A silly essay of sorts, aye?
I got up today and realized that I had it all wrong. Must be my perspective, I thought. You see, like many of us, I get frustrated by my mirror image. It’s days like this that I wish I was somewhere else entirely, if you know what I mean. Like… if I can’t be transitioning home, my life feels like some lame rock and roll song, you know? Perhaps stuck in a corset on some Victorian day or maybe night?
Anyway, my super secret life has me somewhat embarrassed; even ashamed enough at times to turn my face scarlet. I know I shouldn’t feel guilty, but I’ve really got one year and one day to look forward to; Sunday, the fifth of March in 2023 to start my real life test (sigh)….
Anybody that tells you that being transgender is as easy as falling off a bike has it wrong…at least in life. I even prayed last night that God would take away these feelings from me; you know…a spiritual cure? But that’s not gonna happen because this is who I am. They say that love is blind. I guess self-esteem is deaf and dumb as well when it comes to living out this life of ours…feeling inauthentic and not terribly real?
It’s not like everything falls into place like Mandy Collins or just gets changed almost magically like Kate Draffen. More like a sandstorm where we get bounced around and abraded. If you sat and interviewed me you’d hear me saying that it might never happen anywhere at anyplace at anytime; hence my frustration. You know of what I speak, as Galadriel might say.
Will I ever get to be an unexpected bridesmaid or a wifey to my spouse of 27 years? Not likely, but maybe someday? Some days I don’t feel I even have a ghost of a chance, you know? A T-Girl agent whose life might seem like a vanilla sky but feels more like a day without sunshine. My wife told me what a good boy am I, but that hurts more than any one else’ insults, since it isn’t really where I want to be in her heart, you know?
When duty calls, you do what makes you beautiful in your beloved’s eyes, which leads to extra time to wait to be yourself, sadly and all too frequently something many of us already face. Like a camp in the willows, you want it to be sweet and sentimental, but it turns out you’re mistaken, girl. You wish for the death of insanity, but all your toil and trouble gets you is feeling like you’ll always be fragile; with a heart of glass!
You wish for a requiem for a heart and instead you’ll find yourself like Jem; outsmarted, on the run, and in hiding like me. (Sigh) Through the years it’s like lipstick and lead; both soft and painful at the same time, even if you have a magnetic personality. Bloodlines make no difference when you live some else’s idea of life, since your kit and kin find your femme self less than acceptable if they find it at all. I’m not Diane or Sue or Estelle or Myrna or even Tiffany; I’m Andrea. No dopamine rush is going to overcome all the frustration at this point. No Jenny Lind singing in my cabaret of a life either; my progress toward transition is glacial-like while my disappointment careens downhill faster than life. I must say, however that since you arrived, I feel maybe like I am actually moving on.
Like an afternoon at the races, my week has been just like a derby day of surprises, you know? Some days it was like the the bliss behind the stalk of a rose or a game theory; learning to play the game of life, aye? Other days it was like an addiction. Still other days like a jade skirt that had me hoping I was alternately the last of the fey or a experiencing a pleasant hospital surprise. I found out after all, that I count each and every one of you as the one that I love.
Please excuse the confused ramblings of a gardner of folks, okay? I hope that no matter what I feel like, that I can at least help you feel better about yourself and your life, aye?
Sincerely, Andrea D.
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