Two more days until my first HRT appointment. I am nervous, I am scared, and I’m in a bit of a surreal state. I can’t believe that I’m finally going to be able to really start my transitioning. While I have been openly trans since 2005 and have been living as I am now for most of that time, this is really the first huge step I’ve made towards making my outside match my inside.
I’ve tried, since coming out to my parents, to get them to understand or at least accept me. I have dropped my whole life, and two years ago the beginning of my transitioning, for them whenever they needed me. I’ve done it time and time again.
I’ve told myself if I just push everything down, just try to be that daughter that my mother HAD to have out of spite, then they would love and accept me. After all, it would be easier for them to see me as a lesbian right?
I couldn’t do it.
I can’t and I won’t.
For the first time in my life I truly stood up to my mother. In January I told her that I was going to transition and there was nothing that was going to change my mind, nothing she could do or say that would make me stop. I was tired of living a lie for her sake.
I wasn’t disrespectful or mean when I told her. I simply laid out the facts about what I was planning to do. She didn’t say much of anything when I told her, just “okay” and I thought everything between us would be okay. False hopes.
Over the past three months I’ve been struggling a lot with how my mother, the person I thought would be there for me no matter what, has started treating me. She says it’s because I’m with my fiancé, but I know that isn’t true and I finally realized that the last time I saw her.
She has always treated me differently from my brothers and sister, and maybe deep down she knew I was different. I’ve tried time and time again to rebuild the bond we once had and every time I reach out I get hurt.
I am tired of being hurt by someone that claims they love me but never shows it.
It’s really hard for me to move on when anyone gets close and then leaves me. I still miss Kit and Wolf…I ache for them to be a part of my life, but it will never happen.
I realize I’m not the easiest person to get along with. That’s because I get scared. I’m scared of getting close to them and I do everything I can to push them away. By the time I end up pushing them away, I realize that that wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted them to be close, to stay with me because I love them and I care about them, but it’s too late. Even if I apologize and try to explain myself, they don’t care or don’t want to care, and I’m left with a hole in my heart that aches and never stops.
I was never really allowed to make or have friends as a child or even as a teenager, so I wasn’t able to learn the social norms for interaction between friends. I feel like I was an experiment, kept away from other children, and when I started to gain acquaintances I was whisked away to another school in another town or another state so that I would always be dependent on my parents or more specifically my mother.
Every time I would start to form bonds of friendship in high school, my mother would do something to make sure I ended up looking like a total idiot. It was always the smallest things, but I feel like she always set me up to fail.
In the end it was easier to be alone, than to keep looking like an idiot, so I stayed alone.
I stayed alone in my own little world, trapped within the confines of my mind.
I dared not to tell my mother in 1999 that I found a label for my so called “disorder” after searching on the internet for hours each night, taking precaution to clear the cache on the family computer before going to bed. I didn’t dare tell her then that I was transgendered. That I hated my female body, that it was wrong, that it always had been wrong.
I didn’t dare tell her when I first started my “cycle” that I was too ashamed to go to school because boys didn’t bleed like this. I didn’t tell her the reason I cried and cried was because I felt dirty, I felt deformed. She wouldn’t have believed me. Like now, she would have said it was just a phase. Like when I told her I was going to kill myself, then laid down in the street and prayed for a car to run me over.
“You know you don’t believe in that.”
Those were her words of comfort in a time when I was hurting inside so badly that I was begging for the release of death. How dare she even presume to know what I do or do not believe in.
It still hurts….the lack of compassion…
It leaves me to wonder if I’m even her child….or my father’s…
I do have my original birth certificate from the 1980s when I was born, but really that doesn’t mean much…Just that my mother had a child on May 11, 1984 at 12:10pm. That doesn’t mean that I am really that child. . .
I think about these sorts of things a lot, and every time I feel myself doubting, questioning myself…Maybe she will love me if I just stop, I realize I don’t think she has ever loved me…Done her duties as a mother, yes, but loved me…no.
So I will keep moving forward this time and I won’t give up, because the people that love me…they support me.
Those that don’t…They aren’t worth my time anymore…no matter how much it hurts.
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