I once had a few scheduled chats with a pastor. He asked me when I felt happy.
"Well, under the same circumstances everyone feels happy, I guess," was my reply.
"We are all different," he said. "What makes you happy?"
"Well, when I felt seen, understood and valued for my highest contributions."
He thought for a moment and said "Hmmm, well, yes. Maybe you are right, that is what makes everyone happy."
Our chats got odd when I gave him a folio of my writing and he quickly decided it was just a bit too good, too challenging. He couldn't hold open the space of possibility, couldn't afford to see things in me that I couldn't yet express openly.
My body's been aching recently, from heart to teeth to ankle to shoulders to belly. It amazes me how many years I can go without touch, without tenderness, without intimacy. I mean, I figured I would be dead by now.
The sun climbs higher in the sky, telling me that spring is coming, and whatever has supposed to be saved up for rebirth feels rotten now, soft and mouldy. It's impossible for me to even imagine I can make it out of here to someplace that where I am seen, understood and valued for my highest contributions.
Now, of course, that sets off all the sickness seekers I have lived with so long, the parts of me that have bought into the model that my difference is illness that must be denied, looking for twisted thinking and working to muscle past it. As much as my father has put me down for trying to muscle past things, the option of coming at them from a place of grace has always seemed impossible, beacuse my grace has been defined as the sickness I must deny.
So spring threatens and I hurt, but isn't it the hurting that makes me virtuous, the denial that makes me healthy? I know that truth and exposure just makes me both dangerous and vulnerable, potent and woundable, powerful and weak, so the other must be right, right?
Take one for the team, and even when you see Smith wait for a Samantha we know is hurting, don't ever imagine that can happen for you. Ah, my butch sisters have it all over us femmes in the MTF department.
Ah, chicken & cheese, chimps & children, just take the stabbing pain in your heart.