Catching Up, New Beginnings

I sit watching Netflix and hacking up lungs, writhing in the agony of body aches and sore throats, and generally feeling pretty damn cruddy – yes dear, neglected readers, Kat-Girl is under the weather – and it occurs to me that I should be using this time to catch up on long overdue writing.  The Netflix Queue can wait.  Change is on the horizon, loves.

The fabric of my disparate life paths has stretched to its limit, and a tear is beginning to form at the edge.  The filters are beginning to fail, and the time is coming when life outside of Kate will not be possible.  My ability to convert to a faux male finish has begun to match my desire for the same.  That is to say, not only do I no longer wish to maintain a male persona (ever), doing so has become difficult.  The scale has tipped.

Not long ago, switching to my correct self was the challenge.  Getting it right was an elusive dream, and my unrequited passion was to hear and see the evidence of public recognition of my correct gender.  It has now become commonplace.  Dressed sloppily, and even unshaven, I regularly hear “ma’am” when addressed in public.  It is not perfect.  I am seldom “mistaken” for female when dressed for work (though that too has happened), and I do still inspire an occasional double take or questionable stare.  The beautiful thing, though, is that I virtually never notice.

I will catch the overly blatant assholes, but generally I become aware of a situation only after my beautiful partner becomes “protective.”  And in almost every case, my reaction is a sense of wonder at the power I hold over those individuals’ happiness.  Imagine being so miserable in your life, that your entire day can be unsettled, because I happened to walk within twenty feet of you – how sad for you that you would give me that power.  And to think, I am the one in therapy!

Things are not perfect.  I have bad days.  Most, not all, of them stem from the discomfort of continuing the male façade for the sake of maintaining a career.  Those days, too, are numbered.  Life is too short, and I have already sacrificed far too much of mine to this game.  The day is approaching when I will finally clear away the last remnants of a false life, the closet will be cleaned of trousers and golf shirts, sport coats and neck ties, and my divergent selves will once and for all resolve into a single life path.

The thought both terrifies and exhilarates me.  I am scared, because of the practical matters I do not have figured out; but I am so excited to know that life is moving forward and in the right direction.  No matter how scary, I cannot pick flowers from the garden, when my hands are full of tools from the shed.

You cannot love anew, until you let go of the old… unless you are Newt Gingrich… and we can all see how that worked out.

Peace, my loves.

Kate