Plainly put, consider that a memory from my wedding day is just that - an anecdote from a comically terrible day - and anyone who was at my wedding will chuckle at the embarrassing antics of my in-laws (my brother-in-law fainting, my mother-in-law burning her mustache off trying to wax it and yelling at my much fairer-skinned bridesmaids for not having foundation she could use to cover the burn, my father-in-law just straight up not showing up like the dirtbag he is) and the ridiculous weather (107 in Kansas in September, really??) and the stupid amount of pie and chairs versus the number of people who bothered to actually attend (about 1/2 of those who rsvp’ed) and everything else. However, if I tell those same stories to someone who met me after I came out, they focus on different elements (i.e. “wait, you had a wedding dress?”) or I have to preface by saying “by the way, I’m trans and this was before.”
In that sense, the difference between my two identities manifests itself. It’s incredibly frustrating. That shit wedding happened to me. That’s my story. But, at the same time, I have to modify or add information to share it with people now. It comes across like I’m telling stories about another person, even though I’m not, and it makes me incredibly irritated and, honestly, it hurts to feel like I’ve lost that.
Autumn went through so much, both good and bad, and I am nothing without her struggles, sacrifices, and accomplishments. I earned those battle scars and accolades with my hard word, perseverance, intelligence, and determination. That girl is not some lost twin, she’s me.
I don’t look back at old pictures and see them as someone else’s pictures, but that’s what they look like when I share them. I have a picture framed in my room of myself and my cat in matching sailor shirts that my mom gave me for a birthday a few years ago. It used to be in my living room and I know a dozen or so of my friends have seen it at parties, several of whom did not know me pre-transition, and instead of seeing it and being amused at how unimpressed Maxwell is, they are distracted by the image of me in short shorts, with a clearly unbound chest and long hair, very much looking like the 20 year old girl I was. The reaction is more an effort to reconcile that image with what I look like now, how they know me.
The solution, I guess, is to not show those pictures or share those stories, or to leave out some information to make them neutral, but I’m not willing to lock up 25 years of life to avoid uncomfortable feelings on my part or theirs. Unfortunately, that decision results in this weird, distressing conundrum.
I am fortunate in that most of the people I associate with did know me when I came out, so they are not necessarily surprised by the stories where I have a different name or am married to a man or am distinctly female in some way.
I think it may be easier to handle this sort of dissociation for trans people who are hard-leaning in one direction or the other. If you are distinctly masculine or feminine, or experience severe dysphoria, and you start transitioning, I imagine it is an intense relief to look in the mirror and see yourself as the gender you always knew you were. Perhaps you are more willing, in that case, to lock those stories up in a mental box and have no desire to look at old photos. Maybe it is actually cathartic to see yourself as two distinct people. But.. that just isn’t the case for me.
I am - and have always been completely honest about being - essentially gender neutral. I am neutral on most things, really. I’m neutral on gender, sex, romantic attraction - pretty much anything the lgbt community is concerned with. That’s why I generally identify as queer - all other labels tend to indicate some leaning I do not feel. Transitioning was a logical choice for me, after several years of consideration, because it seemed that being consistently presented in the feminine was wearing on me. I do find that I prefer being referred to with masculine indicators (handsome over pretty, sir over ma’am), but not so strongly as to be angry, anxious, or hurt when someone gets it “wrong,” unless it is repetitive and consistent. I also do have localized chest dysphoria, and always believed that I needed chest surgery (which has not changed). I do not see transitioning as a mistake, but it did come with a consequence I had not accounted for in this feeling of loss.
I think the hard thing about missing “her” is that its much the same as missing someone who has died; you can’t go reconcile and be friends again or call and apologize for just losing touch. That person is gone. She was my best friend, my foundation, my conscience, and its like one day I woke up and she was gone. Like I arbitrarily decided I didn’t need her anymore and moved on. But that’s NOT TRUE. She’s not gone! She’s me! She’s my essence, my heart! But I can’t get to her and the rational knowledge that we are one single person does not assuage the empty feeling in my chest. It is confusing and frustrating and really, painfully lonely.