First off, many apologies for the long absence. I have had some pretty nasty health issues these past few weeks that have kept me free of the blogosphere, for want of a better buzzword (If you have ever prolapsed a disc in your back you will know my pain). I sit here, Handel’s Sarabande Suite playing, its melancholy tones fitting the reflective mood I am in. Of all the times to return to my blog, this seemed the most fitting.
There was someone many people knew; someone who knew such sadness wiithin themselves and could never see their future. They had a name but tomorrow begins their final journey. They are about to be erased.
Tomorrow begins the legal process of getting my GRC (Gender Recognition Certificate). It is a majorly positive thing and a huge milestone, but there is that tinge of sadness to the thought of erasing the person I used to be… It was that person that met many of you, became your friend and, for some strange reason, was even loved by some of you. There are also those that hated who I was too, those who couldn’t handle the unpredictability, the self-destructiveness…and there were those that I loved who walked away from me, and those I had to let go.
I need it to be known that every time I held your hand, gave you a sympathetic ear, or my shoulder to cry on was real. Every hug, kiss and friendship was utterly me. The face may have not been me, the name didn’t truly belong to me, the voice didn’t sound like mine, but the place all that love came from is the same as where it comes from now. I did good things, and I did bad things; I said ‘I love you’ and meant it in absolute earnestness, and I have said it and not meant a word of it. I am not looking to offload my mistakes onto a construct of someone else.
Tomorrow I will start the process to officially erase that identity. There are those who have told me that the person I was felt dead to them and had been replaced with a stranger. I have looked into the eyes of people grieving my death, and suffered their resentment for it. I have been mourned in vilified in the same moment, but what you have instead of a mask, is the truth of me. The name, the face, the voice… they have had their time. My face was the lie, but my heart was the truth.
I grieve for those whom I loved, but who never got to see the real me. From beloved relatives, to friends taken too soon. I am wracked with guilt that whilst I got the best of them, I never felt I could be honest enough to give them the best of me.
In my darkest days there was one friend who was always there, and without him I would not have made it this far. To be given the news he had been killed in accident before getting to know the real me was like being shot in the heart. I firmly believe that when you love a person, it is unique; you never love someone the same way as you love anyone else, and I deeply loved him. His absence from this world leaves a gaping hole that nothing could ever fill.
This process I am going through is not optional for me, but I do not want to forget the good things that old version of me had, and not just the things I have lost. On the days when the Dysphoria is bad, when the brain turns on itself and torments me, it is hard to remain positive, which is why it is all the more important to fight. Many friendships have ended, but others have grown these past years. The best lesson I have learned is, perhaps, to know who to embrace and who needs to be let go, however close.
As for that name, that face, that voice… although they are dead to me, the beautiful times and the love that was shared in that time has not gone anywhere… and some of them were truly, truly beautiful.
I called this piece ‘The Story of How I Died’. As a writer, I feel that there are many forms of death… the kind that fundamentally change you, the ones that grow new life, and the ones that just end everything. I have never been so full of life as I am now. So many deaths in our community are of the kind that just end, but if we all tell our stories, we may help towards making that number go down.