Love Sick--Or Sick Of Lovers?

Sometimes it seems that half of the TV shows and movies in this world are about people falling in love, trying to find love or who can’t decide between would-be lovers. 

I’m thinking about that as I can’t get Bob Dylan’s “Love Sick” out of my head.  A few nights ago, someone played it on the radio.  I hadn’t heard it in a long time. At the time it came out, I actually liked the music better than the lyrics—a feeling I don’t normally have about a Bob Dylan song.  But now the lyrics—or, more precisely the sentiment—resonates more now than it did circa 1997.

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I’m now about the same age he was when he made that song. More to the point, though, I simply have no desire, right now, to get involved in anything resembling a “love”—or, more precisely, romantic or sexual—relationship.  I don’t even feel that I want anything more than friendship from anybody, and there really aren’t that many people from whom I actually want it.

A few people have suggested that I lack confidence in myself and, by extension, in my ability to attract anyone I’d want, let alone anyone who can give me a nurturing, fulfilling relationship.  That might be part of the answer: I don’t feel very attractive right now and I’m still learning what kind of a woman I am, and am going to, be.  Others, including one priest in my church, have said that I’m afraid to open myself again.  They’re right:  Being sensitive and vulnerable has led me to not merely pain but, at times, outright ruin.

Plus, to be perfectly honest, I don’t miss the intimacy—to the degree that I experienced it—in the relationships I’ve had.  I don’t miss having to listen to two-hour-long monologues from a self-absorbed man-child who’s never lived anywhere but the house in which he was born or raised, or the abuse to which he subjected me whenever I told him what he didn’t want to hear.  I don’t miss the accusations, the slander, the expectations that I will be available for sex or whatever else the other person wants.  For that matter, I don’t really miss sex.  

I have to wonder, though, how much of what I’m feeling actually has to do with the experiences I’ve had in relationships.  I know that many people say their libidos wane when they get to be my age, or they just get tired of a lot of other things in their lives.  I also know that, in the old days, one of the costs of gender-reassignment surgery—apart from money—was the loss of physical sensation in that area.  That has not been a problem for me.  The electricity is working, so to speak.  So is the plumbing, if you will.  But, to extend that metaphor, the bedroom is empty and I don’t feel the same urgency that other people seem to feel about filling it.

Relationships Lost By The Lost Generation

A post from Feministe that recently came my way highlighted an aspect of life for the Lost Generation of Transgenders.

During the time in question--roughly from the time The Transsexual Empire was published until transgender movements were revived (and new ones, particularly for female-to-male transgenders, were begun) in the 1990's, many of us entered into long-term relationships or, at least, relationships we or our partners hoped or planned on being long-term.

Many of us married members of the "opposite" gender from the ones to which we were assigned at birth--that is to say, the gender of our mind and spirit.  Others entered into partnerships of one kind or another, and even had children, but never had the ceremony or got the license.  And then others among us were in relationships with people of the genders in which we were living at the time.

Some of us remained in those relationships for years, or even decades.  In addition to having children, some of us bought houses, started businesses and did any number of other things married couples do.  Some of us even changed careers or other aspects of our lives in order to be with our partners, or they did the same for us.

A few of us (I am not among them) are still in those relationships.  Some are living as siblings or roommates; a fortunate few have spouses or partners who accomodated to the new circumstances of the relationship.  Those partners, whether or not they voiced it, realized that they were in love with the person, not his or her gender.

Unfortunately, not all partners saw their love that way.  Many women base their relationships on the manliness of the man, and many men base their feelings on the womanliness of the woman.  Other men and women simply cannot cope with the fact that they loved people who are of their own gender.  The last relationship I had before I started my transition ended for that very reason.

Sometimes, when we "come out" to our partners or spouses, we are accused of having lied to them when we met.   Some may indeed have practiced such a deception.  More of us (I include myself), however, simply could not articulate, with the language available to us and in cultural climate that surrounded us, exactly how we felt.  During the age of the Lost Generation of Transgenders, most people--even LGBT people and those who could accept us--still thought of gender more or less the way people did at the time Christine Jorgensen had her surgery.  Some of us thought we couldn't be trangendered because we weren't gay or even bisexual; given the ideas we had, we could not reconcile, the fact that we were never attracted to someone of the gender to which we were assigned at birth with our knowledge of our true genders, and our love for someone who was of that gender in body as well as in mind and spirit.  And if we didn't have the knowledge and language to explain it, how could our partners or anyone else understand it?

So, many of us were in relationships that neither we nor our partners could understand.  Some of our friendships and business relationships, and even ones with family members, were based on their and our then-limited understanding of our gender identities and sexualities.  In fact, most people--include yours truly--conflated one with the other.  As a result, we not only lost those marriages and partnerships into which we entered; we also lost relationships with friends, family members and professional colleagues or business associates.  

Those relationships are among the casualties, if you will, of the Lost Generation of Transgenders.  I can understand why someone whose spouse says, after a number of years of marriage, that he or she feels he is trapped in the wrong body would feel betrayed, duped or simply angry:  They feel that the assumptions and beliefs on which they based their lives with the other person were false, and--to use a cliche--that the ground has been knocked out from under them. On the other hand, I also understand (perhaps too well) why we asked those people to become our spouses and partners.  Some of us were indeed desperate and hoped that being in a relationship with someone of the "opposite" gender would extinguish our feelings of having bodies that didn't express our true gender identities.  Others simply loved the people they married, even if they couldn't understand how or why.  (Some would argue that true love is that way in any event.)  I don't think many of us deliberately deceived our partners.  However, they may always feel as if we have.  And that may be one of the more damaging legacies of having to be part of the Lost Generation of Transgenders.

"It's Not Natural!"

It's been two weeks since I last posted. There's no particular reason for my "hiatus."  There simply hasn't been much to report --at least in terms of anything that has to do with what I've talked about on this blog--lately.  Plus, I've been doing a bit of reading and other research for some things I'm going to write and, possibly, post on this blog.


That said, I thought I might give you something "light" and, hopefully, enlightening.


The next time someone says "It's not natural!" or "It goes against nature", show him or her this photo:

Max, the older kitty, is on the left.  Marley, who was ricocheting off the furniture and walls just a few minutes before I took this photo, is on the right.


All right, I shouldn't make assumptions or cast aspersions on them.  So, I'll just assume that their union is a meeting of the minds:

Two Years Later

Today marks two years since my GRS/SRS.  In one sense, it's hard to believe:  It really does seem like only yesterday.  However, in another sense, the way time has passed makes perfect sense: I had the surgery so I could get on with my life.  That means change and learning are inevitable.  Life without those things is--for me, anyway--not an option.  I don't mean that I don't want it; I simply mean that I couldn't choose any other way, really.

Danny, one of my "classmates" in Trinidad, e-mailed me a few days ago.  I would like it if we can stay in touch; his humor, intelligence and empathy make any communication from him a rewarding experience.  I really would like to see him again some day. 

As for the other "alumni" I met there, I am always open to stay in touch with them; they have, if nothing else, a sympathetic ear in me.  However, I notice that I haven't been in touch with the others in a while.  Now I understand why I am not sad about that:  They had their surgeries for essentially the same reasons why I had mine.  I hope their lives are progressing in the ways they had hoped; perhaps this shared experience will figure in some way or another in our lives in the future. Whether it does or it doesn't, that will have been the point of our having the surgeries and, more important, undergoing our transitions.  

Moving on, as we used to say when funk bands ruled the world.  (Yes, they really did, once!)  That is the reason why, I've just noticed, I'm no longer sad about the relationships I lost during my transition.  People have told me that the ones who de-friended me weren't really friends in the first place.  Perhaps that is true.  But I now realize that even if I had not embarked upon this journey (I hope that doesn't sound too quaint!), we may have gone our separate ways.  The same, I believe, is true about the relationship I had with Tammy:  It made me happy, at least in some ways, for a time in my life, but we probably wouldn't be together now even if I hadn't started my transition.  And, I think, the same is true for those relatives who broke or drifted away:  However close we might have been at one time, we simply had very little in common, even when I was still living as Nick.

So, yes, I have a vagina that looks like the ones my gynecologist has seen on cis women.  (And, yes, it looks like the ones I've seen.  I'll let you think, if you care to, how I came to see them.)  And I've been feeling good physically.  But I think the most important way in which the operation has been a success is that I am living the rest of my life, and learning what that means for me.

One Wait Ends; I Extend Another

I went back to Dr. Ronica yesterday. Would she allow me to get back on my bike? 

I'm going to make you wait until the end of this post to find out, Dear Reader.

The culture samples came back.  I had a staph infection, she said.  It could have come from any number of things, but the tear, slight as it was, in my vaginal wall gave it a place to take root.  

Infections aren't fun.  Actually, this one was more inconvenient than anything else.  It didn't make me feel ill; it's just kept me off my bike and ruined some undies.  


Dr. Ronica and I were talking about one thing and another and I mentioned that I haven't been sexually active, and that I haven't been in a relationship since my surgery. Although I've met a few people who interested me in that way, I decided that I really didn't want to be involved, and that I wasn't in a hurry to become sexually active. 


"Why should you be?," she said.  "You've given yourself time to develop and to get used to the changes in your body.  I think that's really smart."


I am certainly curious to find out what sex will feel like.  It doesn't take any great perception to realize that a female orgasm has to feel different from a male one.  But how, exactly, I wonder.  I also want to see whether these changes in my body will affect, not only the way I have sex, but in what other ways I might relate to the next person who hooks up with me.  Will it affect, not only the physical sensations, but the emotional and mental aspects of my relationship?  


If my first meeting with any of the people with whom I was involved before my surgery were to take place now, rather than back in the day, I somehow don't think I'd even have an affair, much less enter a long-term relationship, with them.  Granted, I sometimes look back fondly on things I did with Tammy, and even some moments I had with Eva.  But I was a different person in those days.  The funny thing is that I don't see myself so differently, at least in some ways,  from how I saw myself when I knew them.  After all, I knew at least something about myself that I was trying to hide from Eva and hoping to integrate, somehow, into life with Tammy.  


Yes, I am still "getting used to" my physical changes, as the doctor and other people have suggested.  However, I am also how I have--and haven't--changed, mentally and emotionally.  


Dr. Ronica seems to understand that.  And, yes, she told me I could ride again.  Just change my saddles and proceed with caution, for now, she said.

Learning The Laws Of Their Languages

Today I did something I normally try not to do:  I went to the post office on a Saturday.  The line was about as long as I expected it to be and, after spending about fifteen minutes on it (actually a bit less than I expected), I was served by the rudest employee in the post office.  At least he was efficient.


As I stood on the queue, a man waited in front of me.  He was rather sexy, in an unshaven, rough-hewn, fatigues-and-field jacket sort of way.  He was also as fidgety as a kid waiting for a meal in a restaurant.  Everything, it seemed, annoyed him--especially customers who spent more than five seconds with a postal clerk.  In a way, I could understand his reactions:  After all, who wants to spend more time than is absolutely necessary to mail a package, especially on Saturday?  He seemed particularly exasperated when an older woman who was indecisive and didn't speak Queens English, much less The Queen's English and spent an inordinate amount of time at one of the windows, which held up those of us who were waiting on line.


He groaned and looked around him for sympathy.  "I don't believe this," he growled.


"Yeah.  Does she have anything better to do with her life?"


"Does she have a life?" he wondered.


Then, for the next few minutes, as the line snaked us toward the clerks' windows, he grumbled and let out sighs.  Finally, he said, "I'm sorry if I seem a little jumpy."


"Oh, that's quite all right," I nearly whispered, with a trace of a simper.


"But I'm not normally like this."  Somehow I knew that he didn't think I believed him.  Not that it mattered, really.  


"I've been really, really jumpy."


"We all have times like that," I tried to reassure him.


"Well, I've been like this for a month now, ever since I stopped smoking."


"Congratulations!  Whatever you're going through now will be worth it."


"I know," he said.  "I feel better already."


"And you'll feel even better...and save a bunch of money."


"Those are the reasons why I quit," he explained. "But it's really tough."


"Yes, people don't realize how addictive nicotine is," I assured him.


"Thank you for understanding."


"Oh, it's no problem.  I lived with someone who was withdrawing from nicotine, so I understand."


"You are very kind."


"No, just..."


"NEXT!"  The clerk called him to the window.  He mailed his package and left as I was walking up to the next available window.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him leaving; he waved to me.


Ever since I started my transition, I've had more and more encounters with strangers who revealed one thing or another to me, or who hugged me or cried on my shoulder.  I always wonder what they're seeing in me.  


I think that man knew that I found him attractive.  And the young woman who did my nails last week must have known that I was, shall we say, persuadable.  I'm certainly not upset that he talked to me or that she propped her head on my shoulder, any more than either of them seemed to mind the attention I was giving them.  But, even though I can "read" their intentions and desires, I still feel as if I'm learning how to act around people who share moments with me the way they did.  It seems that the rules for these encounters are somehow different from the ones that governed the interactions I used to have.  


Give me another fifty years and I'll figure it all out.

Reflections At The Beginning of The Year

Most new years have begun with a day that seemed eerily quiet to me. This New Year's Day has been no exception. The weather was neither unusually cold nor mild for this time of year, and it did not begin to rain until well into the evening. And, when I ventured out this afternoon, there were few people on the streets. And those I saw were uncommonly serene; I exchanged wishes for a happy new year with several of them, all of whom are strangers.

I guess everyone else was sleeping off a hangover, watching football, cooking or eating.

Later in the afternoon, I became one of the latter category, going once again to--you guessed it!--Millie's house. Her younger daughter, who will turn one of those round-number ages (I won't say which one!) in a couple of months, seemed happier than I've seen her in a while. And her other daughter, who came with her two kids, also was in an uncommonly good mood. And John, Millie's husband was exhibiting his usual (and sometimes wonderfully charming) combination of thoughtfulness to his guests and cluelessness about some of our conversations. It's not that he's stupid--far from it. It's just that there are some things he really knows nothing about. In that sense, I guess he's no different from the rest of us.

Also present was Catherine, whom I like very much. She and Millie are childhood friends who, somehow or another, have managed to live no more than a neighborhood or two apart from each other through more than half a century.

Sometimes I find myself envying that: Even before I began my gender transition, I had to uproot myself a couple of times. I have not been in contact with anyone I knew during elementary or junior high school for thirty years or so; I am in tenuous, sporadic contact with a few people I knew in high school and in college via Facebook and other online means. However, I have a hard time of keeping such relationships up. Or, more precisely, I am a bit reluctant to commit to them, as I know that each of us has changed during the decades we haven't seen each other.

I know it's very difficult to relate to someone who, in essence, is a different person from the one you knew when you and that person weren't present for each others' changes. I learned that when I tried to resume a friendship with Elizabeth after we hadn't seen each other for a decade or more: Even if Nick hadn't become Justine, it might not have been possible to be friends. On the other hand, Bruce and I have been in nearly constant contact for close to thirty years; we have seen each other go through crises and triumphs. I can only imagine what Millie and Catherine have experienced in all of the time they've known each other!

Yet, as we shared chips and salsa, antipasti, baked ziti with sausage, salad, roast pork, rice with peas and corn, I realized that I, too, have a friendship with a history with Millie, with John--with their family, in fact, and Catherine. I've known them for about seven and a half years: not as long as they've known each other, but, in essence for my entire life as I now know it. All of them, except for Catherine, met me during the last days I was living at least part of my life as a male. None of them ever mention that, even though I never asked them not to.

Plus, in my very earliest days of living full-time, I watched Millie's grandkids--who were then nine and six years old--when she had to go somewhere, and John and their daughters were at work. Now the grandkids are fifteen and twelve years old.

Now I'll admit that I have a self-indulgent, self-reflexive reason for talking about them and the friendships that have developed between us: In thinking about what I've experienced, I realize how far I've come, if I do say so myself. When I say "how far I've come," I am talking about what I've left behind me--whether by choice or other means--as well as what I've gained or simply come into.

Of course I have left various relationships; others have fallen by the wayside. That, I suppose happens in everyone's lives. In addition, I have abandoned--whether by choice or otherwise--various material possessions and a place I had, not only in a larger world, but in the lives of various people who were in my life.

What have I gained? Relationships, possessions and a place in the world and in certain people's lives. Naturally, the ones I've gained are, for the most part, very different from the ones I've left behind. And the people who've remained with me have changed in various ways, while remaining true to themselves.

And what have I come into? The pleasures gleaned from what I've gained, and a sense of my self that I never could have anticipated, much less pursued or seized, prior to my transition.

I must admit, what I've gained and come into have some ironic--and some purely and simply funny--consequences at times. (Yes, Ed McGon, God does have a wicked sense of humor!) To wit: Catherine, Millie and Stephanie, her elder daughter, were talking about something and somehow the subject of menopause came up. (The grandkids were, at that moment, in the living room and too engrossed in their video games to hear us.) They were talking about how a woman knows it's coming on (hot flashes, etc.) and I said, "Well, first, you miss your period."

Not one of them blinked. And one of them--Millie, I think--said, "Yeah, and after that you start having the other symptoms."

And the conversation continued as if nobody had said anything unusual or out of line. I wasn't trying to impress anyone or "fit in;" I merely stated, with confidence, a fact and was part of a women's conversation. John, who sat at the other end of the table from me, gave me a brief but knowing smile.

If that, and the rest of the time I spent with him and everyone else is a harbinger of what this year will be like, things ought to be good, or at least interesting--ironically, by becoming routine. At least I know I'm starting this year in the life in which I belong.