August 10th 2021 marked five years in transition, and I didn’t realised I’d crossed that point until it occurred to me this morning. Using the best measure I have, today marks five years, one month, and six days in transition. It doesn’t feel like anything at all.
Do I belong? Should I be here? How many people in the room secretly think I do not deserve to be here, or would do if they knew what I am? When I read books on professional development that tell me that I cannot realise my potential if I don’t bring my full self into the room, I wonder how I am supposed to do that? Maybe I should jump ship before I sink.
Her partner was slowly disappearing, right in front of her eyes. The man she had loved was turning into a stranger, a woman she didn’t know at all. She knew it and I knew it. In a very real sense her partner died a long drawn-out death, but because everyone else was so focused on supporting my transition, her pain and her grief were completely invisible.
Body horror dreams in which his face returns, my body transformed back into his. My breasts dissolving, hair regrowing from my arms, my back, my chest, the dark shadow returning to my face. His musculature twisting my birdlike arms into grotesque knots, his testosterone set loose inside me, like poison.
Danielle, it turns out, has her own ideas about what matters in life, and first passage time density computations for Weiner diffusion processes are not numbered among them. And so eventually the time comes when I can’t be that other person, the person others want me to be. I can’t: Daniel was not a lazy man, and as competent as Danielle is, there are limits. I can’t do his job as well as my own, and my boundaries are different to his. When I start to assert them it comes as a shock, and people I care about get incredibly angry at me.