After a period of extreme inner turmoil, I decided I could no longer bite the bullet. So I popped The Question. Not the, “Will you marry me?” one – that one I tucked under my belt many years ago.
This time it was even more difficult to ask B. No, let me be honest, it was excruciatingly difficult. Mostly because I would be breaking a promise – a promise made more than a year ago when I had to ask for her blessing on my having top surgery.
“I’ll stop transitioning after top surgery,” I promised and got her blessing.
Little did I know that the demon was already lurking. I told myself I would be content with a chest. Losing the breasts would banish my dysphoria. Ha. The demon was giggling with glee in the recesses of my mind. For months he was silent, biding his time.
Then he slithered out and announced himself. “I’m here to stay,” he said.
I ignored him at first. Banished him back into that recess where he was lurking, but he was insistent and true to his word. Nightly he would crawl out.
“Let’s talk,” he says.
“Go away,” I say.
“You know you can’t ignore me any longer,” he says and bares his teeth.
“Push off,” I say, knowing I do not mean it. He has taken over my mind.
Turmoil until I could bear it no longer.
“Can we discuss something?” I ask B.
The look in her eyes and the grim set of her mouth tell me she is apprehensive. My tone must have alerted her.
Then I fire my bullet, telling her about my turmoil, my need, my desire to go on T.
“I just want to talk to my GP,” I say. “Just a low dose of T so that my Mickey Mouse voice lowers somewhat. Just enough to help me dispel the dysphoria. Just to help me feel more confident in this body. He might not even agree to prescribe T.”
I cannot see the shield that had gone up around her, but I can feel it. It might just as well have been an iron curtain.
“You promised me,” she says in a voice shrouded in hurt and stress.
I feel like a jerk. “I know,” I say. “And I am very sorry to break that promise. It was made in haste. I did not know the dysphoria would surface and grow again. I had hoped top surgery would have been enough, but I now realize it is not.”
“What about me?” she asks in a hurt voice. “I have barely made peace with the whole gay issue, then you dumped the trans thing on me. And now this. I can’t handle more!” She does not want to talk to me any more and we go to bed in icy silence.
For a day she is broody, cold, distant. Then she slowly defrosts and things go back to “normal”. She does not refer to our conversation and neither do I.
The demon is still lurking, jabbing his fork at me at each opportune and inopportune moment. I know I will have to broach the issue again.
For now I go my normal way. The turmoil is increasing.
How did you first approach your partner about transitioning and what was their reaction?