It’s still hammering me. I’m trying to accept that my marriage is over. I’m trying to accept that my medical condition is the cause of my marriage being over. Those words that I believed in that vow that I took so many years ago don’t mean what they say. They’re words of convenience, words of excuses, words meant to bind you but not the other.
If I were schizophrenic, I’d be urged to seek help. If I were suffering from a cancer, I’d be urged to seek help. But because I am transsexual, people are appalled when I seek help. People who claim to love me grow angry with me. People who made vows to me decide to leave. Help yourself? Oh the sheer horror! The embarrassment! What will the neighbors think? It’s darkly absurd but real.
It’s hard not to become bitter and jaded when you see this sort of reaction. Its hard not to want to throw things in their faces asking if they really meant those words they said so many years ago. But I swallow my cynicism and remain silent. And I won’t even be given a chance to see if it might work or not.
There’s sadness here. Sadness at what is being lost as well as sadness at the realization that I was never loved for me but was loved for what I did, if I was even loved at all. There’s a harsh, bone-chilling realization buried in there. A realization about the depth or lack thereof of other people, about the pettiness and obsessions of people I trusted. It’s a hard lesson to digest in one sitting.