The Heart, And Hope, And Waiting
So last week my doctor called just to reassure me that she had not forgotten me. My file was on her desk, she told me, and a call in to an endocrinologist, regarding how to safely proceed with hormone therapy despite my ongoing health issues. I was still recovering from that nasty sinus bug, and the call had happened to wake me from an extra-late sleep, so I was a little fuzzy, but I remember she said something like, “I feel strongly that we can move forward with this.”
I truly appreciated the call, and her encouraging statement about moving forward - even though the immediate content of the conversation was that I’m still basically in a holding pattern.
I mostly keep this issue out of my everyday consciousness. I try not to dwell on it, or worry much about it. But there’s an undercurrent of tension that continues to swirl quietly around it, way out there in the background. I can handle waiting... but there’s still and always the fear that “Wait” will turn into “No” at some point.
I find that I’ve wrapped that fear in cotton wool and buried it deep, along with the hope it represents (and threatens). I pretend it isn’t there. Pretending is something I’m good at, after all. I’ve had lots of practice.
I remind myself that I am still actively engaged in the process of transition, even if so far the elements of that transition have mainly been social, intellectual, emotional,visual and verbal, rather than medical. Those changes are real and meaningful, and I do not disparage them. On the contrary, they’ve been tremendously powerful and empowering... as well as challenging, confusing, surprising, demanding of effort and courage (and a no-holds-barred sense of humor).
But I also hope for more than that - way more. And that hope runs deeper than I really want to think about, because of the fear that lurks behind it.
It took a lot for me to reach that point on my path where I knew - and could admit to myself that I knew - that I needed to seek physical transition. In a way, this process started for me almost seven years ago, while I was still quite firmly closeted (especially to myself). I was working at staying afloat in an MA/PhD program that really felt like the wrong place to be, while dealing with suddenly worsening medical issues, including the heart trouble that would eventually be diagnosed as CHF. When I finally decided to leave the program, it opened up a seriously complex set of feelings about self and identity that had been churning silently through most of my adult life. And out of the blue, I somehow found myself reading everything I could find about female-to-male transitioning.
I had then, and have now, absolutely no idea how I ever got started on that subject. Maybe I blocked it out. Of course, I already knew a fair amount about it - the legacy of a lifelong fascination with all things gender-related. But I’d never set out, as I was doing now, to specifically unveil the details of the process as it would take place from my end, should I choose to go there. I remember thinking, in a moment of delighted shock and almost-enlightenment, that I could choose to go there... that it was absolutely within my agency as an adult human being to make that choice. And that, given my history of gender-related discomfort, it made sense that I would find it an interesting idea to explore... Okay, cue the laugh track now. Did I say “interesting"? I found it utterly compelling - but I persisted in categorizing it as a lark, a flight of fancy, the exploration of a might-have-been. Obviously a deeply attractive one. Still I couldn’t admit that some part of me was taking it very, very seriously. Looking back, I’m amazed at how I could maintain this fiction, not only at the time but also for years to come. (Did I mention how good I am at pretending? Is that a guy thing or a Trans thing or a human thing, or all three?)
Years later, when I finally did step determinedly out of that closet, I wasn’t sure what it meant for me. I intentionally left the whole question of physical transition on a back burner. Not every transperson decides they need to make physical changes. I would take my time, process it gradually, remain open to all possibilities, and wait for the answer to come in its own good time.
It’s difficult to live in a holding pattern, to keep saying “I don’t know” as an article of faith - to see it as a state of being rather than a problem to be fixed. This sounds very UU, doesn’t it? But it also presumes that one is actively processing. Consciously seeking, but not seeking certainty; rather, seeking just to wrest every drop from the experience of one’s life and of the world. Not looking for an answer, but devoted to profoundly living the question. It’s a good place to be. And it did eventually get me my answer.
But where I’m at now is harder - knowing my direction, but dependent on outside permission and assistance to go there. After that long process of wrestling it out with oneself, which is a very active form of waiting... after reaching that profound depth of acceptance needed before one can take the first step to seek medical intervention... it’s incredibly difficult to keep waiting, but this time passively.
Did you know that there’s a fairly brisk trade in illegal hormones, for those who can’t wait or couldn’t get approved? My doctor made me promise, in our first visit, not to seek that avenue. Not that I’d intended to, anyway - but man oh man, now I can really understand the temptation of it!
I’m not really complaining. I understand the reasons for the wait. I want to move forward with safety, or at least with well-understood risk, because I value my life now as I never have before. For the first time, I see a possible future that doesn’t just feel like half a life, and I’d like the chance to live it.
But still the uncertainty pulls at me. I realize that I am reluctant to truly embrace hope, when it might need to be abandoned.
I wish I could say that, in writing my way through this, I have solved that problem. I haven’t. I’m still protecting myself, trying not to think about it... or, more accurately, trying not to feel about it.
How do you wait calmly without sacrificing hope? How do you embrace hope and not spend your days going crazy with fear? Especially when this is mostly a silent hope and a silent fear. Because it’s hard to find people I can talk to about this crazy path. It’s a lonely place to be. (It probably doesn’t help that I’m good at lonely, too. I’m used to it.)
I’m not used to hope, and I’m not good at it. I’m good at blocking off deep emotions, feeling only around the surface of my life. So maybe this is the next stage of learning for me, another unexpected space in me that needs to be opened up and owned. Maybe my heart trouble isn’t merely physical.
I suspect that owning this is the first step in yet another spiritual journey in disguise. This isn’t really a passive waiting... not if I do it right. It’s yet another path focused not on finding an answer, but on experiencing what’s out there - and what’s in here.
So... oh, hell. Here we go again.
If I find any interesting answers along the way, I’ll let you know.
.
I truly appreciated the call, and her encouraging statement about moving forward - even though the immediate content of the conversation was that I’m still basically in a holding pattern.
I mostly keep this issue out of my everyday consciousness. I try not to dwell on it, or worry much about it. But there’s an undercurrent of tension that continues to swirl quietly around it, way out there in the background. I can handle waiting... but there’s still and always the fear that “Wait” will turn into “No” at some point.
I find that I’ve wrapped that fear in cotton wool and buried it deep, along with the hope it represents (and threatens). I pretend it isn’t there. Pretending is something I’m good at, after all. I’ve had lots of practice.
I remind myself that I am still actively engaged in the process of transition, even if so far the elements of that transition have mainly been social, intellectual, emotional,visual and verbal, rather than medical. Those changes are real and meaningful, and I do not disparage them. On the contrary, they’ve been tremendously powerful and empowering... as well as challenging, confusing, surprising, demanding of effort and courage (and a no-holds-barred sense of humor).
But I also hope for more than that - way more. And that hope runs deeper than I really want to think about, because of the fear that lurks behind it.
It took a lot for me to reach that point on my path where I knew - and could admit to myself that I knew - that I needed to seek physical transition. In a way, this process started for me almost seven years ago, while I was still quite firmly closeted (especially to myself). I was working at staying afloat in an MA/PhD program that really felt like the wrong place to be, while dealing with suddenly worsening medical issues, including the heart trouble that would eventually be diagnosed as CHF. When I finally decided to leave the program, it opened up a seriously complex set of feelings about self and identity that had been churning silently through most of my adult life. And out of the blue, I somehow found myself reading everything I could find about female-to-male transitioning.
I had then, and have now, absolutely no idea how I ever got started on that subject. Maybe I blocked it out. Of course, I already knew a fair amount about it - the legacy of a lifelong fascination with all things gender-related. But I’d never set out, as I was doing now, to specifically unveil the details of the process as it would take place from my end, should I choose to go there. I remember thinking, in a moment of delighted shock and almost-enlightenment, that I could choose to go there... that it was absolutely within my agency as an adult human being to make that choice. And that, given my history of gender-related discomfort, it made sense that I would find it an interesting idea to explore... Okay, cue the laugh track now. Did I say “interesting"? I found it utterly compelling - but I persisted in categorizing it as a lark, a flight of fancy, the exploration of a might-have-been. Obviously a deeply attractive one. Still I couldn’t admit that some part of me was taking it very, very seriously. Looking back, I’m amazed at how I could maintain this fiction, not only at the time but also for years to come. (Did I mention how good I am at pretending? Is that a guy thing or a Trans thing or a human thing, or all three?)
Years later, when I finally did step determinedly out of that closet, I wasn’t sure what it meant for me. I intentionally left the whole question of physical transition on a back burner. Not every transperson decides they need to make physical changes. I would take my time, process it gradually, remain open to all possibilities, and wait for the answer to come in its own good time.
It’s difficult to live in a holding pattern, to keep saying “I don’t know” as an article of faith - to see it as a state of being rather than a problem to be fixed. This sounds very UU, doesn’t it? But it also presumes that one is actively processing. Consciously seeking, but not seeking certainty; rather, seeking just to wrest every drop from the experience of one’s life and of the world. Not looking for an answer, but devoted to profoundly living the question. It’s a good place to be. And it did eventually get me my answer.
But where I’m at now is harder - knowing my direction, but dependent on outside permission and assistance to go there. After that long process of wrestling it out with oneself, which is a very active form of waiting... after reaching that profound depth of acceptance needed before one can take the first step to seek medical intervention... it’s incredibly difficult to keep waiting, but this time passively.
Did you know that there’s a fairly brisk trade in illegal hormones, for those who can’t wait or couldn’t get approved? My doctor made me promise, in our first visit, not to seek that avenue. Not that I’d intended to, anyway - but man oh man, now I can really understand the temptation of it!
I’m not really complaining. I understand the reasons for the wait. I want to move forward with safety, or at least with well-understood risk, because I value my life now as I never have before. For the first time, I see a possible future that doesn’t just feel like half a life, and I’d like the chance to live it.
But still the uncertainty pulls at me. I realize that I am reluctant to truly embrace hope, when it might need to be abandoned.
I wish I could say that, in writing my way through this, I have solved that problem. I haven’t. I’m still protecting myself, trying not to think about it... or, more accurately, trying not to feel about it.
How do you wait calmly without sacrificing hope? How do you embrace hope and not spend your days going crazy with fear? Especially when this is mostly a silent hope and a silent fear. Because it’s hard to find people I can talk to about this crazy path. It’s a lonely place to be. (It probably doesn’t help that I’m good at lonely, too. I’m used to it.)
I’m not used to hope, and I’m not good at it. I’m good at blocking off deep emotions, feeling only around the surface of my life. So maybe this is the next stage of learning for me, another unexpected space in me that needs to be opened up and owned. Maybe my heart trouble isn’t merely physical.
I suspect that owning this is the first step in yet another spiritual journey in disguise. This isn’t really a passive waiting... not if I do it right. It’s yet another path focused not on finding an answer, but on experiencing what’s out there - and what’s in here.
So... oh, hell. Here we go again.
If I find any interesting answers along the way, I’ll let you know.
.
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