Too quick and not all that up.
It’s been a long month since my last post. Geez. Literally one day shy of a month. I’d feel bad about being quiet so long if I thought anyone was reading.
“Gosh, Ash, are you indulging a little melodramatic self-pity?”
Why yes, reader (who probably isn’t even really there), I am.
“And are you also having a conversation directly with me?”
I suppose I am.
“And putting words in my mouth, too?”
Sure does look that way.
You can think and speak for yourself, and if you think me melodramatic or pouty or depressing, eh. You think what you think.
The last several weeks have included some noteworthy highs and some really shitty lows. I’m neck-deep in a low as I write. Probably because I started another trans book tonight.
I’ll write about the first one I read at some point, and probably about this one, too. They’re both well-known and worth reading. They’re simultaneously uplifting and depressing.
I mean, it’s encouraging to know anyone has made it through gender transition and arrived on the other side happy, fulfilled and not entirely alone. But for me, still-in-the-fucking-closest me, it’s a hard kick in the shin with a steel-toed boot.
Right now, I feel too old, too trapped, too late to my own damn party for any of it to matter. In my head, I know that’s not true. Not a word of it. But try telling my heart. The poor thing is weeping and desperately trying to talk the rest of me into heaving a gigantic sigh and joining in.
I feel like I’m standing still when I should be sprinting. I’m over 40 for fuck’s sake. It’s time to do this thing.
Of course, I’m not really standing still. I’m trying to set the stage. Trying to get things ready to actually make some movement and be myself, but setting the stage looks (and feels) an awful lot like standing still sometimes.
And don’t you dare fucking say it.
Don’t you dare tell me to just jump. Seriously, if you knew the complications, you’d get it. I would ‘just jump’ if I could, but I can’t. There are prerequisites. They’re as annoying as that word is formal, but they’re also real.
And they’re largely out of my control. I have some influence, but not nearly as much as I’d like.
And right about now you’re thinking two things. One, “I thought you said this would be quick.” And, two, “You’re being incredibly vague. You know that, right? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Both good points, my imaginary reader. You’re contributing a lot for someone who isn’t real. I’m super-duper impressed.
To your first question, I did say this would be quick. I guess I lied. Sue me.
To your second, I know I’m being vague. It’s a part of the packaged deal, and a part of the whole in-the-closet thing. Trust me, I hate it. I’d rather just lay it out there for you in all its messy complexity, but I can’t.
So I’m waiting.
I hate waiting.
I’m waiting for a couple of practical things to fall into place that I can’t move forward without. I’m doing what I can to make them happen, but the universe isn’t being all that cooperative. I’m trying to do this … this whole self-pity thing I’m doing right now … as rarely as possible, but there are days (like today) when I just can’t stop it.
Here’s what happens next.
I’ll read over this post, check it for typos (there will almost certainly be at least 37), hit ‘publish’, and then lie down to try to sleep. Lying there, I’ll try to think positive thoughts, maybe say a prayer to whatever out there might hear me, and wish with all my heart that I could somehow wake up in the right body.
Then I’ll get a few hours of fitful sleep filled with dreams that oscillate between the absurd and nightmarish. Some of them will be about gender, some about my parents (ugh), some about life’s vague complexities, and some might even be about my teeth falling out.
And then I’ll try to make something of tomorrow, all the while hoping the things I NEED in order to move forward with BEING ME will finally happen.
Okay, so maybe I’ll have a drink before bed, too.