Comments (0) I miss my daddy. I haven’t called him that in twenty years, but that’s who I miss: The man who lifted me on his shoulders, explored forests and streams with me, played shark in the lake. The man for whom I had no doubt of his love.
I just finished re-reading Boylan’s I’m Looking Through You, and it’s brought up something that’s really been on my mind lately. From page 256 of the hardcover:
Shell looked thoughtful. “I don’t know, Jenny. About ninety percent of the time, you seem like the happiest person I know. And then, every once in a while, I”ll catch you looking out a window like that. I don’t get it. How come you’re so sad, if you’re happy?”
[snip]
“I don’t know, Shell. I said. I mulled it over. “I get tired sometimes, of being different.”
[snip]
I wiped my eyes. “It’s like, I went through this whole amazing change, and at last I feel content, at last I feel whole. But what about that kid I used ot be? What about all those memories? That’s the one thing they can’t give you in surgery: a new history.”
I’ve been having a really hard time with that: how do I reconcile who I am now, who I want to be, with who I was?
The weight of that history, of the twenty-plus years I was living as male, feels like it’s overwhelming the ten months I’ve been living full-time as Rebecca.
Already ten months? Only ten months?
I want to be empty.
Empty of envy. Envy of girls who are younger than me, prettier than me, with perkier breasts than mine. Envy of the teenage girls I will never be.
Empty of desire. Desire to win the approval of girls who are a lifetime younger than me, who look up to me because I’m older than they are and who I can see trying to impress me to win my approval, and yet whose approval I want so badly – and so absurdly – because I still wish I was one of the popular high school girls.
Empty of lust. Lust over every curve and every swell. Lusting after bodies I wish to press against my own, and after bodies I wish to be my own, all at once and together in a rush, ever-shifting.
Empty of guilt. Guilt that I didn’t start sooner, save more, do better, stand taller, act stronger, work more, support others better, give more of myself.
I should go to bed. It’s 3AM. I’ve been up since 10AM and have had a very long day. I feel lousy, I feel tired, and I want to be asleep.
And yet I’m sitting at my computer becuase I know the dully throbbing sadness I’m feeling now will pale in comparison to the aching grief I’ll feel when I lay down, as all the thoughts I’m currently pushing aside come rushing in.
-R
I know it’s the hormones and I still feel like shit. If anyone out there was trying to figure out what a sourless, soul-crushing sadness felt like but just couldn’t quite get it down, consider asking for my help, as apparently that’s what I’m good at right now.
And everyone is obviously right – a month or two more of shit is, in the grand scheme of things, worth putting my mind at ease for the rest of my life. I am aware that (the rest of my life) > (two months).
But knowing that doesn’t stop me from feeling like nothing is worth doing and I shouldn’t bother going to bed because tomorrow is just going to be miserable anyway.
-R
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