Some nights I just want to curl up into a ball and wait for the world to pass for a while as I contemplate the paradox of the transsexual experience.
We live the earlier part of our lives trying to make ourselves fit in and seem normal to everyone else. Meanwhile we’re gradually shriveling up and dying inside, as we see our lives drifting farther and farther away from anything our true selves could ever find a place within. We grow ever more miserable even as we accumulate various accouterments of success.
Call that Act One.
At some point we realize we can’t continue like that. We find the resources and courage to confront the situation. We decide it’s time to be honest about what has been held inside our whole lives.
We lose a lot in the process. We become near pariahs, cast out from ordinary social circles and clinging to any scrap of social acceptance we can find. The only ones who truly seem to understand the devastation are fellow transsexuals. However, as if the universe conspires against us, such people are by definition struggling through their own journey. In their haste to move ahead toward their own goals, they can seldom offer lasting support. We mostly exchange a few kind words and then fade out of each others lives. And then, afterward and individually, we complain about our loneliness.
Call that Act Two
Now I love a good sad story. But can you blame me for looking forward to Act Three?