Sorry it’s been a while. I’ll do an update post soon, but this is going to be a pretty specific post.

I went to see my therapist last week, as mostly a catch up session; it’d been almost a year since we’d last spoken, and I’d gone through a relationship breakup, losing friends, blood clots, surgery approval, a new relationship, changes in self image, etc…

At the end of the session, I made another appointment, and told her a few things I wanted to discuss. One was about mourning the life I never had – much in the same way I’ve mourned the child I’ll never have. This is turning into a more complicated issue.

In a discussion with my girlfriend, or actually one of her alters, I found some startling similarities with how my mind worked in that regard as well. While I don’t believe I have Dissociative Identity Disorder (I lack a few diagnostic criteria), the mechanism that my brain used is quite relatable.

I essentially created James. He (as I’ve mentioned previously, James was as close to male as I could make him) wasn’t created over night. He evolved from a need, or desire, to conform to my world. In an act of protectionism, I created this persona to present to the outside world.

That persona allowed me to:

avoid being bullied
avoid being alienated
feel less abnormal
hide and/or fit in
disguise myself
have a life

Of course it wasn’t perfect. In situations like this it never is. I was drawing on those around me to base this persona on, because as I’ve found out, it certainly was not me.

So anyway, I was chatting with her alter, and recalled that my therapist had me try and manifest James and myself in a session, to see what they might say to each other. It was more meta than actually thinking I had 2 distinct personalities (and the reason I don’t think I have D.I.D. is that they are not separate identities).

When that happened, I had a rather profound moment of James apologizing to me. I’ve written about this in the past. But we didn’t really explore more beyond that. I got really emotional, and that kind of ended the moment. Now I’m exploring that a bit deeper.

The apology was, essentially, for keeping me locked up deep down, underneath all the shit that he couldn’t deal with (which included me – he didn’t really know how to deal with me). He tried letting me out in controlled environments. But I was still caged, and I don’t just mean by location. He would not give up control, he’d just enlarge the prison a bit. This is what my ‘crossdressing’ was, and why I always had trouble moving or expressing naturally until I got rid of the James part.

In my talk with Melissa the next day, I was saying that i didn’t really forgive James for what he had done to me, even though I know he was trying to protect me (that was why I built him). She then asked if things would have been better if I had been out 10, 15, 20 years ago. No. I would have been in a lot more pain, a lot more depression, WAY more acute dysphoria, and very likely suicidal.

So, James actually did save me. I can admit that. So, I can, and do, forgive him. The real issue is that I don’t forgive myself yet. I didn’t even try to unbury myself. I never tried to wrest control from him. The one time cracks did form in his protective bubble, I tried to kill myself. I needed him for sure – he kept me alive. But where was I? The real me? I can’t blame James for me not trying to exist.

In fact, it likely was me helping keep the self denial in full effect. I whispered that I was fine with existing in private situations. Why was I okay with this for so long? Why, when I did sense freedom, did I just want to end everything? (yes, there were other circumstances in play, but still).

Early in transition, I just attributed this to being so deep under everything, that I wasn’t able to exert in any way. I don’t think that’s true. I think it was fear. I was afraid of all the things I built James to protect me from. I never faced ANY of those fears though. They MAY have been true, real fears, but not once (to my recollection anyway) had I ever been threatened with any of that.

I had been able to live without any real gendered oppression early in life. I played with wigs and skirts and stuffed animals and cars and action figures. When I saw dozens more children, eventually, in kindergarten (or maybe it even started before that, and just accelerated in K) I decided to emulate those I looked like. I know I got asked often if I was a boy or a girl. Maybe someone said something about my long hair? I don’t know.

I’m rambling. The issue is why didn’t I at least try and face my fears. Why was I so content to go the route I went. I was a fairly extroverted kid until about age 5. I distinctly remember switching from outgoing to shy. That was the point James took over. What was I hiding from so early? It’s infuriating that I don’t have a ton of memories from this stage in my life. I have vivid memories from before this. Then things are muddy for a few years. Around age 8 I start remembering things again.

So, what do I need to do to forgive myself? I can’t change the past. It’d be nice if I could remember more of my mental state back then. By the time I start remembering again I’m in full self denial. There must have been a transition stage for that. Maybe I’m putting too much responsibility on a very young mind.

Hmm, maybe that’s the problem. Ok, this kind of makes sense. Because I, buried under everything, was not always super present, maybe it took me a while to grow up. Everything was coming in under a heavily processed filter. This could explain a few other things too (such as my inner child). I shouldn’t expect that I was as hyper self aware as I am now. Of course I wasn’t. I was just a kid. We don’t know why some children self assimilate, they just do. It could even be instinctual.

I know I’m not weak. I consider myself to be very strong. I feel I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. I’ve always been driven by frustration. Every major change or decision in my life is driven by frustration. For good or bad. Maybe this was true of myself even back then. Something about how life was going at that time was frustrating me. Something I didn’t know how to even process – maybe it was, in all likelihood, dysphoria. Seems like a good enough scapegoat.

Maybe THAT was what scared me, or frustrated me at least, to bring about ‘James’. If it was something that was rational like that, I can’t even blame myself. I survived as best I could. And I DID survive. Ultimately, that’s the most important part. I am finally out from my prison. James has been integrated and no longer exists as a semi-separate entity. I’ll go into that in another post.

I’m going to process this some more, but I think I’m on a good track. It’s something that makes sense. It may not be accurate, but I don’t think I’ll ever know exactly.

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A brief exposition on my personalities. I have a few. Most of us do. The extent of their separation varies from person to person. People who put on their ‘game face’, or inner child, or the salesman, the teacher, the domme etc…

My personalities have a bit more separation and distinction between them.

James – The protector. The outward male persona that developed over 30+ years of hiding myself. Also the athlete and the gamer. The one that did not like eating mushrooms, raw fish, squash, food on the bone. An introvert by necessity. The filter. James doesn’t really exist as a separate persona anymore. He’s been integrated. He’s part of why I ultimately identify as non-binary. I’ve tossed aside his ridiculous parts – the filter, the strange eating rituals, the introvert. But I’ve kept the protector, the athlete, the gamer, and a bit of the masculinity (which used to worry me, but I’m cool with it now).

Jessica – me. The totality of me. Including ALL my personalities. I grew up without really having a name except maybe Jamie when I was young, but then James co-opted that. It wasn’t until I was in my 30s that I got a new name. Part of me was allowed to express in total secrecy (Starting at age 8), and then my prison got larger as friends were allowed to see some of me. They were never getting all of me though, because James (as the filter) was still there. I am VERY strong. Extroverted. Talkative. Loving. Emotional as hell.

Lyrren – my inner child. I have claimed this name for this part of me. I express my inner child at times for many different reasons. I never want to lose my ability to play, and be silly. But also this part of me is ULTRA vulnerable. Lyrren isn’t seen directly by many, except a close knit group of friends. She’s the one that does Lego, does jig-saw puzzles even after saying I don’t like puzzles, and demands I get certain stuffies. Lyrren also serves as a way for me to recapture something that was lost to me. MY childhood. I grew up fairly fast, and from age 5 up, it was more James’ childhood than mine.

There are other nameless personalities too, more like what everyone else has.

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My blood clot treatment is over. It was over August 7th. I could have gone back on estrogen at that time. Instead I decided to get a tattoo and some more piercings. Things that I wanted for me. Things that I can’t really do while on blood thinners (the piercings maybe, but I wanted to be safe).

I’m very glad I got the tattoo and the piercings. They have helped my mood immensely. I look down at my tattoo (even in its healing phase) and am filled with senses of determination, strength, and joy. It will always be a beacon to me, keeping me going.

There’s a lot of symbolism in the image. The overall image is that of a dragon – an intelligent, beautiful and strong creature. Things I aspire to be. The design is abstract, with both the colours and the line art of the dragon itself. This was important to me for this piece, as it signifies the ways in which I think. The lines are graceful, something else I try to be.

The semi-colon has become a significant symbol for suicide survivors. In literary terms it allows an author to continue a sentence, when he could have ended it. As you readers know, I attempted suicide some 22 years ago, and I survive 3 people in my life (including my best friend) succumbing to suicide. The beautiful tail of the dragon points to the spot where I held my box cutter, just barely breaking my skin, for half an hour, as I cried kneeling on the floor.

The piercings don’t have as much meaning to me. I just have wanted them for a long time. And I love the earrings I got…

I get told, often, how courageous I am. I get it. How it comes across that way. Certain things I do, I agree, are courageous. I put myself out there, every time I write one of these blog posts. I disseminate everything, and withhold nothing. I’m a complete open book. I’m proud to be out, proud to be trans, and proud to be me. I’ll accept that as being labelled courageous.

Transitioning, though, is not done from courage for me. When I realized who I am, I had to make a choice. I’ve been corrected by someone very close to me, that this was indeed a choice I made. It was a very easy choice, but still… The choice was to transition, or slowly degrade into self destruction and probably suicide.

Before I allowed myself to see who I am, there was a wall of denial.  That wall had been slowly crumbling since its creation. A huge crack formed when I was 23, and led to my attempt on my own life. I couldn’t deal with the fear of what I saw behind that wall. I plastered that crack up, and continued on. Turning a blind eye to what I should have been seeing. Me.

Frustration leads pretty much every major life decision I make. There have been exceptions to that, every last one of the exceptions is driven by love. But I’m talking about frustration right now. Frustration is the main reason of my self harm, the main reason I came out, the main reason I sought counselling, and the main driving force behind my transition.

It is not transformed into courageousness. It is pure and primal. I broke down and obliterated that wall of denial because I couldn’t take it anymore. There would be no rebuilding it, it was dust. So, it was like the crack that formed when I was 23, but bigger. I was flooded with all my true feelings and thoughts. Transition is a lifeline to make it through those feelings and thoughts.

I have a strong desire to live, be happy, and love myself for once. So, the path of self destruction and loss was not a very appealing choice. Besides, with me living authentically, my love for others has expanded, and become truer.

Frustration with how I fooled, lied, and denied myself, is a driving force that pretty much has me ignoring what society thinks of me (positive or negative). I see now, it is where my confidence is coming from. I HAVE to do this, or I simply won’t be.

I don’t get mad when people tell me. I stopped trying to argue about it, even. And it takes a lot for me to stop arguing.

It is not courage.

It is survival.

And I will survive.

– Jess.

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Suicide. Not a nice topic to go over, but one that I think needs to be addressed, especially if other trans identified people find their way to this blog.

Suicide has affected my life 4 times. I will start with my own battle first.

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I don’t recall exactly what age I was – but it was either 22 or 23. Emotionally I had finally reached my breaking point. To this day, I vividly remember kneeling in the kitchen, holding an exacto knife pressed into the skin of my right wrist, ready to slice from hand to forearm. I was crying uncontrollably, and no one else was home (depending on which age it was, either my Dad or roommate was out).

The day before, I had thrown out all my girls’ clothes (probably the 4th time I’d done that, at this point) swearing I’d never wear girls’ clothes again. When you deny who you really are, even to yourself, the amount of shame and guilt that builds up, when some part of you tries so hard to be yourself, can become unbearable. That was this day. I was so conflicted, wanting to be a girl on one hand, and not wanting to want to be a girl on the other.

While I was kneeling on the floor, I imagined everyone I loved, and how hurt they would be if I was gone. I absolutely HATE causing people hurt, whether directly or indirectly. It is not in my nature. I did not want to end my pain by causing pain in others. I couldn’t do it. I put the knife away, put a bandaid on the small cut I’d actually given myself, and for the umpteenth time, cried myself to sleep, never to speak of it, until many years later.

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The second most impactful suicide event in my life, was one of my best friends. This one is also the one that still bothers me the most. Several years ago, he took his life. Did what I could not do. It was not a cry for help, the way he did it. We all missed the cry for help. In doing so, he hurt a lot of friends and family. The amount of pain he was feeling must have been so great, because I know he didn’t want to hurt everyone. I have very mixed emotions on this. Anger, guilt, loss. Time hasn’t really eased any of them, but then I wasn’t prepared to deal with it. I was still internalizing stuff.

Guilt is a hard one to get over. It’s always been my belief that only we can make ourselves feel guilty. It’s not something that can be given to us, as much as some people like to try. I had known this friend was having a rough time, and I had meant to call him. I never got to make that call, and I had been putting it off. Rationally, I can see that the chances of that call making a lick of difference is practically zero. But guilt is not rational. Not one bit.

I’m angry because I didn’t get to make that call. He didn’t give me his deadline. I’m angry because I no longer have the most supportive male friend I ever had. I’m angry at what he did to his children, and his widow. I’m angry at how, even now, he makes me cry and hurt so much.

The loss is probably the easiest to get over. The feeling of loss will never go away, but it doesn’t involve any great process. He’s gone. His memory isn’t. His influence isn’t. His love isn’t.

Most recently, I’ve had a hockey friend commit suicide. I don’t know much of the details, and frankly I don’t want to know. It saddened me a great deal to know someone else was in so much pain, that feeling nothing was better than feeling anything.

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I cannot fathom anymore, how I got to the point where I had a knife at my wrist. It’s such a foreign concept to me now. I would rather feel, than to not feel. It’s as simple as that for me. Yet, it is something the trans community (and the LGBT community as a whole too) is way too familiar with.

Denying who you are is detrimental to your mental health. It erodes, and decays, until you’re just left with pain. Fearing rejection, bullying, and violence are all valid fears. They shouldn’t be. They should be irrational fears. Our society is too tied up in what we think of other people, or how we think other people regard us. If who somebody is, what they do, or how they live their life doesn’t cause you harm – why should you care? Why should you not support them in just being happy?

Love you all,
Jess