I’ve never thought of my life as a fantasy. I don’t live the life I do because I’m escaping from anything. Indeed, it’s all about arriving somewhere rather than escaping.
I don’t pretend to be a woman. I act as such, and let the world make its own judgements. My assessment is that this is ‘good enough’, and happily works in relationships with people that matter to me. And the people that don’t matter to me?… well, they can go boil their heads.
I don’t present as I do to please anyone but me. I am proud of what I have achieved these past eight years, in how I look and what I have brought to the world. I have put up with a lot in the way of abuse, unfairness, betrayal and idiocy on the way. I don’t think weathering all these unhappy experiences is a badge of heroism that I wear to make me feel better. Rather the outcome is like scars from some sort of tremendous but unseen war of attrition. But at least it’s my war, fought in my way and with my own strength (what there is of it).
I don’t want to be taken for anything other than I am. What you see is (largely) what you get. This is a huge relief from constantly pretending, as I did for over forty years. The cost of this relief has been monumental… but I don’t like counting the cost. Some accountings are meaningless when it comes to being human. What price sanity in an insane world?
Sometimes I think I’m very lucky. I have loved, I have lost, I have the chance to love again. I at least have kept all my marbles (in a little box under my tights!). But if I am crazy, then it’s a craziness I’d happily pass on to the ‘normals’ of this world. May the Gods save us from them! They know not what they do.
Perhaps it’s not possible to truly ‘understand’ the world? Maybe the whole thing is just too big for such a bear of small brain? But the striving. Ah, the striving… that’s the thing!