A couple of weeks ago at Chameleons, we had a researcher pop round. Yvonne was asking for volunteers to help, and yes, I did sign up.
So, this week I cycled into to town and we ran through the questions. I won’t list then fully, nor my answers. Mainly because I feel they are now part of the research, and also, you probably know most of them. Come on, I’ve been blogging for a decade or so, so most of these are out there 🙂
The thing is, after our chat, and as I cycled back, my mind turned over some of the memories. Sometimes I wonder if the mind is like a river. The fast flow of the everyday. The swirls and currents within. Lastly, there’s the riverbed. Deeper things are buried; the rocks and stones of history and self. To turn them over will muddy the water.
Earlier, I’d read an article about grief and, as often happens, two themes can bump against each other. Sometimes, like then, they fuse. As I drew to a halt by some traffic lights, this thought came to me: Do trans people grieve for their body?
Do I now? No. I am mostly okay about it. After all, if I was different to what I am – a 40 something bloke – I’d not have my wonderful family. Mostly? Yes, there are times when being 6′, wide-jawed and, well, blokey, do not gel with how I feel. I remember being a teenager, possibly not a dissimilar age to Wee Man, and measuring my height. How I wanted to be as tall as my mates. Yet… Yet, I also didn’t want to be hairy; certainly not on my face, chest or legs.
Do I regret not doing something about it? No, and if I had, again, I wouldn’t be where I am now. Plus, would I be any happier? Really, much as there’s a slight frisson about baldness and Wookie pins, it could be worse. I get out. The Ever Lovely Mrs J accepts me for who I am, and ironically, not having smooth legs, means summer is easier. There’s no lies or truth dodging when it comes to going swimming either. 🙂
So, maybe, back in the day, my body isn’t what I’d have picked. But, that’s probably true for people who are ill. Incidentally, Yvonne asked if there was no comeback and, hypothetically, I could live and work as I wanted, what would I be?
That’s easy. I’d be me. Just a bit more fancy on some days. Some days him, some days, her…. But always me.