We were shocked how easy it was for us previously to have gotten distracted, to jump our lives over to something else, for someone else. To get wrapped up in an unhealthy relationship and have that become the endless, the only, part of our conversations. Something to distract, to get in the way. For me, I was utterly flummoxed that my brain had the space, that I could sit long enough with any of it. A mind unclouded lets the truth look through. I could sense it over my shoulder, but I was still too frightened to turn.
I had canceled that initial consultation with the surgeon in New York City and never rescheduled. I found myself doing what I could to avoid the conversation, and with any friend who had known, I shut it down. Losing myself in tumultuous spirals that only extended to my therapist, and some not even to her.
I just need to learn to be comfortable.
I am being too extreme.
I just need tighter sports bras.
You can’t, you’re an actor.
Suck it up.
Suck it up.
Suck it up.
Was I going to U-turn again? Or perhaps another would bring me home, return me to when I almost reached it, a last-minute stumble, a jump for the train.
I sat in a small blue, green, and white lawn chair on the front porch, a spot I had unofficially made mine. It’s where I probably spent most of my time there. And where I am sitting again as I write this, looking out the same window. The wild plants and grass are much higher, the top rising a foot or so above the sill. A wall of trees stands at the bottom of the hilled yard. The tips of their bright summer leaves sway in front of the high noon blue, with stoic evergreens intermixed throughout.
My mind kept returning to this question, whenever I saw anyone who knew me—really knew me—so I asked Bea: “When was the first time I spoke to you about potentially being trans?”
I was surprised at how long ago it was. Right before my twenty-ninth birthday:
“The first time was back when I lived in Stroud. After a long silence you asked me if I thought you were trans, there was like a hot tsunami of emotion coming from you, and time slowed down and everything expanded, and it felt like a relief. It was the conversation that hid behind our growing up together, back when we had no words, or at least, I didn’t, just a sensation, and when the words began to flow, it was this sweet juxtaposition of something hard to be said at first, but also so easy and light, this sense of a world finding its breath, one that resonated with your essential life force.”
I can state unequivocally that I would not be here without Bea.
Fuck, I’ve made so many U-turns it seems the dizziness has affected my memory. Receiving this from Bea prompted flashbacks. Friends I had asked, friends I had told. And again and again, I pushed it down, down, and down. I moved on to the next role, the next photo shoot, the next relationship, the next airport, the next tighter sports bra. I just have to deal.
The blue, green, and white lawn chair squeaked whenever I moved. In the middle of the night, the tiniest movement could startle a buck that unknown to me was standing in the darkness. The panicked bolt made Mo go off, the excellent guard dog he is.
My brain would not stop. I was writing in the day, reading, going on long hikes by myself that I should not have been going on by myself. When the evening hit, the dark sky reached to the forest floor, complete silence other than a far-off truck making its way down a distant road. In that stillness, it would come tumbling down, but there was nothing left to say, nothing left to do. I felt trapped, unable to take off my clothes, sleeping with my shoes on. The candlelight flickered on the window, making my reflection barely visible. I looked down to my hand and clenched it. The words were always the same, I just needed to shut up.
Hard and sharp, I struck myself with my knuckles. Surprised at my temerity, I glanced back down at my fist. Inspecting it, I looked at both sides and then, WHAM! Again. And again. Harder. Sharper. I pummeled my face, pounding next to my right eye. Some other force working to knock it out.
Bruises materialized. I’d be seeing people in a couple days, friends who were coming up to stay briefly at another cabin nearby. I had to surmise a way of explaining it, or a way of hiding it.
Did I trip and fall? Hit the side of the table?
That seemed made up. I iced it on and off, obsessively checking the mirror.
Maybe I dropped my phone on my face while lying on my back?
The bruise was way too big for that.
Maybe you need to just tell someone?
Nope, I wasn’t going to do that. I attempted to cover the shiner with foundation. Dabbing it with my finger, trying different strategies. It worked somewhat.
My face hurt, but the pain came mostly from shame and guilt. I felt awful about what I had done to my body, about covering up for my self-abusive self. Sleeping in my shoes was one thing, battering my face was different, a breaking point. And there it was, that edge again. A body smarter than me.
A few days later, back in my favorite chair, I watched the trees as gusts of wind passed through like clockwork. The movement of the branches interrupted the late afternoon sun, the beams pierced through and waltzed effortlessly with the motion. The marks left by my fist had partially faded, the sting as well. Discreet Music by Brian Eno spun on the record player.
I had a flashback to the feeling on the beach with Nikki. My chest, the staring down, wanting more pressure but despising the reminder. There was always a reminder. Unable to shower, remove my hoodie, eat without anxiety, or eat at all. Sadness came over me, a grief and anger, livid that I could not just be. Exhausted by the distress, a brain that was about to crack, unsure if I was able to cope.
And then something happened.
You don’t have to feel this way.
That voice.
I don’t have to feel this way?
That fucking voice.
You don’t have to feel this way.
I don’t have to feel this way.
This was not miracle water that sprang out of nowhere. This was a long-ass journey. However, this moment was indeed that simple, as it should be—deciding to love yourself. There had been multiple forks in the road, and more than once I had taken the wrong path, or not, depends on how you look at it I guess. It is painful the unraveling, but it leads you to you.
There it finally was, a portal. It was time to step through.
28
NO WORDS
Filming for the third season of The Umbrella Academy was due to commence in January. If I wasn’t able to get the surgery within three months, it would mean waiting another year. The space for doubt was gone, there was no more room for second-guessing. I was thirty-three. From the moment I decided, I had not a single second thought, no little whisper telling me to throw the shift into reverse. I was able to get a consultation scheduled for a month later, they did not think the timing was possible for the operation.
Then, a cancellation. My initial conversation with the surgeon was pulled up by two weeks and a slot for the procedure was now available on November 17, in the nick of time. I thought my Zoom with the doctor would be emotional and overwhelming, it could not have been more chill. Nothing but smiles. I felt listened to, I felt safe. My whole body took a deep breath.
This is a complicated matter to write about, because some people who are reading this have to wait years and years to finally have their surgery, or will never have access to gender-affirming care. I can imagine anyone would feel angry, resentful, and roiled by my privilege, what it allows me. Time during a pandemic to not work and self-reflect. I am not from a place where it is illegal. I was able to go to a private clinic and pay the approximately twelve thousand dollars. I had a place to stay. A friend who had the energy to care for me. Food to eat as I recovered. A job right around the corner, one where I could be me. I didn’t have to depend on a health-care system that would leave me waiting potentially for years.
Even though I am extremely lucky, this narrative where trans people have to feel lucky for these crumbs—that we fought hard for, and still fight for—is perverse and manipulative. Here is the thing—I almost did not make it, the now I finally have I did not see, and all I knew was permanent emptiness, a mystery I would never solve. Incessant, without language, a depth of despair. Shameful, with all that I had—what dreams are made of. I did nothing but sink, dread blanketing me. I couldn’t see what was in front of me. I should not have to grovel with gratitude. Am I grateful? Fuck, yeah! But everyone should have access to gender-affirming and lifesaving health care. It just should be.