07 February 2011


I'd been avoiding Sara.  Actually, I'd been avoiding her friend, too, perhaps even more than I'd been avoiding her.  But she sounded distressed in the last message she left me.  I knew I might be wading into quicksand, but I called back anyway.

Turns out, the friend moved out without notice.  They'd known each other for about thirty years and lived together for twenty-five.  Each of them wanted the other.  But she wanted her friend as she is; the friend wanted her only if both of them could change:  she, her desires and her friend, her body.

You may have guessed (if you haven't looked at the link) that the friend is transgendered.  She is probably the most masculine woman I ever met; in fact, she looks and even acts the way I might have had my testosterone count been just a bit higher, or my estrogen level lower.  She just reached one of those round-number years that signals one is no longer young and more than likely has more years behind than ahead of her.  And, due to various medical problems as well as her finances, she cannot have the penis she always wanted.

It's really difficult for me to describe the friend, whom I've called "Dee" on this blog, with female pronouns.  Even more people call her "sir" or use male pronouns in reference to her than to me early in my transition.  I normally don't make such judgments, but Dee really should have been born with the equipment I had.  The shape of her body is even similar to what mine was before I started my transition, and somewhat like my body now.  

But upon meeting her, I could feel her anger toward me.  Some trans people who can't begin or consummate their transitions often project their anger toward the world, including people who have nothing to do with the state of their lives.  (That, of course, includes most people.)  I know I did.  And I realize how awful it must have been for some people who had to live, work or otherwise deal with me.

If I could do something to help Dee, I would.  But there isn't anything I can do.  And, I don't think she wants to change.  In fact, I told Sara that in leaving her, and moving in with her mother (whom she claims to detest), Dee may actually be preparing herself to die.  Given her medical conditions, that's not implausible.

And now Sara needs help, at least emotionally, from anyone who can give it to her.  I'm not sure that I can.  When I've talked to her, she's sounded like one of those women whose abusive husbands just left her.  They are stunned because they have known nothing else for so long.  Whether the abuse is physical, psychological or verbal, it changes the person receiving it.  They're rather like prisoners who start to see captivity as normal; the first taste of freedom is overwhelming rather than exhilarating.  I've known women like that and in fact got involved in romantic relationships with at least two.  

I'm going to have supper with Sara tomorrow night.  I'm willing to help her.  But somehow I get the feeling that there's something she needs, and may be seeking from me.  And I may not have it.  Quite honestly, about all I can do is to empathise with her to the degree that I can understand what it's like to be Dee.  Admittedly, I can do that more than most other people could, simply because of my own experience.  But I'm not sure I have anything else to offer Sara.