Hormoniversary

One year ago today, I began hormone replacement therapy.

It took me over 40 years to figure out that I was a man. Four decades of messages about who I was and what I was and how I was supposed to be and it was hard to see anything else. Yet I could never figure out why everything about me felt so wrong. My shape and my curves and… my FORM. My form felt wrong. As I moved through the world as a child… an adolescent.. a teenager… a young adult…. A not quite so young adult.. a *gulp* grown up…. All of it. Felt so very wrong.

I remember being in school and the other kids making fun of me for how I walked/moved/existed… how I moved.. I walked like a boy. I carried myself like a boy. I dressed like a boy. Had I grown up in a world where visibility was revolution and trans rights were human rights and there were trans men and  trans women and trans people modeling to me what life could have been, things would have been so different. I can’t even imagine what my life would have been had I recognized Jackson at a young age. The turmoil skirted. The trauma avoided. And a giant leap over a muddy puddle of confusion and pain and shame.

The last few years has been a series of reliefs. The right to be handsome. Deep exhale. Jackson. Deep exhale. Gender affirming therapy. Deep exhale. Hormone replacement therapy. Deep exhale. Each step along this journey I have settled more and more into the man I was born to be. And each step along this journey I have become more and more free.

It started a couple of months ago. All of a sudden. Mr. Clark. Sir. He. Him. Gendered correctly. Consistently.

Something that a cisgender person can never fully realize is that when you are transgender, you notice EVERY SINGLE TIME you are gendered. You hear it, loudly in your ears… loudly and visibly in the room, like a flashing sign over your head. Right or wrong, you feel it every single time. Every time I am misgendered, I feel it. Every time I am gendered correctly, I feel it. And both evoke tears for very different reasons.

I never would have said that my features were feminine. There was never anything ‘girl’ about me except my woman’s hips and woman’s breasts and what was or was not between my legs.  But as I look back at a photo of my face a year ago, I can see so much femininity in my face. Lips. Eyes. Shape. My narrow neck and cheekbones and softness. I understand now as I look at this photo why I was misgendered again and again and again.

And now I am startled to see the effects of the masculinization in my face. Lips. Eyes. Shape. Thick neck and cheekbones and hardness. And I understand now as I look at this photo why I am gendered correctly again and again and again.

And I am so very grateful.

Many well-intentioned allies believe that now that I have had gender affirming surgery and am on hormone replacement therapy that I have transitioned. It is important for me to make it clear that transition is not defined by these things. I was a man named Jackson long before I understood that it was my name, long before I considered surgery, long before I began hormones. I transitioned medically and surgically because that was the path I followed - the right choices for me - and I was privileged enough to be able to make both things happen. A trans person is trans with or without surgery, with or without hormones, with or without legal name/gender marker change, with or without public acknowledge and acceptance of their transition. Trans is trans and trans is beautiful. 

Today, for me, I celebrate being authentically me. I celebrate visibility. I celebrate being a proud transgender man. I celebrate my freedom. And as I give myself my 53rd injection, I wonder how I will look in another year. Deep exhale. I will look like Jackson.

I am under attack.

Assault: Verb - Make a physical attack on.

Assualt: Noun - A physical attack

It FEELS like assault. It FEELS like I was assaulted. It FEELS like I was attacked physically. Except, I could have defended myself against a physical attack. I'm a big strong man. I'm brave (kind of). I'm self assured (kind of). And I can defend myself (kind of). But there is no amount of strength or courage that can defend one's heart against a violent attack of words. For me, anyway.

You see, there is no defense when someone finds your old wounds and rips them open. There is no defense for when you are already struggling and someone who is virtually a stranger begins kicking you again and again. There is no defense for when disturbed people make you a target to try to make themselves feel better through their grief.

My Dad died a month and a day ago. A month and a day ago at was at work and I got the call from my brother that I knew was coming any day. My Dad had died. And I processed as I process. With words. Just as I processed so many things. Those of you who enjoy my words followed along as I wrote about reaching out to my Dad after years of not speaking because I was ready to do my part to reconnect.

You cried with me when I shared about telling him that I had finally met Jackson.

You smiled and celebrated when I went and sat on a couch with him and we shared space for the first time in so very many years.

And you offered love and kindness and solace to me when he died.

I was leaving work yesterday and I did what you do. I checked facebook. And I had a notification. A comment. From my father's wife. On a photo I had shared on the day my Dad died. We are not friends. We are not close. We have no mutual connections. She, on the one month anniversary of my father’s death decided that she needed to hunt me down on facebook and scroll back through my page. How very sad that is, now that I look at it in the light of day.

"Tom did not have a funeral here because he had only been in Dallas for 4 years before he died and was sick the whole time unable to get out and socialize. It was my decision to not have an expensive funeral but to donate the money to the Michael j fox foundation instead. He wanted to go to church and did for about two years before he lost too much balance. The church congregation all sent flowers and cards. He had lots of friends in Maui, Texas and Orlando who all sent cards, flowers or donations. She states that he had no friends because he lived a bad life. He was an excellent father and she knows it was her that caused all her own problems, not Tom! She chooses to lie and tell half truths.

She says she was kicked out of his home. She was sent to live with her mother when she dropped out of high school and was doing drugs with her gutter snipe friends. That is when he told her she was dumb but he never said she was afraid or fat! She made that up. She had several scholarships offered for college if she had finished high school. Tom bought everything for her clothes, cars, got her regular counseling. Paid to have her friend visit from Nashville, couched her travel soccer team, took her to Hawaii at lease 4 times if not more. All she has ever done for him is bad mouth him and ask for money. When he had money he gave it to her but he did not have it in his old age and she got mad about that. He asked her once “what is wrong with you” after we just got home from dinner to find out she had shoved my daughter who was just in middle school, against the wall several times threatening her. All she has ever been is a big disappointment and since she cannot grieve his death she puts him down again in public.”

I didn’t read it very closely. I just skimmed it, got the gist of the content, and reached out to my people. The people who know me and love me and encouraged and me supported me through finding peace with my Dad and working so hard to heal the wounds from my adolescence. There was a vague… is she misgendering me on purpose? Just to hurt me? All I have even been was a disappointment? It broke me a little bit. Broke open the wounds that were mending. But I have good people… strong people… perfect people who guided me and supported me and held me. Delete. Block. Done. I never have to deal with this woman again. Repeat after me. I never have to deal with this woman again.

A little while later I get a notification that she shared the same comment on my blog. Delete. Attack. I was being attacked. The woman who married my father when I was 16 years old was attacking me. I had not interacted with her, nor had I said a single derogatory thing about her, and she had stalked me and was attacking me.

Then the next comment came: “Your one lying hebitch. Your dad never turned his back on you. You turned your back on him the day you dropped out of high school and was doing drugs with your gutter snip friends. Why can you not tell the world the real truth about how you are responsible for messing up your own life?”

Then it was hard to know what to feel or how to respond. All I could think was “it’s been almost 30 years. Other than necessity due to my dad we have not communicated or had to deal with one another in almost 30 years. How can you possibly hate me now just as much as you hated me when I was a 16 and 17 year old child in your care? How could one human being possibly carry hatred for a child for that long?”

So I deleted that one as well.

She has not commented again.

But this morning the notifications started and my Dad’s sister began.

“Jennifer/Jackson:
This is your Aunt Grace. I just read your blog about your Dad, my brother......What is your problem. AGAIN!
Maybe you need to stop living in a fantasy world (TV Shows and Movies) and face reality. What I see in your blog is guilt - not grief. I would much rather see my loved ones while they are alive, not dead at a funeral. I remember Linda (stepmother) getting out a message to all before your Dad died to come and see him while he was still alive. I really tried, but as an amputee and a person with ulcerative colitis I couldn't make it. Tom, Chris and even David did make it and your Dad had a second breathe. I called everyday until he died to tell him I love him. Did you? He understood. Even at his very worse, in a weakened voice he said he loved me. Funeral? No.....and so sorry he didn't die at the right time for you to grieve on your 2 days off.

You need a playlist to bring on the tears? Again, I can't help it but that still sounds like guilt that you are the one who did not treat your Dad with love and respect over the years.

From what I remember he stood by you. Most parents won't accept the fact that their child has told them they were gay. Your Dad was not an ignorant man. He knew it was something you had no control over. He told me he didn't love you any less. You will always be his child. Then years later when you announced you were changing you name to Jackson, again he told me he would always love you. I remember getting punished by my mother just for having a gay friend. 
Think about how hurt he was when you didn't talk to him for a number of years becasue he wouldn't send you to some expensive college when you were 30 plus years old. He offered to send you to college out of High School when you had soccer scholarships. Not when you were older. He was a hands on Dad and paid his child support until you kides reached the legal age and supposedly were Adults. At some point in your live you do grow up. 
He supported you during the most trying time in your life when you finally came out of the closet. To be complaining about a funeral is not the issue here nor your Dad. You are the issue. So sad.
It was your turn to give him moral support. I know I did. No guilt feelings here. I will miss him dearly. The last words I heard from him was "I love you Grace" and that was a couple of days before he died. That meant more to me than any funeral. Linda carried out his wishes right up to the end. 
By the way I would love to see the comment you had removed. So in other words people should only read the comments you choose?”

So now this person who I have also not seen or spoken to in over 30 years is attacking me. I would not know her if I saw her walking down the street. I would not recognize her voice. I could not pick her out of a line up. And she is attacking me.

Delete.

She is continuing to comment. On my post. On my friend’s comments. Attacking me. Assaulting me. Over and over.

The thing is, I am not afraid. I am not ashamed. I offer my vulnerabilities to the world because I think vulnerability is the most beautiful thing in the world. And when I see you being vulnerable, it gives me hope and courage and strength. And I want to do that for you as well. 

I am not afraid of their words and the half truths and the venom they clearly both hold in their hearts towards me. I am not afraid of these two women. There is nothing they can say that can hurt me. I also know you’ve got my back, my beloveds.

I sit here on my couch with my cats and I type and I wonder… how would this make Dad feel? Would he want his wife and his sister to attack his child? Would he want this to be what he left behind? Hatred? No. I’m sure he wouldn’t.

So that’s not what I’m going to offer. But I am not hiding their words. I do not need to defend myself against them and I am not hiding them.

But this is my house. And I get to decide. 

I continue to choose love. I continue to choose freedom. I continue to heal and grow and learn and laugh and cry and feel all of the things. And I will continue to do my best to not to be unkind in the process. And I am grateful I do not have to do it alone. 

My Dad died two days ago.

Is there a funeral?

They don’t have any friends – just the family there…

This was the answer when I asked if there would be funeral for my Dad.

My Dad died two days ago.

Fuck.

Let me say that again.

My Dad died two days ago.

Inhale. Exhale.

Today I watched that episode of Grey’s Anatomy where George’s dad died. And Christina told him that he was now in the dead dads club. And how no one wants to be in it and no one knows what it’s like to be in it unless they are in it. And I cried. I cried more for the death of George’s dad than I did for my own.

That’s not to say that I’m done. I can tell that I've only scratched the surface of the grieving that I have to do. But the funny thing about grief is that it decides when it comes and when it is finished. Of course, it would way more convenient if it would come during the two days I took off work to process the death of my father.

The death of my father.

Inhale. Exhale.

But grief doesn’t work that way. Particularly when you have a hard time getting into feelings.. like I do. Grief cares nothing for convenience. Grief cares nothing for what works best for your schedule. Grief comes when it comes and goes when it is finished and not a moment before.

So now my two days off is over and I’m still foggy and numb and feeling a little like a marionette whose strings are controlled by someone who isn’t really that good at controlling a marionette.  Jerky. Jumpy. Twitchy.

And emotions are right there. RIGHT THERE! Trapped in my throat and in my eyes and in the tension building in my shoulders. But they won’t come. I even made a playlist to help. Christ. You have no idea. If ever a playlist was written to bring on some tears, this is it. And it worked a bit. Last night there were a few. A couple of quick muffled sobs onto the shoulder of the loved one who had her arms wrapped tightly around me. But it comes and then it goes like that scene in Backdraft… remember how the smoke flows out under the door but *whoosh* and it is sucked back in? Just like that.

Many of you have been on this journey with me. You sat in strength and stillness when three years ago on Father’s Day I shared that I choose freedom. You cried with me when that man learned that his child’s name is Jackson and Jackson has a Dad. And you celebrated with me the day that my Dad met Jackson for the first time.

And I’ve said the words and typed the words and cried the words.

My Father. My Dad. My Daddy. The man who rescued me from the boogey man at night. The man who woke me in the night because he dreamed I drowned and simply had to know I was alright. The man who coached my soccer team and took me to dinner and was my biggest fan for a very short amount of time.

Also the man who called me dumb. And fat. And afraid.  And asked me what was wrong with me… a voice that would echo in my brain for years and years and years.. what is wrong with you? Also the man who sent me from his home before I was ready and changed the entire trajectory of my life.

The man who accepted the change of my name with more grace and beauty than any member of my family. The man who…. well, I don’t know if he knew I was his son.. I don’t know if he understood. I don’t know if he got it. I don’t know if he accepted.

You see, the phone calls to my dad got really hard right at the time of my transition. And they never got easier. He grew less and less coherent. My words seem to make less and less sense to him.

I wish he had had more of a chance to get to know his son Jackson. To see and hear and connect with the man I have become. It would feel good to me to know that he got it.. that he accepted me..

I asked yesterday if it is harder to lose a parent when you are close to them or when there is distance and disconnect and trauma and a painful history.

They are different, I think. Two different things. Both grief. Both heavy. Both heartache. But different.

When I did find some feelings today, it was about George’s dad from Grey’s Anatomy. And my Dad. And how the window is closed now. My opportunity to have a tender and supportive and nurturing Dad – one like on television – one like Mr O’Malley or Cliff Huxtable or that guy from Family Ties – that is passed. There were so many things that I needed and wanted my Dad to be. Reasonable and rational things to want. Things that a child is supposed to get from their Dad, and we never stop being our parents’ children even though they sometimes stop parenting us long before we are ready to stop relying on them.

And there is still so much pain and regret and heartache from what happened to me when I was an adolescent. But also there are beautiful memories of singing in the car with him and his large hands on my tiny ones as he pulled me around and around on a frozen pond. There are memories of laughter and touch and connection. Memories of how, for a short while, I was my Dad’s favorite human and he made me feel so very special. There is no special feeling like your Dad treating you special. It seems most everything after left me wanting and aching for more.

And while my empathy for people who scarred me deeply is in short supply, I feel empathy for my Dad. To build a life so small that there will be no funeral because there are so few people to have it for. It hurts my head and the loss hurts my heart and the old deep scars hurt my entire body and I don’t know how to shift it up and out and through.

And in the midst of that, I feel gratitude for a life I’ve built surrounded by friends and loved ones and partners and sisters and brothers and siblings of choice who fill me and love me and support me and meet me where I am. Always.

My Dad died two days ago.

I still am not sure what to do with that.

Live I guess.

I will live. As Jackson. As a man who would make any father proud. And when I find myself thinking of him, I will try to remember the superhero who could fix anything and build anything and frighten away any monster.

That was my Dad. That is the Dad I choose to hold. And in that… is the Dad I lost.