Category Archives: Pain

Untitled Short

 

I died the night she left me. The sting of her words was still burning in my head when I went to cross the street. I never saw the car coming. In an instant, I was lost.

I’ve spent two months hovering over my broken body. It’s true that the machines are what keep me alive, but my mind is still wide awake. My thoughts are clearer now than they ever have been.

I don’t remember the impact. That is a small blessing, to say the least. I do remember the pain though. Not the pain of having my body thrown over a hundred feet or the pain of my bones crackling as I hit the pavement. No, I’m talking about the pain of heartache. My body was just catching up with my heart.

I don’t blame her for giving up. I made too many mistakes. I took for granted that she would always be there – always be my wife. If my life’s lesson was to learn that it takes more than love – more than passion even, then I learned well. It takes more than love. It takes trust.

I’ve had plenty of time to think about the many mistakes I made while floating over my lifeless form. I’ve watched people come and go; some shocked by my disfigured body, others weeping as they say their last good-byes. Nobody thinks I am going to live, and perhaps I won’t. I was dead before that car ever struck me. I was dead the moment she let go.

There are no angels or demons here. No heaven or hell. It’s the same space I’ve inhabited all along. I don’t know what will happen if I let go. I could float off into a black void and simply cease to exist. I might discover the answers to the greatest questions ever imagined. More than likely, I think I will continue to be here, attached to a world that I can no longer hold claim to. My physical body would simply serve as food for the Earth and my conscience would be eternal. There are so many possibilities, but absolutely no assurances.

I hear her whispering to me at night. She fights me most just before sleep. I listen as she asks for my forgiveness or curses me for leaving her in this wretched world alone. I hear every single word.

I wish I could hold her, touch her, and reassure her that I am fine. But I’m not really fine at all, am I? Even if I were to make a miraculous recovery and return to the life I knew before the accident, I still wouldn’t be fine. I was fine when I knew she loved me. I was fine when she was by my side. I was fine when we dreamed about our future together. No, I’ll never again be fine.

I have to wonder if I’m holding on to this life just to be close to her. Is it more selfish of me to want to hang on to her than it is to cut myself off from my body? Am I not killing a part of her by giving up? Yes, I realize it’s that I’m selfish. I’ve always been selfish. If it weren’t for my selfishness she may still be my wife and I might not have walked in front of that car. If, if, if…all these ifs.

I acknowledge the severity of my crimes. I ask only for her forgiveness as each day I fade. I am beyond prayer and still no closer to God. There’s no penance for the guilty soul. I must let go and end these dreams of absolution. There’s no peace in delaying the inevitable. Now, be quiet my mind and deliver my soul.


Oh What Tangled Webs

This is a continuation of my post, Scene of the Crime.

So…I made my journey “home”. The place itself was as beautiful as I remember. The mountains were colored deep, dark shades of green and the air was so refreshing. It was dreary and had been raining when I arrived. So many things had changed along the way. I had wondered before I left if I would remember my way. I had no problems. It’s as if the map is imprinted permanently on my brain.

I have so many dreams about this place. They are snippets of memories from my childhood that must have some meaning in my dreams, although I have no idea what those meanings are.  They’re like ghosts, always there to haunt me. Ironically, most of those memories can no longer be connected to the physical as all of these places has changed so much. I wonder how my brain will handle the new stimuli.

My first stop was at the cemetery. There, tucked safely beneath a pretty shade tree, were my parents. I knew before I even got out of my car that it was going to be an emotional reunion. I have visited their grave sites so many times in the past and I cannot recall one time when I broke down. Yesterday I did. I didn’t try to hold back. I allowed the tears to flow and the emotion to spill. I talked to them as I let out  the hurt of their loss. I told them I loved and missed them, took a few photos and then left.

Next I made my way to the house I grew up in. I lived in this house until I was 14 years old when mama died. As a child, I remember the road and all the houses being so large, but as I traveled it again, everything seemed so small. Most prevalent in my dreams is this house. The only place I have ever truly considered to be my home. This was the last place I ever really felt safe. It doesn’t look anything like it had. It’s been remodeled so dramatically that the house, nor the property hold any resemblance of their prior incarnation. I snapped a photo as I drove by and made a mental note of where my first poodle, Kiss You, was buried in that yard and then drove away.

Often times, the house is haunted with the spirits of one or both my parents in my dreams. Being in the house, or around the house can bring forth such intense emotion in my dreams. Some times I dream that I go back to visit the house and it is so different — much like what just happened. In the dream however, I am overly emotional, irate and find myself engaging with the current owner and giving him a piece of my mind about how all the changes are totally unacceptable. Then I find myself crying deeply, yearning for that house and missing the life I had there with my parents. I wonder what Freud would say about that?!

As I mentioned in the previous post, my aunt had set this visit up, or at least she told me she had. This is my biological mother’s sister and I have the hardest time relating to her family. I called my half-sister and left her several messages to the effect that I had arrived and I was staying at a hotel nearby. I waited…and waited. Finally, I went out to find dinner and made my way to a local market where I purchased alcohol and munchies. I had a feeling the night would be long and emotionally difficult. I knew then that my sister was not going to return my call, but I couldn’t find it in myself to just be hurt and angry over it. I decided instead to drink away my misfortune alone in the hotel with the television.

I have taught myself not to express hurt or disappointment in some situations. This woman, my half-sister, doesn’t owe me anything. We share a mother and that is it. We don’t really know anything about each other. In reality, we’re strangers who are both trying to get past the pain of the past and find answers to questions we may never get. I can understand that seeing me may be painful for her, but that doesn’t make it less hurtful for me.

I didn’t sleep well partially due to being drunk and then also due to being in an unfamiliar place alone. I made it through the night in one piece and was awoken early by my half-sister and nephew (on my biological father’s side). They were excited to get to see me. It felt good to be wanted in some way. It is amazing how one side is so loving and the other is so closed. I guess that is a reflection of how they were raised, or perhaps the personalities of my parents themselves. Either way, I’ve always felt more comfortable with my biological father’s side.

My half-sister contracted HIV from a man she was engaged to marry. He had a dark secret that he didn’t tell her about and now, he is long gone with her heart and her life. I hurt for her. Since I met her, she’s been so loving and caring. This is not what’s supposed to happen to good people. She looks 30 years older than she really is. She’s frail and damaged, but, she loves me and it shows!

We sat at the little table in her cluttered dining room looking at old photographs and talking about who my father was, and even some about who my mother was. One thing is certain, my father was a whore. There are more twists and turns in the story of his life than I can keep up with. He has at least 3 children from a first marriage (a marriage he never legally ended before marrying his second wife), 5 children with his second wife, and at least 5 illegitimate children (including myself) stretching from Germany to the United States. He probably has children we will never know about. And he probably slept with more women than any of us care to know. So the one truth I walked away with was that my father was indeed a whore!

Any pieces of my puzzle are taken with a grain of salt. Nobody knows the truth but my parents, but everybody seems to have an opinion or some information they want to add. Funny that after 43 years, I am still a subject of debate amongst people I have never met!

What did I find out? Hmm, a lot of nothing or a little something. I can’t decide, but here’s the gist of it all:

My father and mother were having an affair.  I have no idea whether my mother and father had one encounter or several. Either way, I am the result of their cheating, lies and manipulations. Apparently, there were some “love” letters written between my parents to the effect that they “loved” each other and wanted to be together, etc., blah. From what I know now of my father’s lust for women, I doubt very seriously that he wanted to be with my mother other than for sex. I could be wrong, but it doesn’t fit his personality type, nor does it match with his behaviors. He was having sex with other women aside from my mother and his wife at the time (whore!).

So, these letters and all their mush, were at some point intercepted (or stolen) by my aunt — the very same aunt who set up the visit. My mother wrote to my father about being pregnant with me, and when I was born, she included one of my first baby pictures in her letter. There was no way he could deny he fathered me, I look just like him!

Ok, back to those letters. My aunt (yes, the one who set up the visit!) took those letters, for whatever reason, and gave them to my father’s wife. Imagine her shock reading through love letters her husband had been writing to my mother, AND, a baby. I cannot imagine the depth of her heartbreak, and I hurt for the pain that was caused to her. She didn’t deserve to be treated that way! If my aunt had been present, I would have surely asked her why she gave those personal letters to his wife. Was she trying to cause harm? Was she trying to do some good? What did she hope to accomplish? Either way, it makes me angry with my aunt. It comes across as so sneaky and underhanded.

My father’s wife confronted him and he had no choice but to confess. I can imagine him dancing around in his head trying to find a way to lie his way out of it, but he couldn’t, she had the letters and the photo of me. Whatever discussions they had after that are between them and I will never know, but his wife went to my mother and told her that she knew of the affair and that they would like to take me. Although my father was a whore, he is also said to have loved his children and wanted them all under the same roof. What a horribly crowded house that would have been!

I never met my mother. I never wanted to, but I can imagine her response to his wife being somewhere along the lines of “fuck you” or “go to hell”. This made my mother a woman scorned. She must have been irate. Before I was 2 months old, an opportunity presented itself, and my mother had given me away — yes, given me away!

My adopted mother babysat my sister, cousin and me.  I will probably never know the details of how I was adopted, but the papers were drawn up and an agreement was made between my biological mother and my new family that they would never have contact with me. The deal was done, and I had a new family. What hits me the hardest in all of this is that the woman who carried me for 9 months, the woman who gave birth to me, the woman who was supposed to love me unconditionally used me as a way to punish my father for not leaving his wife. I was a pawn in her revenge. I was no longer her child. I was a burden she had relieved herself of. I can never forgive her for that.

So there you have it, what I gained on my trip. Nothing more than I didn’t already know or speculate. I did find out that my mother died as a result of colon cancer, so that was a very important piece of information. I am going to make plans next week to have a colonoscopy — you can never be too careful!

I came home feeling more fucked up than when I left. The more connected I become to my biological families, the more horrified I am by what I find. It’s not all bad, but it’s not good either. It’s another piece of the puzzle that is me.


Time

They say time heals all wounds. I’m not sure I can subscribe to that theory as some wounds are meant to be felt in the deepest part of our hearts for eternity. So I’ve asked myself, what has time done for me.

It’s been awhile since I last posted. My last entry was a poem that essentially allowed me to release years of anger and pain from a very dysfunctional relationship with one of my sisters. Although I still wonder how she is doing, and definitely still remember the abuse, it was in my best interest to cut her out of my life. It was a liberating experience, however, also sad.

When I first started this blog, I identified as “genderqueer”. I was still at that place where I wasn’t quite ready to admit to myself, and certainly not to you, that I am a transman. The thought swam through my head for years but I fought it, still holding on to that need to please others — to be what I thought everyone else wanted me to be.

In researching personal transformation stories, I began to realize recently (within the past 6 months) that I, like so many others, had reached that point in my life where I could no longer deny the truth. I’ve spent a lifetime of lies, pretending to be female and it led to nothing but depression, destructive behavior, self hate and more lies. You might ask yourself how long you could personally live a plethora of lies. How long could you exist pretending to be somebody you weren’t and pretending to be happy about it?

In February, I turned 43 years old. Some of my earliest memories are of me being a boy. My family referred to this as my being a “tomboy” and while my parents thought nothing of it and at times may have even thought it was “cute”, my sister was utterly disgusted by it. It wasn’t as if I had an entire community pressing down on me, pounding into my head that I had to be a girl, but it was, in part, society, as well as my direct surroundings that led to my development and thought process on gender.

As an example, I cannot recall kids in my junior or high school being gay positive. Quite the contrary. Anyone I encountered, from an older girl up the street to the sister-in-law of the man down the street, who showed any semblance of gender neutrality was immediately labeled in a negative way. I was given strict instruction not to go anywhere near these people, but I wasn’t given a reason why. Luckily I was a rather sneaky child and I would listen in to conversations when nobody knew I was around!

I had no understanding of gender in elementary school. What I did understand, though, was that I was attracted to girls. I would have these imaginary girl friends over for “tea”, which would always lead to an overnight stay. I was the boy and she was the girl and we were a couple. The thing that confused me most was when I looked in the mirror. I didn’t have boy “parts”, but I was a boy in my head.

My first real crush was on a girl in the neighborhood that I played with after school. I was eight. I would come home from an afternoon of running around with her and the fantasy would take over. There was tea, maybe dinner, but we always ended up in bed doing things boys and girls do. This was extremely frustrating for me, to say the least. We would ride the school bus together and I would sit in the back of the bus just so I could watch her without it seeming odd. The reality of it now is that it was odd — an eight year old stalker!

I cannot remember if I had thoughts and feelings concerning my own gender before the age of eight, which brings me back to my point on time. At that tender young age, and possibly earlier, I had already begun to identify mentally as male. From that time on, I fought every attempt to make me feminine. I have been fighting that battle for a long time. I’ve lived a life of lies in order to please everyone else, and now that I am starting this new chapter in my life, it hit me like a ton of bricks that I have no idea who I am because I’ve spent my entire life pretending to be someone else.

I am now at that place where I cannot live a lie. In the last few months, I’ve come to embrace myself for who I am — a man. I identify now as a transman because I am currently in transition, however, the day will come when I have completed that journey and I will refer to myself as I was born to be — male.

I cannot even begin to describe the weight that has been lifted off my shoulders just by embracing myself, for no longer hating myself, and for allowing myself to be ME. I know the future will not be easy. There will always be obstacles but I am confident that I will be able to prevail through truth, and in time