Thirteen years and counting? Really?
Facebook friend wrote, I had no problem until the business of ‘cis’ and ‘trans’ arose, seemingly out of nowhere. I regard myself as a woman, do not wish or feel the need to qualify that, and rightly or wrongly feel the need to distance myself from that division. Counsellor told me that people took about five to ten years to recover from changing over, and I have not, yet.
I fear not taking the horrible minimum wage job the benefits system would force me into. I fear homelessness. I fear turning my face to the wall and not coping at all, even worse than now. I thought, I am in a spiritual malaise, physically fit, intelligent and articulate, moderately talented yet not working, and perhaps I should be willing to take any low status job to support myself, or find something better, and I just don’t. Then I thought, no, the part in me which said No. No more is the part which is sane, and the frightened bit saying get on with it is the mad bit. And the part which said No is the part with all the energy, and the nag and the scold have none.
And I am like my parents, so much, moving round the country never putting down roots, keeping myself to myself with few friends- other things too? Not free choice, then, any of it, the best I could do seems so paltry
Thirteen years and counting? What would transitioned me, sane me, fixed me, look like? I am all there is. If I want to be someone else, that is illusion. I might practise, develop or exercise what there is.
I have said that before, too. Keep saying it.
“Can’t bear it if you’re cross” said my friend, and I wondered, what do you think of me? Am I just this angry person? I have been practising acceptance- what you are is so beautiful that I welcome the bit you imagine I might be cross about, because it is part of you. But then you were going to call, then were going to call later, if possible, and did not, and I am left with my fantasies: you fear my judgment though you seem so fearless, or just anticipate being uncomfortable at my whining. So why bother with me? It so delighted me that it seemed you wanted to spend time with me that not hearing, not speaking, not being able to say, texting is so frustrating.
I am as transitioned as I will get. Acceptance may be the thing. Now it feels as if I am bound in sackcloth, wrapped in a cilice; everything irritates me, and I see no way of improving my situation.
It should not be this way!
But it is.