Stitch: "This is my family. I found it, all on my own. Is little, and broken, but still good. Yeah, still good."
Lilo: "'Ohana means family, family means nobody gets left behind. Or forgotten."
(Disney's Lilo and Stitch, 2002)
I'm writing this as a follow up to the post I wrote last night called "He Cried for His Dad" because of there was one thing particularly missing that I intentionally left out: my own feelings about causing my child emotional pain. I'm going to write freely here. You were forewarned.
Transitioning with kids has its own challenges. Not a day went by where I agonized over the prospect of moving toward authenticity and away from the masks I put on for everyone around me. After all, we don't want to rock the family boat and potentially destroy our relationships and our sanity, right? But I, like so many I know, was being destroyed from the inside out, becoming increasingly unable to wear the heavy mask of dishonesty. Living a lie over a piece of me that was so central to my being was probably more intense than the gender dysphoria itself, and I knew something had to give.
Yet I was a father to my young children and a husband to my wife, and I never forgot that we were a family. My wife, having already known about this for several years, continued to hope that allowing partial "crossdressing" would be enough, that my appetite for femininity would be appeased in clothing and limited self-expression. But it was never only about the clothes - all along I desired...no... I needed... to match my outer self with my inner being.
When my wife saw my health and emotional well-being decay more rapidly, she knew it was time for me to get help. She encouraged me to seek counseling for depression and I soon was taking anti-depressants for general dysthymia. The meds worked to suppress the saddest of emotions but it did nothing to resolve the incongruity that grew deeper even after Zoloft sought to become my best friend. Instead I became a zombie to the anti-depressants, and I lost a desire to cry deeply... and laugh uncontrollably. My inhibited ability to express myself emotionally was soon worse than living in sadness. The recommendation by my primary care physician to see a therapist finally pressed me to admit to myself and to my family that I had to figure this out once and for all. Thirty years of trying to solve the mystery on my own or with those who didn't understand proved fruitless. It took me years to realize that God wouldn't forgive me because there was nothing to forgive concerning this. It wasn't an issue of sin.
And so began the path that led me to where I am today, and where I was yesterday with my son in my arms crying over losing his dad.
In pain.
Because his dad transitioned.
And he'd watched his mom suffer.
And the family suffered.
And he suffered.
God knows I never wanted to hurt my children or my wife. The endless guilt I endured pressed me to halt transitioning and do an about face. But at the end of every day, awake until the wee hours of every morning trying to find the answers to it all, I concluded that "faking it" every day for my family's sake was more destructive than facing the truth. I knew that any chance I had was inside the circle of authenticity, not outside its boundaries where lies and deceit spun me into an intoxicating dance of confusion and chaos.
And my faith in God pressed me to find that truth too. I called myself a Christian to so many and carried this secret because of a credible fear that I would be judged and treated as an outcast. It turned out many Christian friends stood by my side, but some proved I had reason to fear and used weaponized words like "mutilation" and "God doesn't make mistakes" in hopes that I would turn "from my wicked ways."
Through the pain, I never felt like God loved me any less.
And that's one big reason I allowed the pain to happen. I hoped that my children would forgive me. I prayed that my wife could one day finally understand. And when we faced divorce as the last option, we chose to just hold on for one more day, and then another. Eventually, the pain subsided a bit, then returned in full force, and then waned yet again. The waves of hurt slowly receded into a distant horizon as a new day produced resolution to answer after answer. The turning tide demonstrated that my children were surviving this and even finding a new peace as I found my own peace in who I was. Our relationship, the Maddie/Child relationship, was revealing itself like a seedling breaking through the soil reaching for its first glimpses of sunlight.
Lilo: "'Ohana" means "family." "Family" means "no one gets left behind." But if you want to leave, you can. I'll remember you though.
[looking at her picture of her dead parents]
Lilo: I remember everyone that leaves.
I could have walked out on my family. My kids could have remembered me only by pictures of who I used to be. I could have abandoned my children. I could have even continued to do my best to fake it as their masculine father, but I honestly don't know how healthy an environment my kids would have lived in. According to some, I should never have had children, or have married my wife for that matter. In their eyes, I should have spared her the pain and given her the opportunity to love someone who could be that Knight in Shining Armor and meet her every physical, emotional, and sexual need. There's no doubt I made a shitload of mistakes along the way. I fight back guilt every day because of my "choices." But my perception of the world has changed. My "life at the next level" is beyond anything I've ever experienced before. My desire to nurture and give my kids the best life possible is one of my top priorities.
There will be pain to come. I have to give every member of my family that place to vent, to weep, to mourn, and to evolve. Yes, it's my fault, if you want to put it like that. I accept that responsibility and wish to God I could have minimized the pain. I'm going to have to face the barrage of heteronormative ideals shoved into my kids faces as they attempt to figure out that the relationship with and between their Maddie and Mommie is just as special, if not more special, than any other. I have a responsibility to impress upon my children that they are valuable, precious, and special to me, despite the pain my transition caused them.
The last thing I want is for them to "remember everyone that leaves." I'm different and that's painful, but Maddie, Dad, or whatever they need to call me to cope, is still here...for them.
