It has been a month since I posted. What a month. I have been through some very drastic experiences. I have uncovered years of familial grief. I have had revelations about the fact that I am here as my own entity. And what I mean by that is that I have always felt like an accident, an after though, plan B.
Without going too much into family stuff that is not all my own to divulge to the public at large, I will leave it at that fact that my mother had a baby boy between my older sister and myself. He died at a couple of days old. My family doesn't really do grief...everyone just soldiers on. So, in my whole life, we only spoke of this child (who was always and only referred to as "the baby") a handful of times. I remember when I when I found out about this whole thing. I was in middle school. It was April. My mom was really depressed. I was confused by this because it was so much more intense than usual. My older sister blurted out to me in impatience and seemingly disgust, "Don't you know?!?! This is when The Baby died!" I remember being like, "What?" Now, this may have been mentioned to me before this point, but I think this is the time at which, for some reason, I first really KNEW of what happened. But I didn't have details. I am sure I had heard passing references to The Baby and I am sure I knew it was a boy...but I remember this specific instance for some reason.
So, as I wondered down the shadowy, twisted path of transition, I wondered if his death had something to do with my situation. I knew that it made it hard for me to feel like being male was legitimate...it made it seem like some sort of psychological twist, that I was somehow trying to fill his shoes or something. My parents tried pretty hard after that to make sure I knew that they loved me as a girl and didn't wish they had him instead, didn't miss having a son. But with my particular situation, feeling like a son- a boy, their efforts just confused me and somehow (completely unintentionally) invalidated who I was inside.
Eventually, I just figured maybe I was his soul, reincarnated in the "wrong" body. I heard about how they didn't think my mom could or should have more kids and how she was supposed to have a hysterectomy as soon as she was "recovered". But in the meantime, she got pregnant with me...which sometimes made me feel like a miracle, sometimes an accident.
I have been going to an amazing therapist regularly for over 2 years now. We do mostly cognitive, talk therapy but last month we tried this remapping thing that involves using acupressure points to release cellular memory of certain frequencies and emotions. After one of these sessions, I had this incredible experience of revelation and release... and it finally occurred to me. I am not him.
I am me.
This air I breath is mine, not borrowed or stolen. This life I am living is not a substitute or stand in. It is mine to live as I see fit, to use completely or squander, no excuses.
The baby is a separate person who deserves to be acknowledged and mourned. I am a separate person who deserves my own space in the universe. I started asking my mom a lot of stuff about him. We agreed that it feels more "right" to think of our family as a unit of 5 and us siblings as a unit of 3. It is hard to explain the effect this all had on me. But it was nice to finally be able to compartmentalize some of these emotions. And to finally realize who I am in my own right.
Sadly, a few weeks after this lesson in grief and mourning, I lost a very dear friend of mine ("N") unexpectedly. Actually, the lesbian I met at my neighbor's game night and mentioned in my blog several months back. She was so incredibly supportive of my transition and really saw me as a guy. We connected so well, it is hard to lose someone like that. Then, I was asked to be a pallbearer at her funeral. Her family resisted her sexuality, actually buried her in a pink coffin (NOT what she would have wanted). Her mom even talked to me about how she really didn't think her daughter was a lesbian. I bit my tongue out of respect. Her mom has no idea I am trans. So, not only was it emotional for me to be filling a "male" roll, an honor to be asked by her family to be one of the last people to carry their daughter to her final resting place, but I was also representing a part of N's identity that otherwise would have gone unacknowledged. I could just see N smiling at me.
I am not sure what I believe about the afterlife entirely, but I'd like to think I have two souls on my side somehow. There was more than a small measure of comfort in thinking about her meeting my brother. And them picking up where we left off.
As it turns out... grief is a gift. It allows you to keep loving the one you lost, instead of going numb and just putting the emotions on ice. It allows the memories to soak in, somehow. It allows you to hold on tighter, even while letting go. "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." Now I get it.
