Growing Up

Light a candle

I started this blog a year ago on a whim.

I was bored, my friend had one, it looked like an excellent way to pass time at the office and provided an opportunity to indulge my inner voice.

There was never really a conscious decision at the time as to what face my online persona would wear. A month later, I’d decided that there would be no masks.

Pictureless, nameless, genderless. In these words I seek clarity. In these words I hope to find the language of my heart.

My little spot of internet real estate has allowed me to strip away all the covers by which people judge books.

Herein lie the words that form my book. The language of my heart.

I have for the most part been having a very involved conversation. With myself, as a mildly fluffy ego is wont to do. Somewhere along the way though, you stopped by to chat.

Aside from the handful of personal friends who’ve dropped by, those of you with whom I’ve had the pleasure of conversation through Spot, have had nothing but mere words by which to bridge the chasm of geography and construct a mental image of me. I’m guessing that my stress-relief squeeze-cow-thing helps in the construction. Good ol’ Mooriel.

I’ve always admitted to being a procrastinator. But my goodness, this kinda takes the cake. Today, I’ve come almost full circle by continuing a post that was written in February 2005.

Bring Out The Cake

I’ve never specifically mentioned whether or not I’m a boy or a girl. Some of you assume that I’m male, likely from the presence of Snowie. Others have never even considered that I might be anything other than female.

And some of you have since revised your initial assumption.

The writing on the wall is always clearer with the benefit of retrospect. “When Life Gives You Lemons” and the recent posts on transgenderism ought to pretty much paint the colour of my birth blanket for the discerning reader.

I hope that it doesn’t matter to most of you, either way. For those who somehow feel misled, well. C’est la vie. It was never intentional.

When I was younger, I’d often wish that I could disappear from my life, BUT leaving a clone in my stead so that my family wouldn’t even know that I was gone. Suicide wasn’t an option because I’d be so guilty for causing the grief (never mind that the grief would no longer be my problem, being dead and all).

Why the drama?- you might ask. Well. Being gay can’t be easy for most; being transgendered without understanding the concept, however, is far, far worse. Especially when you’re under 12. I can’t quite remember when I “knew” myself to be different, suffice to say that it was in primary school.

Sometimes I think that I must be the only person who has issues about this..er..issue. Rarely have I come across anyone writing about dealing with self-identity from this particular aspect. Perhaps I over-think. What else would you call wondering whether one is a homophobic, homosexual man trapped in the wrong body (don’t bother trying to work that out…I can’t quite myself)? How else to explain being unnerved by lesbians?

Thank god for the invention of the word “transgendered”.

Send In The Clowns

Yes, it remains a big issue for me. Self-loathing is no fun. Self-loathing is exactly what’s behind my unfortunate contempt for “fat butches”. Not because I’m one myself, but what that description represents to me. An object of “normal” people’s ridicule.

Being told at a young age that “something’s wrong in your head” just because I don’t like dressing stereotypically couldn’t but leave a scar that despite having faded with time, continues to haunt the psyche with its memory.

Being who they expect me to be used to make me feel like the circus had rocked into town, and I was the major freakshow. Today, I gamely put on the bells and whistles. It pays to know which battles to choose.

Being partial to masochism, I’ve only ever been attracted to straight women. Fill in the blanks – “what do you expect me to do, **** air?”.

I pretend to myself that I’ve gotten over that.

It chokes me even now.

The first relationship (if you could call it that) left me with doubts as to what I could ever offer. I couldn't trust the next person not to renege on any assurance that it doesn't matter.

The second, whilst dispelling the earlier doubt, left me wondering if I would have left so easily had it been possible for us to be legally married. I couldn't trust myself.

Which brings me to Snowdrop. Poor Snowie. It must be hard to breathe, with all that baggage crowding the space between us.

The biggest difference between her and the earlier two, is that I’d never have in a bazillion years considered myself to be anywhere good enough to play in the league in which she was available as the prize. It’s like buying a made-in-China, imitation Hotwheels from Tesco while the other guy plonks down for a Ferrari. In cash.

And worse. She’s got ex-boyfriends. Boys. Ooooer.

Goes to show. You fall in love with a person…not a body.

Nevertheless, imagine the waves of physical self-doubt in this relationship. Heh.

Whatever. We’re still left with the fact that Snowie’s mum would rather turn hermit in Tibet than to acknowledge my existence. Thus we have curfews. And ridiculous commuting.

One night when I was staying over (before the exact nature of our relationship was confirmed to her and my existence wiped from her universe by sheer force of willpower) at their place and didn’t have a fresh shirt for the next day, Snowie’s mum offered me her own. At the time, I thought, hey, she actually likes me. Turns out, as we were later told, she just didn’t want me to wear anything of her precious princess’s and sacrificed her own instead.

Yeowch.

I don’t know which was the bigger insult to my humanity - that awful comment by No.1, or that gesture.

Sometimes though, I wonder if I can really blame her for thinking that all her hard work to raise a dancing, singing prized ham shouldn't be wasted on the likes of me?

Blowing out the Candle

Sounds like a bad day-time soap, innit?

But I’ve come a long way. It’s easier to recover from hurt feelings or self-doubt when you approach life with a philosophy of making lemon meringue pie (and so many fabulous treats, thanks to Nigella and Martha Stewart) out of Life’s lemons. You do the best with what you’re given that can’t be changed.

Half a year ago, I felt that if I took off that virtual mask that had given me gender anonymity here, I’d lose some readers. Obviously, I’d forgotten the primary function of this blog - a conversation with myself.

So what am I?

I’m not really sure myself. But I don’t think finding the answer matters that much to me anymore.

If only, though, I believed it enough to tell my parents.