I'm looking at my recent wave of posts and thinking, "How many different ways can I say 'I want to come out, but I won't, because I'm considerate and selfless?'" followed immediately with "Could I just shut up and pick another topic?" Obviously, the self-sanction/self-denial contradiction has been weighing on me this summer.
It probably started last month when Erica, completely of her own volition, broached the subject of me taking a "girl day." I actually faltered (in shock, mostly), demurred (because I'm soooo selfless, have I mentioned that?), and gradually relented, since it's been entire years since I've had spouse-sanctioned permission to switch wardrobes, much less when it's her idea!
The time was delightful. Erica insisted there was no problem spending the day with me "as friends," and we even tackled downsizing our full-to-bursting closet together. I made her try on every outfit she owned and did the same with mine, and we gave each other feedback on what worked and what didn't, what to save and what to donate. As women do.
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| Later, we binged TV shows and ate junk food in pigtails and pajama pants. As introverts do. |
The process of rummaging through my clothes showed me an unprecedented premise, regarding the kinds of clothes I've been collecting over the years: dresses, skirts, shoes... naturally. Also: tops, pants, sweaters, shorts, overalls (long and short), assorted lingerie, including underwear, bras, legwear, nightwear, & *ahem* playwear. In short, my wardrobe doesn't reflect someone who obsesses with dressing as a woman, so much as it indicates the thoughtfulness and thoroughness of someone building their female identity. If I didn't know any better, I might say that subconsciously I was taking steps to transition from one life to another.
I'm not, of course. And I realize that sounds like denial, and many readers are shaking their heads and placing little bets with themselves that I'm about two years from announcing my full, legal abandonment of all male entitlements and privileges. It's because I really want to, yes. I admit it. But still, I won't. Because I don't have a good enough reason.
I've definitely got reasons to come out, though, you betcha! ... Shall I list them? You betcha.
1. I like being honest. If there's one trait I possess that's both a virtue and liability, it's truthfulness. Don't go thinking I'm all pious, because I know how to lie, and lie well. (It sorta goes with the closet life.) My issue is that I want to proclaim truth. This makes me trustworthy and dependable, while at the same time completely annoying to my Facebook friends who constantly post stupid inaccuracies in the news and with various memes. Usually, though, I pair my truth with tact, for maximum effectiveness.
Put another way: when a relative of mine once said he could always count on me to tell the truth, this was less of a compliment and more a way of pointing out that I always tell on myself. Truly, I find intimate personal divulgence romantically idyllic. People close to me have no idea how easy it is to get the truth out of me, if they try. Although, maybe they don't want to. Which brings me to...
2. Hiding my femme identity is exhausting. As I've mentioned before, there are loved ones who know of my secret feminine self, but most of them don't want any part of this world. I make the effort to keep them shielded from it. And then there's... the rest of the world, basically. For half of them I'm good, since I really don't care if the men catch on (in fact, I prefer it). My problem is the distance between myself and other women.
I could (and might) write an entirely separate article on how agonizing it is to know women, to have them as friends, and not be able to explain how deeply I relate to them... more so, to withhold the opportunity for them to care. It's indescribable, the heartache of socializing with women and knowing they still see me as male, being the only one who can see the invisible wall between us. At least if they knew, there could be an informed decision. Of course, once or twice the wall has fallen, and the response was... less than optimal. Leading to...
3. I hate the idea of getting "caught." It's only funny in sitcoms. The old "It's not what it looks like!" routine followed by a laugh track, or the wail of a sad trombone. In real life, there's shock, anger, a tragic lack of adequate vocabulary, and wild ultimatums. In the best case scenario, there's still debris to clean up, left over from the world everyone once knew but is gone forever, a sense of loss, the pain of change.
It's the concept - "caught" - that highlights the difference between asserting oneself and becoming a victim of circumstance. Basically, you can't get caught at something if everyone knows you're doing it. Feeling guilty because someone learned about your secret, outside of it being your decision to let them know, somehow suggests wrongdoing. In moral circles, they say that whatever you practice in secret must be immoral, if you don't want anyone else to know you're doing it. Truly, if I were to out myself as transgender there would still be judgment, but I believe that might be easier to endure than this gender purgatory I dwell in now.
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| They also say the grass is greener, over there. That could also be because there's more fertilizer to step in, if you know what I'm sayin'. |
As I continue my journey, I notice another trend that hasn't quite caught on yet, but may impact events in the future: I'm less concerned with secrecy. It's become more a job than an obligation, to the point where I should classify it as "community service in lieu of jail." Except that I've been serving time as well. And I still don't see how I'm guilty of any crime. One of these days, I may just blurt it out in a flash of blind rebellion, just because I need to evoke a reaction. At worst, I'll get sideways glances and hasty exits from the rooms I walk in. Maybe that kind of treatment doesn't worry me anymore.
Social norms. Can't live with 'em, can't leave the house without 'em. (Although if I decide to try, I've got maybe two weeks' worth of outfits before I have to come home to use the washer & dryer.)
-- HCP
