happy meetings

Apart from time spent reading and time spent discovering the history channel, i have been meeting some lovely people. Love the nursing staff…though maybe one always does. Nurses are special.

(They finally got used to the fact that i preferred my door open and plenty of corridor noise at night).

Then, so far, one new visitor, for which many thanks: Lucy Melford, who has been following my blog and also writes an interesting one of her own. (Note to self: i need to add a link to it).

Meeting her is a slightly cheerier experience than reading her: Lucy comes over slightly bitter-sweet in writing, which i think is more her style than her self (though willing to be put right on that). I am glad we met. We are not dissimilar in age; not entirely different in experience.

She discovered her trans-ness late in life and simply began to transition in 2009. I suspect she was “out” ahead of me…though it may be i had done the self-discovery and the decision stuff a bit earlier than she had…just that her discovery began with a discussion with her partner. Mine began outside.

If you want Lucy’s story, that’s for her to tell, and i recommend you click the link above.

The key overlaps, though, as far as i could tell was a more flexible attitude to gender and a certainty as to who she was once the discovery was made. So similar. I will indulge, i suspect, in the odd debate about subjects like the gender binary in the months and years to come.

But i am a firm believer in the fuzzy universe: a world in which the very act of trying to pin concepts down tends to be one’s undoing. I can live quite happily without absolute definitions. For some reason, most of the rest of the world finds that difficult. Weird!

Too, Lucy did not feel greatly helped by psyching. Once she knew, she knew, and the main iissue was the delays introduced by this obsession we have with “proving” certainty. I am sure there are those for whom the psych route bears some usefulness. But also those, like Lucy and myself for whom it is an expensive waste of time.

Looking back now at my own early psyching days, i remember how worried i was that i wasn’t worried. Perhaps my psychosis lay in my lack of one…i could feel myself staart trying to invent issues in order to placate the therapist, whilst she in turn appeared increasingly to be grasping at straws to convince me i HAD issues.

Mostly, the technique seemed to consist of undermining me in order to create psychic dissonance, thereby justifying the continuation of therapy. Very dodgy.

Enough. I ramble. This brings me to Friday and tomorrow and sunday the difficullt stuff begins.



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