Decrying Gravity

When it counts, I have always been able to keep it together.  Even while teaching, even the weeks after Laura broke up with me when I was just starting and I was filled with terror, when I couldn't eat or sleep, I never missed a day, I never failed to do what needed to be done.  I might not have done it particularly well, but it was not for lack of trying [at least, as far as I "try" at most anything].  In high school and undergrad, I did not miss days.  I missed class to work the 2006 and 2008 elections, and I may have skipped one or two classes after all nighters.

Apparently, though, things no longer "count" because I am feel I am falling apart.  That's melodramatic, naturally.  But I find myself nervous to whole new extents around people I don't trust, recently.  To wit, this morning I was helping my mom with volunteer work she does every December in connection with church and all of the new people there really got to me.  Someone asked me to buy them donuts, and I was acutely aware that (1) I do what I'm told and (2) I hate being told to do things because that just gives me an opportunity to disappoint someone else.  I weathered *that* storm, and went to my grandfather's to watch football.  That was alright; he feels obligated to make more small talk now that I'm transitioned, probably because I make him nervous.  But when my aunt, uncle, and great aunt unexpectedly arrived, I was terrified.  I practically started crying on the way home.  Not because they said anything [other than calling me "Dylan"], but because I am so convinced that I make them uncomfortable and feel compelled to leave lest I ruin more for them.

And I leave and part of me feels angry, coming up with various arguments and rationales for why what I'm doing is *not* something that should make others uncomfortable etc etc, but I know as soon as I am with any of them that I will go back to giving them every benefit of a doubt and being calm and quiet.

And I think the biggest change, really, is that I *feel* as if people are noticing me more.  I can't evade like I used to, can't be invisible because my very presence asserts itself by virtue of who I am [or was].  And partly that's the spotlight effect, it's paranoia, but partly?  Partly, it's true.  They do talk.  They are uneasy.  Whereas in my teenage years my monstrousness was largely a figment of my abused imagination, now it is reflected in their eyes.

Of course, it's also because they sense *I'm* nervous, so they get nervous too.  It's a self-fulfilling prophecy: I think they don't want to be around me so I get uncomfortable and visibly shaken and they get uncomfortable by my discomfort and and and.  *But it's not just that*.  Even if I could act and fake it like I used to, they *are* thinking and talking and judging and-

And I dash home.  Leaving home, now, is so draining.  This constant hypersensitivity.  And I admire more and more those who transition without any kind of "break" [often because you can keep your job if you transition while you're on it, but it's more difficult to get hired anew; hence, one of the many reasons I haven't even bothered looking for employment].  And I worry, I wonder how I'll handle school.  And working.  And.... life.  And I know that I do what needs to be done.  I cram the fears and insecurities and anxieties somewhere inside me and I press forth.  But right now?  Right now, without that exigence, I'm not.  I'm scared.  I'm lonely.  I'm angry.  I'm tired.  And I'm so many horrible things.  Because I have the freedom to be this way.

Lucky me.

Today, I was reading the church bulletin board when I read an article about how the Maryville PFLAG was formed.  One of the primary impetuses was when one of the founder's sons came out to her and told her he hated himself for being gay, and, after some brief struggles herself, she realized how terrible it is to hate yourself because your society tells you to and wanted to do something about it.

I almost started crying on the spot.  I'm almost crying right now.  And it's not because his mother wanted to become an advocate to help him.  I truly think it's because I was written on that page, plain as day, and it was just one straw too many.

I hate myself.  I don't know if I'll ever stop hating myself.  And it is a terrifying realization to find that I cannot feel the love of anyone else [with one notable exception].  It is terrifying to look at myself and see how thoroughly protected and distant I am.  How lackluster and wretched I am.  How inadequate and useless I am.  How I have so many gifts but lack the ambition to give back in kind.  I am weak.  I am lazy.  I am beaten, broken, and bruised and the bleeding continues beneath my skin whether it seeps through to the surface or not.

And I know this will pass.  And I know that I have never been better than I am now.  And I know that I see Juliet in my mirror just as often as I see Dylan, perhaps more.  But he's still there.  I see pictures of myself and whatever delusions I have when I see my reflection are dashed.  I am not him anymore, thank God.  But to say I am fully female, to say I am who I want to be... that sounds like nothing but utter folly.

And I wonder what, exactly, triggers my fits of depression.  And honestly?  Honestly, what I think really shatters me into all of these desolate pieces, yet again?  Is when I believe people care about me.  Is when I believe people like me.  Or at least appreciate what I'm doing.  I'm crying right now, even typing those words.  Because it means I'll fail them.  It means I'll disappoint them.  It means that I can't believe they are apathetic or just going through the motions or just saying what's expected for them to say.  I believe them.  And it hurts.  It hurts so so much.

I think to the last time I cried [or almost did] when my father apologized after yelling at me over the phone.  And it was as if, after so much careful preparation and protection, after planning how to mitigate his anger, after trying to decide to defend myself or defer and evade as I always should do, he unexpectedly seemed to feel bad about possibly hurting me.  And I almost broke apart.  Like I am now.  Like I did on the last day of GSSE when they all left, these people I believed cared about me as I cared about them.  And the losing hurts so so much.  But the caring, *believing* that someone actually cares?  That's what destroys me.

And I'm not entirely sure why.  With my father, it was almost as if it was now safe to be hurt and to feel, as if the pain I was just going to sweep into the closet where the rest of my untold volumes of rage dwell was allowed to exist.  And then, when people complimented my speech Friday, I warmly said thank you [a huge improvement over even a few years ago when I would have not even said thank you but  proceeded to describe how inadequate what they heard actually was] without agreeing.  But one person, who's really a wonderfully committed straight ally and a really loving person, was so adamant about how good he thought it was and how I needed to share it...

I didn't cry then.  I didn't cry until I started writing this.  But I think that's what made me so depressed.  I actually started reading the hateful comments about trans people on an article someone posted on facebook to help me feel better, because I at least know what to do with hate.  I know what to do with intolerance and hurt and fear and insecurity.  I know what to do when I'm not safe.  But when I'm safe?  When I know someone cares about me?  When I *believe* them?  I have no idea.  I have no idea at all.  And so I shatter.