The featured image for this entry is the last time I actually felt female. I can pinpoint it because it’s the last time I wore that suit with a shell showing off my cleavage; I was not in a hurry to button up to my collar like I do now. In retrospect, I’ve always been nonbinary and switch hit my social masks depending on who I needed to be.
That day, I looked in my closet and the only thing I had to wear that would look appropriate in the Mexican Embassy was something I’d never wear now. I don’t wear jewelry unless you count the CZ earring in my left ear, only there because the hoops I got at the tattoo shop had to be removed for an MRI. My hair is cut much shorter, and I don’t wear makeup to compensate. I don’t make an attractive man or woman, in my estimation, so I’m working on how to fix that. It’s not about what would attract other people, but what would give me more self confidence in leaving the house. This look isn’t it anymore, especially since I would like to meet more people who are excellent at what they do in hopes of becoming one of them.
Yes, that is Pati Jinich from Pati’s Mexican Table. My dad bought tickets for us to go and see her, then called and said he wasn’t coming because he didn’t feel well. “Careful, dad… I’ll steal your girlfriend from you,” I quipped. That’s because my stepmother has called Pati my dad’s girlfriend for many years. I have told this story before, but it bears repeating because it’s entirely representative of who I am as a person. I will say anything to anyone not realizing the gravity of the situation because I don’t pick up on social cues. This is to my detriment, but in this one instance, it worked out. I tell Pati this story at the beginning of the dinner. The shock and amazement is that she remembered the story and remembered to prank my dad after it was over. I got the picture because I’m 5’2 and biologically female, decidedly not Pati’s actual type…. but we’re both old line cooks, so anything goes, apparently. Hey, she’s the one that told me to text the photo to my dad immediately because she wanted to see what he said.
He thought it was hilarious, of course.
It’s a good memory to go out on, because since I’ve joined a gym I’m trying to get into guy mode about it. Female mode at the gym is my mother’s voice in my head counting every calorie both up and down. Guy mode is focusing on results. I had no shame about Taco Bell afterwards because it’s the Universal Guy Meal of Working Out, that chicken bowl. I used butter at breakfast even though I had high heat PAM ready to go. I’m not going to change everything overnight because I’m grieving. Going through all these changes without the one person who used to listen to them is breaking my heart, as I am sure that in some sense it is breaking hers. It did not have to end this way, because here’s what she wanted me to say that I did not:
I was angry that you lied to me. You do not see the fallout. But you are not more important to me than someone who has juice. You’re all the electricity I’ll ever need.
She thought I chose someone with celebrity over her quiet spirit, when I chose them because they’d never lied to me and she had.
That’s because I was able to explain nonbinary to her and she listened. Not many people will. My line about it is that “I do not roll out of bed wanting to be a man. The phone ringing is the biggest reminder that I’m a bio female. It does not make me crave masculinity, but gives me a reminder to perform femininity.” Nonbinary is just that, picking and choosing which gender goes with which situation. How often do you actually think about it?
I am not over losing the emotional connection we had, but it’s something I strive for in this new life without her. There’s no replacement, but she is my mirror image. We are sewn at the spine, each facing out in different directions. I’ve been awfully hard on her because I’m so hurt and enraged. It doesn’t make sense that she ran away from me because she lied. It doesn’t make sense that she lied to me for 12 years because she thought that I needed something from her that I didn’t.
Everything I’ve ever loved, it started with loving a girl first. I picked her special interest so we’d have something to talk about. Over time, she didn’t want to talk about anything else, which she construed into “Leslie wants to know about this thing.” No, baby Aada. I told Michael today that if you’d turned out to be a Sandwich Artist at Subway I would have helped you make better sandwiches, along with telling him that I’d always told you if you worked in a car wash I would love you just as much as I do right now.
So much so that I know I’m losing femininity just by talking about it. I just seem so pathetic because women are strong. Men are the weak ones. Men are the ones where you can rip their hearts out in front of them and they have to pretend not to care while they’re still breathing, but it’s lucky they still do. There’s so much unexplored territory in our relationship that just has to rest in peace, because I know to the very core of my being that being yours was the real fantasy all along. That I didn’t want all of your heart, just a piece. That I wanted more until I realized it was impossible. Be happy that she loves you for who you are. And I was.
The only reason I have this blog is to explore all the millions of emotions coursing through me because I am not easily understood no matter what I say. Writing volumes doesn’t often help, especially when you’re getting blowback over things you’ve said without defending yourself. I didn’t need you to defend yourself. I needed you to show up for me like I’ve always shown up for you. As I’ve said previously, there will be no thank you for the 12 years of silence you’ve already gotten, just annoyance and anger that I could not keep quiet forever, genuinely or not so genuinely losing my mind depending on who is telling the story.
You did not cause my misfortune, but you did not help it dissipate, either. We have different ways of handling things and you were so convinced that your way was correct that I ended up in a psych ward twice over. At what point do you not take responsibility and say, “well, that could have gone better.” Why are all the pricks I’ve left on your skin? Do you not see the ones you leave on mine? You can tell by the way I write that every entry starts out as universal and filters out into all the things I didn’t get to say, won’t get to say. They’re not for you anymore, they’re for everyone.
I wanted to have conversations in private before I wrote my blog entries forever, because I’m a writer and you’re an editor. But even that conversation needed to happen in person, the bane of your existence because you weren’t brave enough to admit that I was your friend. Or perhaps you were afraid of what would happen had your husband and I had our yellow and red string conversations because he didn’t want to hear me out. Whatever the case, it’s not worth exploring because that is only pain for me. I have said many times that when I lose you, I don’t know who I am for a little bit…. that’s because the mirrors talk to each other.
Red light, blue light…..
Your overwhelming cis femininity showed me who I was. I could be an enby because with you, my inner trans man was always on full display. I would have liked more of that, just you tousling my hair instead of saying it looked cute in a photo.
I never wanted to be more than you wanted to handle, but I couldn’t be a disembodied voice anymore, either. Not connecting with you led to not connecting with anyone. Not connecting with my dad and sister until I had to call them, embarrassed from the Sinai ER, was the last straw. That’s because you’ve already said there’s no reconciliation between us, that our journey is over. I do want you in my life, but not with that attitude. If you change your mind, I will not say “how dare you reopen that wound?” I will say, “welcome home.” That’s because you are not a wound to me. We have wounded each other, and we deserve the chance to apologize.
In short, I’m sorry for all the things I’ve said and done that enraged you, and know that it’s up to you whether forgiveness is real. You say that I wonder why you don’t trust people. I don’t, actually. You never trusted me from the beginning and didn’t understand how different we were. I had to learn to sink or swim. I noticed you were drowning and I stayed with you until far past the time when I should have cut bait to save myself. I am hoping that you got something out of this blog over the years, because I said something 12 years ago that has never been more true than today:
The hottest woman I know taught me to be a better man.
I have grown, not all the time. Not every day. Sometimes, I am a miserable sinner and I know it. Sometimes there are things I have done, sometimes there are things I have left undone. But what I don’t want you to do is mistake the part for the whole. I loved you every day, all day, not expecting anything in return. I did not get truly angry at you until I found out about a lie that cost me a relationship with someone else and you had the audacity to downplay it.
You’re not going to cost me any more relationships with other people, and my hope is that eventually, you’ll be healed enough to see that we both did a number on each other. No one won here. We deserve each other, both for evil and for awesome.
How do I know this? The picture with Pati Jinich means less to me than the photos I took for you just to show off my new haircuts.
Stories That Are All True 