Day 168

3.34pm Much is there to be reflected on regarding the IFGE conference, which I have only several hours ago returned from after driving since 5:30 last night. Admittedly not the wisest decision; however, it was not without some masochistically enjoyable adventures of its own; including one involving a first trip to Starbucks and a dent in the rental car having gone unnoticed until this moment.

Regardless. First, a rough address of the timeline: My mother and I, having signed up for only Thursday and Friday of the conference, left Sunday morning for a sort of pre-vacation vacation, as it were; and we arrived in Tucson on the eve of Wednesday. After some discussion, it was decided that registering would be more important than dinner at the particular moment the decision was made. There were as it turned out various slight complications regarding a number of things having to do with our registration; fortunately, no damage was done and the incidents were waved away with little consequence.

And so came Thursday morning with much excitement, anticipation and certainly some level of reserve. For me, having only been in the company of other trans people merely once or twice in my lifetime, I found it simultaneously comforting yet strange: I of course had known of the existence of other transfolk experiencing exactly the same as myself, but somehow the reality that a great many of them were in fact residing directly in my physical vicinity was slightly shocking: They really do exist!

On a particularly noteworthy note, Jamison Green gave an opening speech prior to the onset of the sessions. Having attended presentations of his twice before yet, having been unfunctionably shy prior to T, been unable to actually meet him personally, my mother dragged me determinedly to his side and introduced us. And so it came that I was finally able to shake his hand after having known of his existence for many years.

My mother, incidentally, I do believe will hold a lifelong reputation among the population gathered there as the holder of the honorary Amazing Mother award. “Jason,” I was to hear several times over the weekend as people’s eyes traveled to my nametag, “Oh, with the amazing mother from the other session!”

And that she is.

And now to touch, in some length, upon the darker psychological perception of these days past.

It is not without great shame that I admit being in the presence of other trans people brought to light my own internal transphobia to a point of obviousness that it becomes no longer somethng I can deny, as I had merely attempted to do prior, fearing a change of mind after so much struggle.

My mother and I argue in the middle of the night driving across empty highways. I cannot seem to explain to her the reason behind my sudden distress at her mentioning of my lack of a transgender social circle. She speaks offhandedly — almost absent-mindedly, almost jokingly; such is the disconcern in which the statement is dropped — of what a waste the trip will have been should I not attempt to remain in contact with any of the people I have met over these past days. She also berates my admonition that I would rather get the treatment and be on my way, never to be noticed publicly; never to be outed except to those who absolutely have to know — this was a heated and controversial topic during the conference. It is a comment of great offense to me, and yet I find I am incapable of explaining why.

“I hate,” I blurt, finally, in desperation, “being a transsexual. I loathe it. I despise, more than anything in the world, being trans. I would give anything,” I pause; considering the significance of this declaration; and, realizing its truth, I continue heatedly: “anything, to be a normal girl.”

She is silent. “I liked the conference. I like seeing that many other people that I know are experiencing exactly the same things,” I clarify for her. This is the first function I have ever attended that addresses transfolk specifically. “But I also hate it. Because it shoves it in my face that I am a transsexual, and forces me to think about how fucked up my life is and always will be. Always.” Still, she says nothing. “I should have stayed a girl. Just dealt with it,” I say, quietly, after a while. The idea has been on my mind since the first shot of testosterone; but I have never admitted this to her. No one speaks for an hour at least following this. I sit silent, wracked with guilt.

The first session that we attended at the conference was regarding the immeasurable levels of shame and guilt that accompany being a transsexual. Roughly half the time, it seems, the guilt of what transition would do to your family, partner(s) or employment is enough to stop the transition altogether. Often times even those who still go through with transition feel a shame and guilt about their impact on the people around them with an intensity I would not hesitate to liken to that felt of an abused child.

I remember this session, sitting in the passenger seat, silent, on the darkened highway; and I almost laugh. How right it was. I find myself envying, fleetingly, those I met at the conference whom waited to transition until their later years: Clearly, I imagine in this moment, that would be easier. No parents to disappoint. The shame of having failed one’s parents as a child and as a human being is enough: The extra guilt over my mother’s own guilt of bringing a child to endure such lifelong suffering into the world is almost too much to control. In my early teenage years I distinctly recall many suicidal thoughts and fantasies — most revolving around the theme of “if I’m dead, no one will have to deal with me any more.” I would fix the mistake, I rationed. The mistake that I felt my mother made when she didn’t let that premature baby girl die in the hospital. Surely the lack of me would make everybody’s lives so much easier.

And so it comes that I find myself now in the deepest depression I have felt since before beginning testosterone. A slightly trying day yesterday, recent derogatory comments regarded browsing articles of the pregnant FTM over the past few days, a session’s discussion on the infinitely higher raw brutality in trans hate crimes than any other minority, an hour of sleep, stomachache-inducing diner food at breakfast and the stresses of rental car catastrophes have worn even my testosterone-pumped enthusiasm and steely emotions down.

I’m just a fucking kid. Give me a break.

~ by geekbynature on April 5, 2008.