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I was rereading one of my favorite stories today, and like a lot of my favorite TG stories (maybe all?), it made me feel like crying. The story was Shoes (by Heather Rose Brown), and what made me cry was how the older brother and the newly out trans little sister interacted.
It's that they cared about one another.
That's actually what I notice in most of the stories I read and reread -- the protagonist having family members who care. Even if they're mad at the protagonist, it still is a sign that they care. In An Aria for Cami, even though the parents are rejecting, the siblings stick together -- I really got it when Cami spoke of how much family meant to Fiona. Even when they were mad at one another, it was still a kind of caring.
That is what is and always was missing from my parents and my siblings. It struck me the way when I came out to them as trans, nobody seemed to react, neither positively nor negatively. One brother warned me that he might occasionally mess up on the name or pronouns, but that was it. Nobody had any questions or comments about it. Just a kind of tepid "that's nice, dear." I once tried to find out from my sister, who is in a Baptist church, what the people there thought of her having a trans sibling, and never got an answer. (Maybe they don't know about me.)
That has been the pattern my whole life with my family (my "family of origin," as they say.) Back when I 10 and 11 and going through hell and thinking about suicide all the time, I got no help or sympathy. It was obvious to my parents that things were really bad, I know from some of the things they said that they were aware of it, but they never showed any interest in why they were going wrong or how I felt. They mostly just didn't want to have to hear about it. And when I was older and did well in college and got a PhD, the most I got was a "well, that's nice, dear." It was like being cared for by animatronic robots. In a way, it was worse than if they'd openly abused me.
Nor did I ever get much of a sense of support or solidarity from my siblings; it was like we were all individually on our own. (I think they learned that behavior from my parents.) I get the feeling none of them would really notice if I vanished forever; I don't think they would feel a hole in their lives. In a way, I feel like I don't really exist for them.
So when I read stories about sympathetic mothers or fathers or older sisters or brothers talking with the protagonist about what they're feeling or going through, and being sympathetic, and defending them, it reminds me of what I've never had, and it hurts. It really hurts. Even in stories where family members react negatively, even to the point of rejecting the protagonist, it at least means they care.
I'm getting a fair amount of emotional validation from my UU congregation; our pastor even got people to write "affirmations" for me, which I read and reread. They help. They tell me that I matter to them, that they want to hear about the small triumphs and joys and pains in my life. But the minute I put those pieces of paper away, the old feelings from my formative years start whispering in my ear that I don't matter, I'm nothing, that I'm a waste of space.
Comments
You matter
And you are most certainly NOT a waste of space. -HUGS- <3
Stupidity Around Me.
As a toddler, I was effeminate, and that continued all my life. Those around us want extreme males or females, no in between. Even after years of therapy and medications and finally surgery, looking back, I was never transgender. EVER !!! I was simply a very feminine male, not gay though. At times I wish I had gone on to be in the clergy, but wonder if that would have just torn me down.
Here I am today, having lived as a woman for almost two decades, and being careful to go only to areas that seem safe for one like me. I'm almost 77. None of the family speak to me. Of my three children none of them seem intelligent enough to sus it all out. God knows why it turned out this way. I tried as hard as I could...
I'm a waste of space
That's a pretty harsh statement. I submit that if you are a breathing caring individual you can't be a "waste of space."
I understand to a point what you went through. I think part of our nature as trans people, we are naturally loners. While we may want a connection with parents, siblings, school mates or neighbors, we withdraw. Others sense that in us and unless they are bullies they respect our space and keep their emotional distance.
My parents separated when I was 4. (Long story about an abusive uncle not getting his way and threatening my mother and my father needing to stay where he was to settle my grandmothers estate,) She, my mother, took us kids and move from Kansas to Oregon. (She had a brother living here.)
Two years later, my father joined us in Oregon. My mother had a boyfriend at the time and when my Dad heard about it, being hot headed said he'd find the SOB and see to it he never fooled around with married women again. My mother's story is that she was afraid that he would beat her boyfriend up so she got him drunk (the boyfriend) which wasn't too hard - he was an alcoholic. Then the two of them hitchhiked to California to get away from Dad.
My father was a very stoic man. If he hadn't occasionally got mad, I'd have thought he had no emotions. He was aware of my cross-dressing as I grew up and chose not to do anything about it, (If you're interested in an in depth account of this see, "Silence Is Golden."
He never hugged, he never seemed to be touched by anything. When I came out to him at about 25 years old I simply showed up at his door dressed. He wasn't surprised. He just looked me up and down once and invited me in. After that, it was a visit as usual. We talked about the same things we always did for about the same length of time. When ever I went to visit him after that I was fully dressed. It was as if I'd always dressed like that.
The only direct reference he ever made to it was one time he notice that my car wasn't in the parking lot and wanted to know where I parked. I told him I parked on the street and he said I could park in the lot. This told me that he didn't care if the neighbors saw me because in order to park in the lot I would have to have walked by four different units to get to his place. I chose to park on the street because it was only a quarter of a block walk to his unit down hill rather than the nearly one block walk up hill that I'd have had if I'd parked in the lot.
As to my siblings, I was the youngest of four surviving children. (Two died in infancy) My next nearest sibling was a sister, five year my senior. My brother was eight years older and another sister two years older than that.
I had nearly no interaction with my oldest sister and only minimal with my brother. It was my younger sister who interacted with me the most, but only because she was stuck babysitting me from my second through eighth grade. Emotionally close? No, not really. Oh we were civil to each other, and managed to do family visits once were were grown. But when they all moved out of town for better jobs and whatnot I can't say I missed not having them close.
That kind of up bring left me a bit stoic myself. It was a really effort to learn to show love for my wife that didn't involve lust. Even now some fifty-eight years later, I sometimes feel I'm just going through the motions. I am closer with my children than my father was with me, but still I see other folks interact with their children and know that I've missed the mark a bit.
Hugs
Patricia
Happiness is being all dressed up and HAVING some place to go.
Semper in femineo gerunt
Ich bin eine Mann
Formative years
You used the common phrase “formative years,” and it struck such an immediate chord for me. In those years we are like wet clay on the wheel, easy to shape. To “form.” But it is so hard to break out of the forms and patterns that were set then. As we age, we become like a dried pot. The shape is firm, but brittle. Very hard to change, but incredibly easy to break. Abuse or neglect in childhood, when we are being formed, is so very hard to escape.
But to the extent it helps, know that you have touched many people here. Certainly you have touched me. You matter to us.
Grace and peace, my friend.
Emma
you matter
have no doubt about it.
huggles!
You Do Have A Family
It's us, and we do care.
I have friends
who frequently remind me to be open to the same encouragement I give to others while unable to grasp for myself.
from Joy -- A Home that Love Built-
"I think you'll miss her too, Fred. I think you love her more than you want to admit. Try spending time with her and listen to her. Forget what you think she should be and see who she is. Maybe if we get better at that, we'll be able to be together again."
A simple truth many of us are unable to apprehend for ourselves. I have learned, however slowly and incomplete, that I need to allow myself to see me as I really am. And much of that permission has been encouraged by those who remind me of that. Your words quoted above remind me of that as well! Thank you!
Love, Andrea Lena
Some people are better at
Some people are better at demonstrating that they care than others.
Many autistic people are less emotionally demonstrative or less interested in other people than non-autistic people
There is a link between autism and "non-standard gender presentation", and a genetic link to autism.
Maybe it shouldn't be a surprise that some of us have relatives that aren't that bothered about our gender presentation.