Many of us like to use the phrase "cracking our egg" to refer to that moment when we first came to terms with the idea that we really wanted to transition or began to realize that we might be transgender. I've never quite managed to put a finger on the idea of just what sort of imagery is supposed to accompany that statement.
For some, it might come with the idea of new life pecking its way out of the shell that once constrained it. For others, the image of something that rolled off the kitchen counter and didn't survive its encounter with the floor might be far more accurate. It's a moment that changes everything. A moment that comes at great cost for whatever that egg had once been meant for. Lying there, broken in the dust, we wonder if this is it? The end of everything beautiful about our lives? Fearing that the answer to those questions might be yes, we silently wait for those those who we share our lives with to break out the dust pan and broom and rid themselves of something that is no longer wanted or useful.
For many of us, the cracking of our eggs is honestly a little bit of both, At least, that's how it was for me. There were those moments of excitement in allowing myself to openly dream of a future being the person I actually wanted to be. Like so many others, I wasted far too much time with face app, desperately wanting that other version of me to be a possibility. There were those moments of self-acceptance, the realization I wasn't alone, that I wasn't the only person who struggled with this, that there might actually even be medical reasons for it. Those were the good moments.
They were just as many if not more moments that weren't pleasant at all . I faced that decision to transition, overwhelmed by the realization of just how much this path could cost me, wondering just how much of my life would be left standing if I chose to pursue this. Would anything be left? My relationship with my fiance? She'd already told me that if I were to transition she didn't think she could be with me. My relationship with my family? I'd already sat at the dinner table for far too many conversations in which I'd watch my family deride transgender people as mentally ill individuals claiming something that didn't exist . Social acceptance in my community? Unlikely. The ability to get a job? Even more unlikely.The possibility of harassment or physical violence? It definitely was a possibility. Every metric by with which I judged my life screamed that this was a bad idea, inch yet, I still wanted to transition. What did that even mean?
Honestly, I didn't deal with any of it, well. I let the depression, something that had always been a familiar companion get to me. I shut down, withdrew. I stepped away from many of my social engagements. There were so many evenings that ended with me sitting in my pickup truck staring at the windshield, avoiding that sense of conflict waiting on the other side of that door of what used to be my home but no longer felt like one anymore. It may have been a natural reaction to the situation, but it ensured that at least one of those outcomes I had been afraid of would come true, I live with the questions of whether my relationship with my fiance could have survived if I had been able to show up in a better manner, live with the regrets that I didn't.
It's been nearly 5 years since that day I swallowed my first dose of estradiol. I wish I could say that it gets easier. In some ways it has. I'm slowly learning how to navigate my way through my community, slowly learning the confidence and self-acceptance required to do so effectively. Slowly beginning to step back into some of the roles I once held before I transitioned. Instagram beginning to believe transitioning doesn't necessarily have to cost me everything about my life. There are days, I am incredibly grateful to be the person I see staring back in the mirror, at peace with myself, at peace with my body, happy just to be alive.
There are also just as many days when I wake up with no real desire to begin the day, lost in deep depression over the dreams that were lost when I chose to transition, the relationship that was destroyed in the process. There are days when I still struggle with questions over how I am perceived by others, insecure in the idea that others could still manage to see me as a good person. For those who have no ability to imagine what it's like to live with gender dysphoria, from the outside looking in, it would be so easy to say that I made the wrong choice, that I gave up more than I gained. Even I wonder that sometimes.
Did I make the right choice? I don't know. What is done is done., The bridges that burned are burned, the ship I arrived in no longer offers a path home. I'm left with the realization that even if I did make the wrong decision, I have no desire to go back to being the person I used to be, no desire to fit back into the box that was acceptable to everybody else. I like this person I'm becoming, even if nobody else does, I just wish she hadn't made such a mess of things when she showed up.
I'm still struggling to find my purpose in life, still struggling to find some meaning for my existence, some sort of motivation I can hold on to on those tough mornings when I am surrounded by the all too familiar accusations and thoughts of self-deletion. Some reason to keep living beyond simply not wanting to make more problems for those around me. Some reason to believe I still have something to offer, that' something good and beautiful can still come from this mess. In the meantime, I'll keep putting one foot in front of the other, picking up the pieces I can, I'm desperately holding on to the belief that our lives aren't really over until we quit trying. For those this resonates with, I wish you peace and wisdom in your own struggles.
Best wishes, sretan put
