I'm an avid writer. It's something I'm good at. It's part of my identity. But I'm also a perfectionist. So even thinking that someone would ever read what I have written inhibits the writing process entirely. The connection should have been obvious but, like so many obvious things, it wasn't to me until it was pointed out to me, in this case by strangers on the internet, bless their hearts.
So, coming to the conclusion that I would not show off what I had to write about the most recent topic to enter my brain, I was suddenly able to write. And write I did. The funny thing is, in the back of my mind, I still know that I may share this story. But by tricking myself, or by being bluntly honest that this draft will never be revealed to other eyes, I was able to create something that I probably ought to be proud of. I am good writer.
So there's fiction, and that's all well and good. Then there's journaling, which serves the completely difference of keeping a record of my life's adventures. Then still, there is this blog, a lecture to an invisible audience about thoughts I think and that feel important. Except this. Right now I'm just writing. But just wait, I'm sure it will turn into a lecture any moment now. Probably regarding the importance of writing as a way for a cluttered mind to straighten things out, to arrange a vortex of ideas into neat little rows.
Writing about my future has always had an interesting draw for me. I pick out little scenes that I predict to happen in 20 or 30 years time, based on the rather generous assumption that I will still be with the partner that I am with in the present day. Whether or not the stories are happy should really tell me a lot about my feelings for my partner. Or they should tell me a lot about myself. I'm not quite sure whether I'm simply a pessimistic person, or if I have a very good (sub-conscious) judge of a match and I haven't (until now) found anyone that my writer's brain recognizes a positive future with.
So, here's the thing. The first time I started writing about a partnered future, it was post-transition, and filled with sadness because already I suspected that my father would not accept things with compassion. In past months there was at least one story that I wanted to write, again filled with sadness, about meeting back up with a partner post-transition and decades after parting ways, trying to rekindle a romance only to be shut down again and wallow in my physical, emotional and existential loneliness as a migrant physician.
Today I started writing again. I bit the bullet and using the wrong pen and the wrong notebook, put the words to paper and just kept going. I immortalized my self-doubt, my suspicion about how I'd be able to handle being a parent (especially to a daughter), realizing my crippling dependence on a partner for reassurance... and yet this one is going to be different. It's going to end happily. At some point, in this story, 45 year old me will stop being 22. Two decades of love and support, hard work and affirmation will have solidified themselves in me, and I will be confident. I will find strength in myself to be alone. I don't really want to be alone but that's important nonetheless. It is so because I will not need to constantly turn to my partner for reassurance, approval, or validation of my choices. I will already know what he would say, and trusting his judgment, I will be able to draw on that. Knowing that he trusts me, I will be able to trust myself. Then one day, I will simply, unilaterally, trust myself as well.
Today I was able to write about a future in which I have the body, voice, and place in society that I desire, and my family still loved me. Sure, I shoved in some angst about being a parent of a teenager, a parent that was responsible for dragging my kids along on my world-saving adventures without taking enough time to figure out what they wanted for themselves... but at least, in this fantasy, I was functional, and happy, and so was my family. My parents weren't there, but my partner's mom was. Because that's the future I want for myself. I haven't yet encountered anyone who has explicitly wished for parents-in-law, but I do. What stemmed from damage may turn out to be a positive contributing factor to a very healthy marriage. Alliance, cohesion, family love that isn't made up or owed. Real, true affection. I shy away from labeling it as child to parent because that is a bit incestuous, but I will borrow from cultures where such relationships are normal. Heck, there's even such a one in the bible. I need to review.
So, anyways. Writing. It's cool. It shows me that I still have a lot to work through, but I can see a light at the end of this tunnel that shines much brighter than any other. And now, the source of issues is not a lack of acceptance or divergence of life plans with my partner. It's a very valid worry about how I'm going to get along with a person I haven't met yet: my kid. At least, I think it's valid. Of course by saying that, clearly I'm not so sure. Anyways. I was able to write a fantasy in which my partner was supportive of me and attracted to me in the body I want, and it wasn't some huge stretch of the imagination. That makes me feel good. A whole lot better than I've ever felt before about a boy. Because this, this isn't a relationship. It's a partnership.
I think I may be in love.
I am so fucked.
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