Team of Me

My husband has been out for a little over a month.

A little more than four weeks and he already has a amassed a small army of a support team. He has, in no particular but a very important order:

• The support of his therapist
• A trans friendly/experienced hairdresser
• The support of his physician who had a ready referral to an endocrine specialist for HRT
• The help of not one but 2 sales people at Sephora, both with expertise in gender inclusive make up
• An appointment with a surgeon specialized in hair restoration
• The support of a high school friend he came out to
• A support group that meets a few Fridays a month, that while he has come up with many reason not to go to, mostly traffic, he knows is there for him
• AND ME

Me, his wife. I have stayed up nights helping him practice make up and see what a more feminized face would look like. Shopped sales finding a good dead on yoga pants and inducting him into a whole new world of comfort. Filed and painted fingernails. Taught him about different styles of women's underwear. Stood by his side at his first pride. Spent hours on the internet researching freezing sperm. Checked in with him every step of the way. How does this make you feel? Let me know what you need.

You know what I have? A reddit board filled with people with helpful stories such as:

• If your partner is holding you back or asking you to slow down your transition leave them
• I had a partner who was trans, it didn't work, it doesn't work for anyone
• My partner and I are both queer/trans/nonbinary
• Also we are all like 12, and have no community/commitments/jobs and can just say fuck the world
• A few "helpful" post and websites instructing me to learn about pronouns and ask him his preference

Thank you KAREN, I already fucking asked him about his pronouns. We had a very adult conversation and decided that while he was still mostly not out and presenting male he would stick with male pronouns. It would be easier on our kids and less confusing not to have on-stage vs off stage behavior. So no KAREN I am not being ignorant/non-supportive/whatever fancy term you want to use. 

Where are my bitches that want to sit around a drink wine and complain that we had the play the "Mine or Yours" game while doing laundry last night #notmypanties. Where is the helpful tips about explaining to your sons kindergarten teachers that while yesterday he had a Mom/Dad team today he has a Mom/Mom team #maddy. Where are the people asking me how I am feeling, what I need to today.  Am I scared absolutely shitless that my life is falling apart #transwife. 

No, I get a shitty reddit board /mypartneristrans with a bunch of yay me posts and #bbqbecky policing everyone's language and some websites with vague references to visiting PFLAG to understand pronouns and transgender people. 

Fuck the internet in general.

Fuck reddit specifically and with no remorse.

I get to keep this all to myself, because my husband doesn't want to be out. 

So I am left here, screaming into the void.

 #nooneislistening

This post is brought to you by bourbon on a Monday night, too much work and not enough sleep. 

#Ilovemysecretwife

Two Weeks

So, I have been in a lesbian marriage for 2 weeks.

Except, I guess, I have been in a lesbian marriage for nearly three years.

Except, not really, because my wife is still my husband and nothing has changed.

Except, for all the things that are different.

After the tumultuous ride that was the first weekend after my husband came out to me, I declared that I would let this lie, he could come to me when he was ready to move forward with things. I thought I could move on this way, find a little peace, maybe pretend things were all normal.

Then the next day he asks me if I like his thumb ring.

The next night we are going to bed, and my husband who has pulled off his pants and climbed into bed, since long before he was my husband, since before he even lived here, who has a hook for his pants to keep them from being piled on the laundry basket, leaves the bedroom carrying a pair of boxers to get ready for bed.

My heart sinks, passing him in the hall with the navy silk boxers I bought him on a whim for valentines. I know now, things are already changing and nothing will be the same.

So I wait for him to come to me, to tell me about what steps he is taking towards transition. But there is only silence.

One evening in the shower I remember a bracelet I bought when my life fell apart and I had no clue who I was. Digging through boxes, I find the silly little elastic bracelet with its washer carved with "just breathe" and I tell him that is helped me when I was lost. Its a much nicer moment than my fumbled attempt to buy my way into acceptance a week ago.

But somewhere in the house there are dirty underwear that aren't making it into the laundry. Here it is my husband wants to be a woman, and I am worried about the laundry. We are a family of four that cloth diapers, I have a precarious laundry schedule that keeps us all in clean clothes, and these hidden panties were going to disrupt my cycle.

Also, why wouldn't he just tell me? What else was happening?

We had agreed that I would let this be and he would come to me.. but what about the damn underwear.

And then another week passes, we celebrate father's day, and it breaks my heart a little, knowing this could be the last. Will the memory of his daughter sitting on his lap begging for drinks of tea be forever tied with a life he wants to forget? Will he bury the memory of the day so he doesn't have to think of himself as a father? What will I tell my son when we stop celebrating "Dad" on father's day.

And still the damn underwear.

Finally I explode. I ask the questions that are rambling through my head. All the things knock around and disturb my sleep, keep me from peace. Does he want to nurse our daughter? Does he want to freeze sperm so he can start hormones? And where are the damn underwear.

The damn is broken, and we fucking talk, finally. If there is one thing to know about me, I process outloud, I am one of those crazy people that barring someone nearby to talk to, will talk herself through something.  All the questions are out in the open, and we keep talking. I ask him questions as the come to me, he asks me advice before he does something.  We are communicating.

And the damn panties are in the laundry basket and washed with all the other laundry.

All at once everything is right in the world, and absolutely everything is still wrong.

But it's ok, because the damn panties are in the wash.

The First 48

So, this is what happens when your husband tell you he wants to become your wife.

You are lying in bed, its Friday night. It's been a long week, but its always a long week. You are chatting about life, past, present. You are actually enjoying yourself a little bit. Your husband is a little high, and he is chatty. You haven't talked like this in ages. Its a bit like those first few nights after you met, sitting on your couch talking until all hours.  Both exhausted but unwilling to leave as it feels a bit like magic and leaving... well, leaving might break the spell.

He says he wants to tell you something, but he is scared. Now there is this pit your stomach, this terrible sinking feeling. You don't want him to keep talking, you just want to freeze this moment. You know without him speaking that things are about to change. But, in the end you hate suspense, you can't stand the unknown, it drives you crazy. So you encourage the truth.

He stares at you, maybe he thinks if he stares hard enough you will guess. Maybe he is trying to read your mind. Maybe he is hoping if he wishes hard enough, the truth will change. Maybe that is just what you hope he was thinking.

You wait.

 "I'm trans" he tells you, in a breath, so fast you almost don't catch it, or maybe you just wish you didn't.

You sit there, mouth agape.

You, who has weathered everything thing. You always know what to say, you are unflappable. You have talked baby nurses out from under desks, whispered instructions to frozen physicians while deliveries go wrong, coached compressions for a shaking tech with their hands wrapped around a dying baby. You have no words in this moment, despite having talked down your hyper-manic brother, convinced mothers to push when they have no strength. You have commanded teams, held the attention of a room of nurses. You have learned the words to explain things you could not fathom, and yet you sit mouth agape.

You rapidly try out responses in you head. No, is the only one that fits. No, this can't be happening. No, you must be mistaken.

And then the guilt.

You remember the ambulance ride at 16 after your trans friend threatened suicide. You are supposed to be a fucking ally. You are enlightened. You know all about pronouns, and surgeries, HRT. You teach your children that object don't have gender, most recently nail polish is for those who want to paint their nails. And yet... no.

As it turns out, its much easier to be supportive of "them" and a lot more difficult when it comes to "us".

Things form the past week starting lining up to provide a sudden clarity. The questions; what if I'm bipolar, what if I am psychopath. Little tests prior to the big reveal. Queries about the women you dated, when your bisexuality has basically been taboo. Inquiring about your non-binary friend. The long discussion about the fact that the health plan provided by your Catholic employer is violating state law by not covering gender surgery.  All the little clues lining up, and you feel so incredibly stupid, you never saw this coming.

Shock.

And your mouth is still hanging open, you should probably say something.

Ok.

You probably start with ok,

Because ok sounds better than no, and you still just want to scream, you have to be fucking kidding me.

Here's the thing. At 19 someone had to point out to you that you were bisexual. Not that you came out at 19, someone outted you to yourself. Turns out, not everyone has lusty feeling about their best friend. You have slept with women, you have slept with men. You love the soft feeling of a woman's lips, the weight of her breast in your hands, the tang when you taste her. But men have lovely scratchy faces, and chest hair and dicks that rub all the right places.

And so, because it is easier not to be out, and your mom doesn't believe in bisexuality, you made a conscious decision to marry a man.

And you didn't marry just any man; you married a good man, and a good father. You had a 10 month old to worry about and choosing to date men made it easier for everyone.

Boy girl, did you fuck that one up.

Because here is your nice normal husband, who just wants to fit in, telling you he is your wife.

You have to say more than ok.

You babble some things. There are mentions of non-binary, presentation, feminine appearance. You are so angry, you know he didn't choose this, but why couldn't he be something that didn't out you. You don't want to be out. You choose this life not to be out. You plead for slowness, you plead for therapy and time.

Eventually you go to sleep.

The next morning you wake up, and you know you handled that like shit. People have beautiful coming out stories about families who wrapped them up in love, and you babbled like an idiot. So you drag the kids to the store. You are going to buy acceptance.

He has been shaving his legs for months (running tights pulled his leg hair... or so he said) so you decided in your absolute panic that feminine hygiene rituals is the answer. You buy body wash, new shampoo and conditioner,  nail polish, shaving cream and lip gloss. Maybe you can buy your way out this. Maybe he can be secretly more feminine he will drop this whole transition idea. Maybe if you buy enough stuff it will make this all okay.

You go about your day and all day you are practicing what you are going to say after the kids go to bed. You who love rules and order, you try to make this fall into line with rules and order. Maybe if you make enough rules, you can control this. You also drink, 3 beers. Because healthy coping, well that is for better people than you.

And then it is time, over laundry you spill out your new rules in what is basically word vomit. You tell your husband, you don't care when or what he decides to say to the kids, but you want to know what is said, you tell him which of your belongings you will share; yes to lipstick, no to underwear. You ask him go slowly, be deliberate. You say that if these rules don't work, he needs to leave and he needs to leave soon. You tell him he can never be "mom".  You are crying, the tears are thick and heavy, sobs tear through you, you don't want this you say over and over.

And then you get exactly what you wanted, he tell you he takes it all back, he won't change. You look up and through the refracted light of tears and snot, you see his face broken and tears streaming.

And suddenly you know... you can't break him like this, and you say no. You finally say no, but not the no you wanted, this no is for the wife you haven't met yet. No, please don't bury her.

But he is too far gone, he tells you he has lived like this for 40 years, what's another 40.

And your heart breaks. In ways you never knew were possible. And suddenly you are mourning your wife living in a mans body, and you know, you know this fucking sucks... but it has to happen.

There is more fighting. You aren't even sure what happened, but he says he is going to leave. He won't tell you where he is going, he won't tell you when he will come home. He is breaking all the rules of your marriage, but it is only fair, you just broke him.

You have fucked this up.

Keys in hand he is out the door. And you sit with your petty stupidity. Your need to be closeted. Your fear you won't be attracted to your wife. Your terror for the adversity your kids will face. You sit alone with all that.

And then he comes back.

His camera batteries aren't charged yet he tells you. It is the lamest excuse you have ever heard, but you don't fucking care. He came back.

He stayed. And that matters more than anything.

So you go to sleep again, and that is 24 hours. You have lived through 24 hours with your trans wife, what's another 24.

So you get up the next morning and you make it through the day without any guilt shopping or day drinking to blur your reality. That night he tell you, that he wants to give you the benefit of the doubt, but he needs an explanation for what you said.  When you told him he couldn't be "mom", he heard it as he couldn't be a parent.

He thought you were taking away his kids.

You have fucked this up.

You try to explain to him about titles, about wanting to keep your title.

You are still fucking this up.

Finally you tell him, they can call him anything he wants, maybe the Korean word for mom or the French. And a light clicks on in his head.

You are fucking this up a little less.

And your have survived the first 48, and you are still married.

The next day he tells you he found the title "Maddy". And you feel a little like you can finally breathe. You have made it past the first 48.

So this is what happens when your husband tell you he wants to be your wife.

Or maybe it is nothing like this at all...

Because, after all, this is only what happened to me when I found out I had a wife.