Intention Deficit

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.

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.

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

Tingling Teeth

I used to hate the term “coming out.”  The meaning of this phrase, of course, is derived from “coming out of the closet” which was almost exclusively a gay metaphor which basically everyone else appropriated.  Even straight people can “come out” about their guilty pleasures.  (i.e. “I’m a closet wrestling fan” or “I don’t tell many people this, but I have sexual fantasies about Daisy Duck.”)

"It gets really in-depth after the third
volume of my unauthorized fanfic."

Call it “confession” or “disclosure” …I don’t care anymore.  These days, letting people in on my closet-sized secret is all I want to do. I’d go so far as to say it’s a bit of a discreet mania.

I haven’t shared my gender identity situation with anyone in years, which is down to basic consideration for my wife, who would prefer to never know what it feels like for our friends & family to learn that she married a bi-gendered person.  I get that, I really do… but from the perspective of a trans-person trying to get some basic identity acquiescence, it’s a frustrating arrangement.

I’ve shared my female identity with seven people in my life (not counting the pre-marriage counsellor, who was, in retrospect, wholly unprepared to deal with that specific sort of speedbump in a burgeoning matrimonial relationship; but she did try, bless her heart, even though “wrapping myself up tightly in a sheet from the arms down” is not valid replacement therapy for actually wearing a dress… but I digress).  The hope was always to have people I trust and care about, and who cared about me, be comfortable at any given time to freely address my transgenderism, so that I didn’t feel so alone and helpless in my distress.  I assumed part of the process would involve some acceptance that I, on occasion, would dress the part (in their absence, of course… unless otherwise indicated… in which case I would just be thrilled).

Instead, what happened was the establishment of two camps of interaction:

Camp Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell - this is inhabited by friends who don’t know how to integrate transgender topics into natural conversation.  Their inhibitions seem derived from a fear of saying the wrong thing and offending me, or - in the case of those opposed to my practical application of a wardrobe - unintentionally implying that they approve of my preferred modes of expression.  Broaching the subject in this camp is generally a complete waste of time.

"Could one of you at least give me a push?"

(To be fair, I’m the only one of my kind whom these good people have ever met. Everything about addressing transgenderism has been new territory for them since the 1990s, thanks to me, exclusively.)

Camp Practical Listening & Shared Wisdom - this camp has an enrollment of one.  Even when she admits she might have no idea what she’s talking about, she still has something to say.  It helps that we’re both wired with the same belief, in that there’s no such thing as analyzing something too much. Unfortunately, this angel belongs to a popular club - “Life Obligations” - that prevents her (and potentially everyone else in the world) from getting too involved in my problems.  (Currently, we are on friend hiatus while she strengthens bonds with her husband, cares for her children with special needs, and celebrates an endless parade of birthdays in her ever-expanding family, all while enduring a weight loss battle.  I have no grounds for protest.)

In the absence of old confidantes, my natural tendency is to seek out new ones.  The obstacles here are multifold.

• The older my peers get, the more set in their ways they become.  They become more guarded of the stability of their own lifestyles, and thus fear any changes that threaten the idyllic worlds their lives have become.  (This point is valid on the condition that everyone has a personal definition of “normal” that my revelation would endanger, which I believe most people do, on the whole.)  This makes me hesitate to bring newer friends closer.

• Telling more people makes the circle wider.  The bigger the circle, the harder it becomes to keep a secret.

• My spouse just loves keeping this secret.  She can live with it, but knowing that other people know is a wound - one which my convictions prevent me from exacerbating any more than I have.

Therefore, being able to out myself to certain people whom I believe could be intellectual and/or spiritual allies in my crusade for trans-recognition has become a crossdream fantasy in and of itself.

As I write this, I’m compelled to add an important fourth drawback, which suddenly seems very crucial to the matter:

• The point of telling someone a secret is to violate its status as a “secret.”  The point of letting someone know that you’re suffering from quiet desperation is with the hope that you might find an escape from it.  Sure, at least you’re not being quiet any more, but if you want things to change, shouldn’t you expect them to change?  Why, then, would I tell someone if I didn’t?

In that regard, my friend Angel once asked me point blank, “What are you prepared to do?”

Lorelai's been there.

It’s a wake-up slap, that question.  It basically means, “Make a decision right now, and see if you can live with it.”  Well… the hard truth is that I’m not about to make any decisions that benefit myself at the expense of my other.  I can’t be Holli and keep Erica.

Nor can I cease to be Holli.  That’s not even a decision I get to make.

Given any kind of chance to live the rest of my life as Holli without consequence of those I love suffering, I know I’d take it.  I don’t even know if that life is better than this one.  I would push that button, because I need to know.

Therefore, me not finding someone else to trust and telling them who I am is like refusing to walk in the room containing the button.  This is basically me admitting that I fear someone supporting me and telling me to go for it.  I fear someone telling me it’s okay to get what I want though it destroys someone else.  I fear that I could be convinced to be that person.

And I don’t think I’m that person.

At least it’s still my decision, even if making the right one isn’t as satisfying as making the one that feels good.

c. Charles Schulz

-- HCP