You are currently browsing all posts tagged with 'loss'.
Displaying 1 - 5 of 31 entries.

Departure lounge

  • Posted on May 6, 2013 at 9:36 am

Silence is a presence in the pressing noise
my ears as unhearing as my eyes can see glass

walls
of impending departure sealing sound
without
passport, boarding card or ticket, bag

and you, in conversation, never looking back
waiting behind your reflection in the glass.

 

Goodbyes, those precursors to greetings, yours
elsewhere, captured in silence, heart in flight

more
in decision than in joy, but its absence
like
the missing kiss and reassurance, bag in hand

and you, in your other world, spreading wings
waiting, beating, preparing for your flight.

 

Half-reflections, sun-caught fragments of my dress
glass-printed, unmoving as your body wheels

laughter
and anticipation silenced by the glass
recognisable
in your remembered scent and touch

as you walk and wait, embark and disappear
in the thunder, roar of flight, of lifting wheels.

 

Bright dots, navigation lights blinking in the sun
silence in the glass as they merge, are gone

my feet
are for walking, ticket to a car park
my journey
a returning, wheels to a home alone

I am fragments of light in silent glass
no longer waiting—reflecting how you’ve gone.

 

2012 © Andie Davidson

Kissing gate

  • Posted on April 21, 2013 at 11:32 am

The rustic V gives no room
to rucksack or handbag, presses
cleavage like some unwelcome grope—
I cannot say ‘excuse me’ as I ease,
scrape, through, out, step back

then grasp the rail, hold it closed
until a kiss unlocks it. Instead
I walk away, take eyes, take mouth—
I cannot say ‘kiss me’ as I sigh,
escape, screw turn, step on

to keep cows safe, as if they might drift
to fields unready for their mouths,
choose to walk through them, not round—
lesbians all, bulling, mounting
in absence, climbing backs.

Kissing gates used to work so well,
powered as they were by a part of me,
these eyes still close in expectation—
I lose the kiss, excuse myself;
a cow backs down, she lifts her tail.

I do not turn to the rustic creak
or the girls who giggle, squeeze the V,
bar the gate, embrace its railing—
kiss without passion or excuse
unfolding the path with laughter.

 

2012 © Andie Davidson

Cause, fault, blame, responsibility: an uncomfortable family

  • Posted on April 12, 2013 at 1:32 pm

Some long while ago I wrote on this blog in response to the accusation many people born trans face: that they are being selfish. (Self, Self(ish), Selfish)

What do people see? They see a person whom they thought quite stable and happy, suddenly doing something quite bizarre. And that apparent behaviour intrudes on their lives, disrupts and challenges it, whilst insisting on acceptance. That is not always forthcoming; families are destroyed by lack of understanding and unreadiness to change. Is this still the same person? Even a clinical diagnosis is met with scepticism. This, surely is a derangement, a lifestyle choice. With all our shared social conditioning, this is weird.

Blame

A man does not become a woman in our world. They become some pretence, some male-looking actor mistakenly persuaded that their role belongs in real life. Somewhere between this perception and the reality, so often, destructive and divisive forces are at work. I haven’t even been able to have the conversation with my grown-up daughter, to find out why we cannot even have dialogue about her impressions, feelings and perceptions. But surely there must be a mixture of confusion, embarrassment, anger and blame.

As I work out what possible grounds for divorce are honest and truthful, I compare this birth condition with others. A congenital muscle disorder that might leave me in a wheelchair? How disruptive is that, how life-changing, how relationship-changing? And yes, it can lead to marital breakdown, as can mastectomy or impotence. But blame? ‘I married a fit, strong man, not this!’ Is this completely different from gender? Is the love of the other really so different in each case?

Cause

My wife and I do not use the word ‘blame’. I consistently use the word ‘cause’, because I fully accept that the way I was born, being hidden so long, has resulted in loss of my family, marriage and home. I could no longer be ‘her man’. The operative element that has to be examined is choice. Why could I not have continued as I was? Well, all my life there was a part of me that I hated. I feared it; it was morally wrong to me, a perversion even. Largely unexpressed, but incapable of eradication. And therefore not something I could ever disclose. My wife said to me this week: ‘No-one should hate themselves.’ What kind of choice is this: between hating yourself – and being authentic but unloved and unwanted?

This is the result, and gender dysphoria is the cause. There is no blame. Why? Because my wife reacted and responded as the overwhelming majority of wives would. It’s very ordinary and simple really. As in my last blog, marriage is a self-serving contract; it is not really about the other at all. A wife has a husband for a reason, and if that husband is no longer going to play that male role, it’s over. Tough. I’ll let you be different if you’ll let me be normal, but don’t expect me to live with you, let alone want you like that. So there is a cause in the other too: conditioned normality within strict boundaries.

Fault

So much for cause but no blame. What about fault? Fault has several meanings. It can mean defective. This is my fault because there is something defective about me. It can mean a fault line. Two masses (or people) rubbing up alongside each other in contrary directions causing division and friction. It can mean the result of a careless or deliberate act that causes damage. Well, I still maintain that when a person experiences gender dysphoria, their transition into gender congruence is not a deliberate chosen act, but rather inevitable and perfectly fair and reasonable. There is no fault in being authentic: we are not nasty or even unloving people. Nor is it defect: only variance. 1 in 1,000 of us are to some degree intersex, 1 in 4,500 (birth identified) men and 1 in 8,000 women experience gender dysphoria. This is no defect deserving of rejection or blame. This is not fault.

The fault-line analogy is better. Both sides are working in opposite directions. So if fault has any meaning it belongs equally with the socially-conditioned partner for whom what the previously-loved partner is, matters vastly more than who they are. So love dies, because that is what it was founded on. This was our fault-line.

And so the cause, the blame, and the fault, when a family or a relationship fails under gender conflict, are equal. Neither side should bear more than the other. In a few cases, love is of a different kind. Perhaps sexuality is more fluid, or love more unconditional, or compassion profoundly greater. But losing everything is almost normal for the transitioning person, however lovely, loving, kind, talented, generous and committed they are. Person-hood does not play a part. I am fortunate compared with friends facing vindictiveness in partners. And in those cases, I do tend to feel that there is blame, simply because such attitudes are unjustified, deliberate and sustained.

Responsibility

And so finally, to ‘responsibility’. This is the missing word so often. It means whether you are the rejecting one or the rejected, you accept responsibility for the outcomes. Each must recognise the cause of their response, whether becoming authentic, or choosing to keep their norms unchallenged. And as above, this should be equal. As in my last blog, my marriage failed because of both of us. My dysphoria was the cause of my necessary change, but my wife’s conditioned normality was the cause of her rejection: our degrees of choice were perhaps not dissimilar. I shall not argue whether either of us could have resisted each of those pressures.

I took my responsibility by dissolving the emotional torture through leaving. I bore that burden first not just because I was no longer wanted, but because I felt I could and should. I had a life to develop and clear aims in achieving peace with myself after forty years. No-one was going to help me with that and I no longer hoped or expected it. But now we come to part two.

Part two is dispersal of our shared house and assets, and that means a secure family home that still exists, with cats and a productive garden, energy efficiency, and all we worked for together over 30 years. So it’s where the real hit is for my wife (son and cats), my daughter having just moved out to start on her own. It’s the end of everything, and it will hurt. Not me, so much, because I went through all that six months ago. I have nothing left other than the financial asset to help me find a more permanent and sustainable home. But I know it will raise in the others the same old feelings of cause, blame, fault – and responsibility. That too is equal. But I know that a new reality is sinking in for those who used to be my family; it’s time for them to realise their responsibility, not least in failing to gather around me when I needed it, and in the rejection that has now lost them their home too. They don’t even talk together about what has happened.

And that, however it is said, is not me blaming them. There are causes on both sides, there is responsibility too. And that needs to be fully recognised. ‘I take full responsibility for rejecting you and ending my love for you.’ How does that sound? I think it is fair, and perhaps worth voicing.

About time

  • Posted on April 6, 2013 at 1:14 pm

ClockIt must be one of the most-repeated phrases offered me over this past six months. Give it time. It takes time. Time heals. Take your time. And here I am, with taking time enforced on me, and no idea of how quickly or slowly it will take to recover from pneumonia. The reason in part is that it is unpredictable and unseen. Had it been flu, symptomatic remedies, a few boxes of tissues, and I would bravely sit at my desk and recover as I worked. Fewer tissues means I would be getting better.

But somewhere inside one of my lungs, stuff has been going on unseen. Listened to and identified, x-rayed and seen, but not by me. I just feel unwell, breathless, hardly even coughing, but weakened and diminished. Discovering the financial penalty for this added a whole load of stress, and hasn’t helped. I have to earn so I can pay the rent, so I have to get well, and I have no idea of the timescales. I pushed myself a bit far this week, and really felt it, but without pushing and stretching I won’t know my limits.

But it isn’t actually time that will do anything; it’s healing. My body will heal itself, but can only do so one step at a time.

Last night I went for my penultimate counselling session, mainly to explain this time how I feel I have fulfilled that need. In respect to my reasons for returning to counselling, I am healed. It wasn’t time, and it wasn’t really any advice given. I found my peace through reflection, facing up to uncomfortable truths, nurturing myself, and accepting the kindness and generosity of others as genuine. The process has been very costly too. The expense of separating myself from the agonies of emotional rejection, facing the meaning of it, and arriving at my peace now, has probably been the biggest financial investment of my life. Is it a loss? Compared with my sense of wholeness and self-knowledge, no. That’s priceless. I have had the means, and I have used it to be where I need it to be.

Pneumonia will leave its scars for some time to come. As will the separation, because I have a head full of memories, wonderful memories of when I felt loved and wanted and could return the same. I picked a book up this morning that not only bore a loving inscription but two love notes, each to the other. And despite friendly text messages after my welfare this week, a quite empty feeling has crept in, where over 30 years of loving and ordinary life in partnership and mutual support, has simply evaporated to nothing at all. I thought love was solid. Instead it was fluid and volatile, dissipating easily into thin air.

I was asked in counselling how much I was saying that the love was not real. (Am I denying the past to protect myself?) It was real alright, it just wasn’t love as I thought of it. I reject none of it, I remember it all with great affection. But it is devalued by its dependency on my having played a role and filled a need, rather than being simply about being loved for myself. Yes, the same old being loved for what I am, not for who I am; that, I am afraid, is the bottom line and nothing has changed my mind. This is disappointment, not denial.

Marriage, essentially, is not about giving unconditional love. Those promises are not what they appear to be at all. It is a contract to be what the other needs, not to love the other as they need to be.

And so a realism has been allowed to speak at last too. I also know that being bonded with a woman was what kept me going, living as I did in the wrong gender role. It was a kind of proxy for my female soul. I do feel that my idea of love was the more profound (reader: the opposite is not ‘shallow’), but that is just my own judgement. I had the best friend, the most supportive companion and the most productive partnership out of those years that I could wish for, and yet I knew all along that we were not soul-mates. I may never find such a person, and what I had felt as good as I probably could ever have. Somehow I kept going for nearly 30 years, whilst knowing there was that confused part of me of which I dare not speak and share. Had I felt unconditional love, then of course I could. But I knew, and subsequently proved, that I could not.

And so it is that my true gender has found itself, asserting itself as greater than being loved for any part I could play. But with it has gone the meaning behind the kind of love given. Its dependency on my gender act (taken as genuine when of course it was not), makes it love of a different kind than I felt I was giving. Not false or shallow, just different. The agony was that I could not understand why I should withdraw any of my love, when it was all withdrawn from me; when I was missing her, but she was only missing the memory. Hence the evaporation, the cold distance, the knowing that I, as myself, am not missed at all. I know my emotional state over those months were blamed on hormones, but in the end they are only the same hormones in each of us. I am still on the hormones, but the storm of emotion has passed and memories feel so very distant.

I have arrived, at my first anniversary, a healed and complete person. I know myself as never before, I feel authentic and established. Unwell, but at peace with myself in a way I could never have imagined possible. Time is the nonsense in this. Did I transition later than I should? What if I had risked discovering love was not unconditional 20 years ago? Similarly, for many the process of transition takes a great deal longer than it has for me: how have I got here so quickly? People told me it took two or more years to get over a broken marriage, and yet I have made peace with it in much less. The only fixed time aspect is the legal practicalities, the dispersal of a shared life in goods. That will be painful, but I shall bear no guilt in knowing that we both must feel the pain. We each have our responsibilities for where we have been and how we have responded to the way I was born. It has not been ‘unreasonable behaviour’ by either of us, and we must not compare degrees of sadness. The marriage failed because of both of us, not just me.

One element of fixed time remains for me: the provable elapsed time lived in my true gender. Whatever I know, however established as a woman I am, however irrevocable my position, or certain my heart and mind, I must wait another year before I can request my rightful gender recognition certificate. Whatever procedures remain, that is a fixed time, and until then I cannot rest. Consequently, I have asked to be petitioned as the one to blame, so that I can be freed from marriage in time to apply for recognition of my true identity.

And so it is with immense gratitude that I know myself. And it’s about time. In some ways.

Touch

  • Posted on February 9, 2013 at 11:44 pm

Touch me. Go on. I dare you.
No. Don’t. I want you to touch
because your hand cannot be stayed.

I want your heart to pump the
hydraulics of your arm, with power
to reach, and with precision, delve

and stop. Because you know
what is there and must not be harmed,
and pause. Because you care.

Reach me. Go on. I shall not stay you.
I trust you, but you must believe
that this is exploration, not exhumation

and only by digging deep can you see
that I lie ready, whole, intact, longing
to be touched and brought to life again.

But I need you to want, to reach,
to hope, to welcome, to understand,
to touch. Go on. I dare you.

 

2013 © Andie Davidson