Its been a bad weekend. Very bad. Genuine and heartfelt thanks to all those who have sent messages or phoned. I am still feeling rough. No guarantee that I won’t have another rough patch or two…but I think I am pulling thru.
Doubt and self-loathing and, yes, an impulse towards doing some serious violence to myself is now shifting back towards where it is richly deserved. I do wonder if the idiot who set this ball rolling knows who or what he has unleashed. We’ll see.
Although, as andrea – who has a possibly exaggerated idea of my abilities – muttered yesterday: if anyone can take the bastards down, you can!
Still, before moving on to that, I needed finally to understand what happened to me, psychologically and…it sort of started to come together today.
First, there is the abject terror of the thought of losing hormones. Various helpful persons wrote and said they (the GIC) can’t stop them…but the idea was put on the table, even if only clumsily…and it is enough to send me into blind panic. I’ve spoken to others and…this is just something that the non-trans cannot get. Its on a par with denying IVF to someone desperate to conceive: even, perhaps, kidnapping someone’s child. Unthinkable. Beyond belief.
But there is something else: something far more fundamental. I am Jane now…and I didn’t just start to “become Jane” on 1 January this year. I’ve been a long time in the growing and…I can even remember a very uncomfortable period almost two years ago now when we seemed to be co-existing. Jane and my previous self…and then everything settled. It became that much more natural to be me…and things shifted.
So. I’m Jane. I’m not “living in role”…because the very idea of living a role has about it a sense of something confected, made up: artificial.
I’m Jane and…there is no plan B any more. No bloke’s clothes in the wardrobe. No remotest inkling of any other existence and…well, if I’m not Jane then the stark and awful alternative is: I’m nothing.
(Or as a friend very sweetly put it today: “you’re Jane. I can’t think of you as anyone else now”).
A year ago. Six months, even, it might have made sense to challenge who I thought I was as a means of testing whether I merited admission to the “next stage”. Do I satisfy the criteria for “change”?
But not any more: because this is not a test, but a challenge and a denial. A denial of my very existence.
My friendly charlatan opened the interview with the words: “OK. For the purposes of this session I’ll refer to you as Jane”. That is: in his eyes, Jane has no validity yet. Jane does not exist until HE says so.
Sorry to disappoint, mate, but I do. I’m Jane. Jane Fae. Jane Fae Ozimek.
And my right to be me does not depend one iota on your dry pathetic invented academicism.