The new year couldn’t come soon enough. Yet, the morning of the first square on the fresh calendar came too soon. Bleary eyed and weary from yet another night of too often interrupted sleep, the dry Vermont winter air forcing me to sleep with a glass of water by my side, I laid awake and pondered how I could possibly get back up on my feet to do something productive. At first, I was too weary to sit up, much less get ready for the day.
Despite the promise of a new day and a fresh calendar, I couldn’t help but reflect on the night before. So many New Year’s traditions I’d broken, many out of lack of convenience, still others were due to dietary changes that my body has forced me to make over the past year. I continued to reflect on just how fragile the year previously had made me in so many aspects.
I was looking forward to another night of loving, to highlight my final day transitioning into a new decade. The love making was great, and I wish it would‘ve lasted all the way until the toll of midnight, but I basically had to let my partner do all the work. I had been passing out at random throughout the day, and it’s a wonder I could perform at all given the relatively melancholy state I’ve been in for the better part of the previous week. The melancholy didn’t dissipate in the way I’d hoped, as our slumber carried us into a new year.
This man has saved my life. He has given me the one thing I have to look forward to each day. It’s become my desire to love him, as nothing else in life has gone my way, but that one thing has gone so exceedingly well that I’d be a fool not to maximize the potential of this amazing relationship that had begun on a whim not even five months previous. It was the only thing that has seen me though my rapid physical transformation that really feels more like a serious deterioration than actual improvement or progress.
He sees things differently, as my poor shell of flesh and blood is forced to accept a more feminine appearance and physiology. I’m fine with those external changes, but internally the war is one that I’m hardly winning. It’s a frustrating stalemate, this constant fear of being stuck between genders, physically, emotionally, and mentally.
My own self identity is in a massive state of flux, yet my treatment has done one major positive thing, it’s nearly eliminated my powerful adrenaline rushes. The ebbs and flows of my serotonin and other supporting cast of neurotransmitters have calmed somewhat. Yet, my body is still losing, or is it?
The estrogen is the one thing that is my hope for victory over my maladies. It’s the only medication on which I’ve ever had any meaningful positive progress. But it can’t move quickly enough, which is why I’m doubling my daily dose in about a week. Yet it’s not mere impatience prompting this change, it’s medically approved. The evil testosterone keeps forcing a stalemate, even as outwardly I appear and present more female with each passing day, I feel less sure that I’m actually worthy of being referred to as a female.
I’m very fortunate to live with someone and be so close to one who is one hundred percent man and completely sure of his gender identity. It also helps that he sees me as one hundred percent female, despite any genetic or physiological glitch that may cause others to think otherwise. Of course, I’m such a perfectionist and so all or nothing that most days I feel an abject failure.
It doesn’t help that I spend much of my days putting my self worth on the line based on how I perform in various video games. What other means do I have of evaluating myself? My man tells me I’m perfect as I am and while that’s reassuring to hear on a constant basis, I don’t yet see it in myself.
I’ve resolved to keep looking forward. I’ve spent so long looking back, trying to learn from my many mistakes, so many of them clearly foolish and selfish. But, what do any of those matter now? I’ve been given a reset button and I punched it as hard as I could. I really have no excuse to ever look back now.
But as much as I resolve every year past to rededicate myself to writing, to be as prolific as humanly possible, to finally be able to tell my story without couching my more fear-inducing moments in cutesy cartoonish silliness, and yet only now do I feel fully capable of doing so. I have no worries any longer if I will be loved, of that I have no doubt at all. No longer must I concern myself with wandering about aimlessly.
My direction is clear, yet I still continue to hesitate. But, as they say, the best way to start a new beginning is just to begin, and what better time to start than now? I’m not resorting to anything like a daily planner or forcing myself into a 365 day regimen, as the writing tips and tricks do not work for me. I simply must write without filter and that’s always been very difficult for me to do without the well justified fear of backlash from contemporaries.
But now, I have the undying love and support of the greatest man I’ve ever met and will ever meet, so why do I still hesitate? I’ve chalked it up to poor heuristics, bad habits that have held me back. It’s a wonder I’ve written anything worthwhile recently, and I have. But it’s never enough. But his love is more than enough. I hope that mine is too, as it seems to be.
I will never be perfect, none of us ever shall be. If my only way to succeed in this mortal existence is to bring my writing techniques and communication skills into a more perfect state, then that’s what I should do. I won’t let arbitrary markers such as hours or days or weeks dictate my production.
I can no longer concern myself with matters of statistics or outwardly facing performance metrics. These force the types of competition that are essentially meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Life is often not about winning, but rather doing what you feel needs to be done, and learning from the results.
The only metric I should worry about is completely binary. Have I said what I need to say? That’s it. For now, I believe I have.