The great pretender…

We were walking into our apartment and Colin, as usual, was chattering away about misogyny and misandry. I was paying more attention to getting our wagon of groceries past the front hall table than what he was saying, mainly because this is a regular topic on his part and I’ve pretty much heard everything. Plus it’s tricky getting the wagon around the table. Then, suddenly, he announced “and it goes double for my gender”.

“Which gender?” I asked since it wasn’t obvious by the conversation. “Male or female?”

“Male!” he yelled. “I’ve already told you this so many times!”

“And you’ve told me you’re female so many times before too,” I replied.

And, with that, he quieted down. “I can’t say that I’m female anymore,” he replied sadly. “It hurts me too much. I need to pretend to be male.”

I have so many emotions about this. Part of it’s sadness because he obviously wants to transition almost as much as he wants kids. Part of it’s anger because he’s been told, repeatedly, by fellow trans people that he can stop hormones for a few months and get his sperm back for conception.

I’m angry at the medical profession for being, once again, so far behind trans people on medical knowledge. They should be researching this information and, as far as I can tell, they aren’t.

I’m angry at Colin because he’s putting a non-existent child ahead of his own wellbeing. Maybe, someday, there’ll be a child but conception’s going to be damn tricky when he’s living in his bedroom 99% of the time. No one’s going to jump out of YouTube and invite him on a date.

And I’m sad because he’s so obviously not happy and not doing well mentally but keeps plugging away on the same route, getting more and more unhappy. But he’s a grown adult now and has to make his own decisions. Hopefully one day soon he’ll decide to put his own wellbeing first. Hopefully someday it’ll be his time to shine.

born to be awesome

 

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The hard decision…

I was in the living room with Emma Colin yesterday, after taking our Christmas stuff down to storage, when he suddenly announced, “I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to transition or not but right now I’m leaning toward not.”

“Because you want to have kids?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. We’ve talked about it enough already and he’s been wavering on the border of transitioning or not for months now.

“Yes,” he replied. “It’s so hard to choose to transition and have kids. What if I decide I want to adopt and the agency doesn’t accept me?”

I had no answer for that. I have no idea what parameters adoption clinics have for their prospective clients. I made my kids at home, from scratch, for free. So I changed the topic slightly.

“If you decide you’re not going to transition, will you want me to stop calling you Emma and start calling you Colin again?”

He nodded then said, “It’s such a hard decision to make.”

“I bet it is,” I replied.

That’s something I never had to worry about. I’d just turned 25 years old when I had Kait and there was every expectation that if we did the deed enough (but not too much) a baby would ensue. I wasn’t worrying about infertility, sperm banks, or adoption… especially not at 20 years old. I tried to think of some way to support Colin, considering he wants both options, transitioning and a baby, pretty much equally.

“When I was trying to decide whether to leave your Dad or not, I thought a lot about if it would be fair to you and Kait. My thoughts ran round and around. Then I pictured Kait as an adult and in the same situation. Would I want her to stay or to go? The answer was unequivocally to go. Why would I treat myself worse than her? I too am someone else’s child. So you picture someone you love in your situation. And picture them struggling for an answer. The gender dysphoria isn’t going to get any better. Would you wish that on someone you love?”

“No,” he replied.

“So why would you wish it on you?”

“Because I really want kids,” he replied.

Which is where I bite my tongue. I know he wants kids but he doesn’t have them yet and I can’t bring myself to worry about kids who don’t exist. I care for and worry about him.

“I know,” I assured him. “Just remember this conversation and that if things get rough you always have more than one option.”

Later, after we’d eaten our fill of homemade tempura, I stood with Colin while he took his medicine and asked, “Do you want me to start calling you Colin now.”

He shook his head. “No, can you please keep calling me Emma?” he asked plaintively.

“Of course,” I replied. “I’ll call you that until you ask me not to.”

And now all I can do is hope that he finds an answer he can live with.