Family and Vulnerability

Back in August I attended the Trans 101 training offered by Transgender Resource Center of NM. The trainer, Adrien mentioned that the Center also offers Panels where trans and non-binary folks will come and share their story and answer questions. I decided to volunteer to be a panelist (in spite of my introversion!), and this Sunday was my first panel.

I got nervous and kinda forgot the script I had in my head but it went ok anyway. But what brought me to my blog was a question that one of the audience asked: "How did your family react to you coming out as trans/non-binary, and how is your relationship now?"

My answer was as follows: "I came out as a dyke in 1995, and most of my family was like, 'uh, yeah. We know.' My mother in spite of "knowing" continued to say things to me like 'some day you'll meet the right man and you'll want to get married and have babies.' It wasn't until she saw the movie Boys Don't Cry that something finally clicked for her and she stopped, and in fact since then she has said things like 'is it ok if I call you my "girl".' But I've never come out directly to my family as non-binary; granted any of my family who is on facebook sees all of my shit posting and is aware, but I just haven't had the energy to put the emotional labor into coming out to my family."

Maybe saying "coming out to" my family would be better stated as "having a conversation with" my family. As the words were coming out of my mouth it occurred to me that maybe I wasn't being fair to my family...by not sharing all of myself with them, and by not trusting them to hold space for me to be vulnerable with them. Maybe. I mean my mom has opened the door for the conversation, but also I don't have a relationship with my mother that involves me being emotionally vulnerable with her. My mother is not someone who has ever been a person I got to with emotional vulnerability; I tried a few times as a child the the consequences were quite traumatic. 

Besides the fact that I don't have an emotionally close relationship with my mother, many of the conversations I have with her devolve into her telling me how much she loves the giant orange shit stain, or some idiotic BS about immigrants that I have to correct her about. And because of this, I basically call her for Christmas, her birthday, and mother's day. That is all I can handle. Although it was not my intention, I spent my entire therapy session today talking about this issue, and one of the things that I came to is that I have been especially hesitant to talk to my mother because I think one more conversation that goes south with her will result in me going fully no-contact with her. She's 94, and I know she won't be around that much longer, but I would like to have as civil of a relationship as possible until she passes. And I think avoidance is the only way that that can be achieved.

There's another family member who I have been working on my relationship with who I was thinking I should really have a conversation with. I texted them today, just a "hey, how's it going." I hadn't heard from them by the end of the day, and I recalled a FB comment they had made on one of my "Hey, this talking head wants me dead-if you love them you can unfriend me now" type posts that I couldn't quite get a read on. Either I had pissed them off, or they really got how hurtful the person I was posting about was being. Long story short, after a short investigation it turns out said family member has blocked me.

Pretty sad when a family member choses a famous racist, homophobic POS over their family member. But, as it turns out, I was right in not wasting my time on the emotional labor with those two. There are family members whom I'd be "safe" with having conversations about my gender journey, but they're also not members I necessarily have phone conversations with (or email, or snail mail). I've been a country away for most of the lives of my nieces and nephews, and honestly when I was still in the same state when many of them were old enough to remember me, *I* wasn't emotionally available to them. I regret that, but I know where I was, I just wasn't able to be there for them, or with them. 

The good news is that there are a lot of people who love me. There are a lot of people who will support me, who will fight for rights, who will protect me...and likewise I will do the same for them. I am lucky to have a helluva a community and support system, and I've gotten a helluva lot better and recognizing who those people are.

More on struggles with gender dsyphoria, and moments of euphoria (TW: discussion of ED)

Yesterday I wasn't in a very good  place. I thought about deleting my post, but it was where I was at and I need to honor that. Some days will be better than others on my journey with my body, with gender dysphoria,  and with trauma/trauma recovery (because although it is not the cause for my gender dysphoria, it does effect my relationship to my body, and to the world around me). 

Another layer of my angst yesterday was due to my struggles with weight/eating. As I mentioned I've been eating in a "calorie deficit", and although it's the new buzz word for "healthy" calorie restriction, for those of us who have struggled with disorded eating, it becomes a good cover for further disordered eating. And I realize what I'm doing, but because I'm getting enough protein I use that as an excuse for how much of a deficit I've been in being "ok". Yesterday was hard because after returning home from the Highland Games last week I decided I needed to be a little less neurotic about tracking and restricting my calories. And I didn't go hog wild, for the most part I stayed between 1700-2000 calories, but in the space of a week I gained 5 pounds. And although my midsection is the last place for me to lose weight, it's also the first place that I gain weight. 

Well, I hadn't really meant to go there, but I guess that's what needed to "come out." My intent when I hit the "new post" button was to talk about where I do have moments of gender EUphoria. So, here we go. As per my last post, gender affirming top surgery has made a huge difference in my comfort in being in my own skin. I've never been comfortable with having breasts. Going out in public with so much embarrassment/discomfort about that part of my body for the last 40 years was just torture. Every time I stepped out of the shower and was confronted by my reflection in the mirror just contracted my soul. Ugh, and the days of anguish leading up to mammograms and skin checks...I am SO grateful I don't have to go through that anymore. I've had several people comment since my top surgery about how I carry myself differently. I don't really notice it, but I am aware that I'm not carrying that embarrassment/shame/discomfort/dysphoria anymore, and maybe it weighed me down more than I realized I was letting on to.

I used to workout before the pandemic, but during that hellscape of a time I kinda shut down and just stopped working out even though I have a living room full of equipment. Then I went on Buspar when I was dealing with some heavy medical shit, and unfortunately the Buspar not only made me gain a bunch of weight, but it made me so apathetic I could barely get out of bed let alone work out...or really do anything I enjoyed. All that along with some orthopedic issues that made it difficult to workout without hurting myself, I had a really hard time getting back into a routine. When I finally started the ball rolling to have top surgery, I was infused with the motivation I needed to start working out and doing heavy lifting again. And the thing is, I realize as I'm typing, being strong has always been important to me. Even as a little kid, I took pride in being able to carry the heavy buckets of feed, the giant spool of wire, my heavy-ass saddle. The times I've felt the best in my body have been the times when I was the strongest. And along with actual physical strength, when I'm stronger I also have more muscle and so I like the look of my body shape way more.

As I approached my last surgery (scar revision for my top surgery, and torso masculinization) I felt inspired for the first time in decades to paint (more on that another day), specifically about being in this liminal space of feeling more at home/comfortable in my body since top surgery, as well as feeling stronger, but also about struggling with those parts of my body (hips/mid section) that were still very feminine. Painting has been a way of processing the continued dysphoria and dysmorphia, while honoring the positive changes both in my body, and in my sense of myself.

So, although I was feeling like crap about my body yesterday because I'd gained a few pound, I also had a really good workout and was aware that I was getting stronger. And I need to remember that I've gotten strong enough (and my back has gotten stable enough) that I was able to compete in the Highland Games last weekend for the first time in 8(?) years. And as I posted on fb last week, although it's been hard for me to see my muscle-growth progress, some the pictures my friend Mona got of me competing gave me an appreciation for the work I've done on my arms, and that makes me feel pretty damn good about my body.

And I have to remember that not only do I suffer from gender dysphoria, but also body dysmorphia. The struggles with gender dysphoria are stained by the inky insidiousness of body dysmorphia and body shame caused by my mother and my sister telling me how fat I was when I was a child (when I was not in fact fat), and encouraging me to diet at the ripe old age of 8. It's easy to see my imperfections, but I need to build up the "muscles" of seeing my strengths, and the things about myself and my body I can be proud of.

National Coming Out Day: Non-binary and my struggles with gender dysphoria

 I've often told the story of coming out in rural ND, and starting a GSA on my campus in the mid 90s on this auspicious day. It's a good story no doubt, but a story I've told many times. I've been out as a dyke/lesbian for 30 years now, so its kind of old news.

On the other hand, I haven't been "out" as a non-binary they/them for that long. I recently posted a couple blog posts about my gender-journey, so lets see what else I can tell you...

Coming out as NB has been more difficult than I would like to admit. I think having been unabashedly out as a lesbian for so long I thought it should be easier to come out as NB. As Shrek says, "Ogres have layers", and my story has many layers as well. 

As I mentioned in my recent posts, although I have hated being a "girl" since I was a child, I had a lot of therapists divert my gender dysphoria discussions, into discussions of trauma as it affected my relationship to my body. As a result I spent literal decades trying to unravel my hatred of my female-body by working on trauma (spoiler alert: it didn't help). Not that in most of those cases either I or the therapist had words like "gender dysphoria", but the message I got over and over again was that my relationship with my body wasn't an organic issue, but a trauma issue, so even when I had the words, I'd been talked into thinking my issue was more trauma related, even though in my head I knew that it was more than just trauma.

Secondly, the term "non-binary" is fairly new. "Gender Queer" I did learn about around 14 years ago, and I immediately resonated with that. It would take a few years before I heard about NB, and agender, both being terms that I use for myself. Anyway, not having the right language/words for myself made "coming out" a challenge, because I didn't know what to come out as.

Thirdly, shortly after my wife and I got together (about 13 years ago?) I stopped going by my legal name, and a lot of folks had a really hard time with using my new name. As much angst as that caused, I knew getting people to use my preferred pronouns would be a super-shit show, especially since so many of us had teachers like my beloved Mrs. A who beat it into our heads that they/them is NOT singular. (Yet we have no problem asking who the "they" was who lost their keys.) And honestly, because of my beloved Mrs. A. I too had a REALLY hard time with they/them, even though both "she" and "he" made me feel gross. It was until I was in a Safe Space training with Transgender Resource Center at UNMH in 2018 that I finally said aloud that my pronouns were "they/them", and it was until a year or two ago that I started asking friends and family to call me they/them.

Now that I'm thinking about it, it was working at my current job in a senior living facility where I've had several of my patients (interestingly, mostly men) call me "he". I noticed that it actually gave me a little gender euphoria to be not called she/her, and that was the catalyst for starting to be more open about being non-binary. And for awhile, I just told people they could call me whatever pronoun they preferred..."just don't call me late for dinner". It took a bit longer to have the confidence to say, "I use they/them pronouns."

I still suck at correcting people. I don't have the energy for peoples' defensiveness, or nastiness, or their Very Big Feelings of feeling bad about misgendering me-and I never know what reaction I'm going to get, so I just engage in some old fashioned avoidance. And I am VERY appreciative of the people in my life who do make the effort to use my correct pronouns, and for the people who correct others when they don't. 

And I'm grateful AF that I've finally been able to have top surgery so I feel a whole helluva lot better in my body. Perfectly comfortable, no. I still have the distinctive "pear" shape of a menopausal woman in spite of a "torso masculanizing" surgery that was painful AF. In some ways, I feel worse after the surgery since I thought waking up on the other side of it I'd finally have the body that aligned with my gender identity (and I could finally stop eating in such a significant calorie deficit), but due to some miscommunication (?) with the surgeon I got fat sucked out of places that wound up just emphasizing the "pear" proportions. 

Maybe if I'd written this post yesterday I'd be a little bit more positive/celebratory, but unfortunately, the grief about my body hit pretty hard again today. And a lot of that grief is specific to my surgery results, but some of it is the grief of not being listened to by a man...again. I finally met with my surgeon for a postop appointment this Monday, and although he presented some options, they weren't necessarily great options for getting the results I want, and he said I would need to wait a year before doing any further surgeries (and that's assuming my insurance will pay for any further surgery, and that's assuming my brain can handle another round of anesthesia...this last one fucked me up pretty bad.) 

Anyway, I exercise a ton and eat in a calorie deficit trying to achieve a more masculine/neutral body, but there's only so much one can do to counter menopause, and a previous massive weight gain (fuck you, Buspar). And through the weight lifting I've been doing I am building more muscle and changing my silhouette to a more masculine one, and in doing so, I'm feeling, bit by bit a little more comfortable in my body. Maybe some day I'll be able to call my body, home.

 

Worrying at the knot of self-blame (TW: SA, DV)

 Sorry, this is going to be another trauma post.

Today I had a new patient visit with a primary care. I had asked about getting a bone density screen, and we needed to establish reasoning as it generally isn't covered until 65. My new doc asked if my mom had early-onset osteoporosis, and I told her that when my mom was 57 she broke her wrist and the ER had told her then that she had osteoporosis. After I left that appointment I was thinking, "oh yeah, and then she broke her arm a couple years later...". Only "she" didn't break her arm that time, her boyfriend did. 

The boyfriend who moved in with us when she and I moved back to ND at the end of my junior year. 

The boyfriend who, that summer, would rub up against me to feel my breasts. 

The boyfriend who, after I moved out would frequently tell people at the bar that I needed "to have (my) cherry popped, and (he's) the one to do it."

The boyfriend who threatened to kill all of my mother's children in a "blood bath", and save her for last so she could suffer knowing all of her children were dead.

It was a few weeks after that last one that he went from being my mother's boyfriend, to being her husband. Nice guy. But, I digress. It was number 3 on that list that hooked me today. But before I get into that, a little side note from my therapy session yesterday. We've been working on an incident for a while, and I've been really struggling with "it was my fault because I didn't stop it."  Now, cognitively, I know that I was in a situation where I was at a power-disadvantage, and that I tried to divert this individual, but that self-blame piece runs deep. So we explored that a bit, and the first time I remembered feeling like it was my responsibility and fault was when I was a kid and this couple would visit. The husband would always make a bee-line for me and tickle me, like the relentless, painful tickle where you can't breathe. I fucking hated it, but I couldn't escape this giant man. After they had left from one of their visits my mom said, "I don't like it when he tickles you. Don't let him do that." Here's the thing; I wasn't "letting him", and I sure as hell didn't want him to do it. But that message made it loud and clear that it was my responsibility to stop him, and if I didn't, it was my fault. I still tried, and still failed. He sure as hell wasn't listening to "no", and he'd just chase me down when I tried to run away.

Fast forward to my mother's boyfriend/husband. It was her who pointed out that her boyfriend was feeling up my breasts when he rubbed against me, and it was her who put the responsibility on me to not let him do it. It was my mother who informed me about his statements about popping my cherry, and again I was responsible for making sure he didn't do anything to me, while at the same time telling me that I needed to give him a hug and tell him I loved him every fucking time I visited. (Side note: Fortunately, in the fall after HE moved in, I moved in with my alcoholic father. For many reasons I'll go in to another time, it may have seemed like a bad idea to move in with my dad, but holy shit did I dodge a bullet by moving in with him, and away from HIM!)

Now, for what hit me today. I've always been grossed out by what he said, but as I watched the memories roll by today it hit me, "Why the hell did he think I needed my 'cherry popped'"? What exactly was it about me that made him think this was a  necessary thing? Why the fuck was he even thinking about my virginity? And I thought about the violence behind that particular phrase that is so flippantly thrown own. 

POP. verb
1: to strike or knock sharply: HIT
2: to push, put, or thrust suddenly or briefly
3: to cause to explode or burst open

A grown ass man, 30 years my senior, not to mention being MY MOTHER'S BOYFRIEND was going around telling other men at the bar that I needed my virginity raped out of me by HIM. (Lets not pretend it would be anything other than rape)

And my mother reminded me regularly that it was my responsibility to make sure it didn't happen. 

And I wonder why I spend so much time in therapy trying to unravel the knots of self-blame for things that were done to me without my consent by men who had more power than me.