Most of the time I manage pretty well, stay calm and collected, and provide what I hope is decent advice to you, who are going through this, and those close to you who seek to understand your pain and anguish. All the while dealing with their own pain and heartache. Never lose track of that. You are one person and they are many. Their suffering is a legitimate as yours and made worse because it is difficult to empathise with what one doesn’t know and so they struggle to help you.
I do have to admit that there is despair in me about my outlook. I’m a well rounded interesting person, or so I’m told. But who will want the transsexual woman with parkinson’s? One who deals with fatigue and depression and struggles some days to go out into the world.
So now, with tears in my eyes on a less than perfect day, I will tell the other side of my coin. No longer playing a magician’s trick to hide the hard, dull and cold.
Perhaps this admission will be cathartic. It will free me from the bounds I tie myself down with and sever the roots of that tree built of those things that bear down on me and keep me from finding a better place to be.
There are many days I yearn for home. It will always be home to me, even if I have a lovely apartment and lovely furniture. It is where I could curl up on the couch, pet the cherished cat that made me sneeze, where I comforted my daughter and even, yes, made love to my wife. It wasn’t all good of course, but it was a life lived together. A shared existence.
There are days I yearn for normalcy and shared humanity above all else. The be able to stay in that home and not have to the separation and divorce so exquisitely painful and unnatural. Like a psychic knife to the heart.
P wasn’t perfect and neither was I. She inflicted pain when I caused her hurt, even if coming out was no longer a choice in the midst of anguish and depression. Inactivity and malaise, fear and anxiety and a yearning to be whole provided me no room to remain where I was. Could I expect perfection from her? Most definitely not.
Some days I feel so helpless to change things for the better. I tell myself I have a good life, that my medical problems are manageable. On those days there is hope, and the sun makes it through my windows and warms me.
On the bad days I can only count what I’ve lost in friends and family, in most cases never to return again. I see the road ahead that is now filled with brambles instead of the graceful dignified old age I might have thought I would get. Perhaps that was a chimera that could never be, even without the change and the loss. Whose life reaches 59 without loss, with perfect health, and without heartache and concern.
For all these things above, my personal litany of difficulty and pain, I need to remember than I am part of an army moving forward of humans like myself. Alike and different, caring and callus they surround me. There is always hope for a better day as long as we keep breathing.
I tell you who would follow this path that you too are in for hurt as well as excitement, discovery and a new better life. Prepare yourself and expect the attainable and no more.
These are the days I struggle to hear my friends calling. Telling me I’ll be ok, that I’m worthwhile and deserving of love. The days where I allow myself to wallow in self pity. That is no way to live. Open your ears and see that the sun yet shines and warms your skin.
So put on a funny movie, bake some brownies, or call a friend and tell her how much you love her for who she is. Sing and dance with joy because that is a hammer to break down those walls of glass, strong and mighty yet fragile.