This is Not About Clothes
Fake tits and the meaning of life
Some days I wonder if I’m on the right path. I’ve always wondered that, pined at times over what I wasn’t, worked hard to be a good version of what I was…rinse, repeat.
Life is a slog, especially when things aren’t going the way we’d like.
And each time I climb out on a limb, either by being vulnerable in my writing, recording our podcast — or on days like yesterday, doing both — there is a part of my mind that says, “are you sure-sure?”
Any articles of clothing I still wear that I had prior to 2020 are gender neutral. Mostly printed tee shirts I still find interesting. I’ve been integrating more and more femme attire since early 2018. The only clothing my partner and I still share is socks. We once shared mostly everything except jeans (he has a longer inseam than I) and shoes (he has bigger feet) but now its just socks, and even then, it’s not all the socks. I like the colorful printed ones and almost never wear brown.
My wardrobe expanded a bunch in June of 2020, and I still wish it hadn’t. A dear trans girlfriend of mine took her own life at the end of May, 2020. We were the same size in most things. I got her clothing, and her shoes. She was a consummate shopper, so most of her stuff was new, well made, and in excellent condition. Even the underwear were either brand new or barely worn, and fit me beautifully.
I added her stuff to the few things of my mother’s I’d kept, plus the dressier stuff I got from my dear friend who’s forever cleaning out her closets- thus I have a substantial femme wardrobe. It feels right for me, unlike almost all of what I had before, so that’s that.
As I sort the clothes I’ve acquired, I’m deciding what is and isn’t “me.” Some of it doesn’t make sense on me, so out it goes. A couple things I kept were from my own drag closet, “street” enough to wear now — but much of it will never be worn again by me. My femininity isn’t drag. I’ve held onto my wigs, my very-high heels, and the two gowns I had custom made. I’m still not entirely sure why — they’ll prolly go as gifts to a younger drag queen at some point, but for now we have a house with enough storage to keep them clean. I enjoyed performing even though drag wasn’t ultimately my “thing.”
I say all that to say I live my daily life — including trips to the grocery store — en femme. For visits to my 83 year-old aunt, I generally skip the makeup and pull my hair up or back. The day I went to her house with my hair down she said, “my god — you look like your mother.” She was smiling, and I replied, “Ill take it — Mom was pretty.” And my Aunt said, “Yes she was!” And that was that. My aunt has memory issues, but remains comfortable in my presence, and still knows me, and that’s all that matters now.
My elders rarely if ever discussed me and my “situation” to my face, so why would they now? I am me, this is me, and here we are.
I’m not hiding my growing breasts, but neither have I found a bra that works, is reasonably comfortably, and has straps that stay up on my broad shoulders. The quest continues — but they are there, somewhere between a full 44 B and a modest C — ever tender, still filling out. I mostly wear a camisole to provide an extra layer of nipple protection and proceed with the day.
Is any of this remotely interesting? I don’t really think so. My clothing, my hormone treatments, my long hair and my softening skin are in service to my Soul — they aren’t performative, and they aren’t that important to anyone but me. I’m enormously grateful to the women who have provided me a new wardrobe, the “good” mascara I can’t afford myself, an expensive perfume that is something of a signature scent now, and the camaraderie to live through another day feeling loved. I have eased into this version of womanhood getting a bit more comfortable everyday, not knowing still what will be “enough” for me.
I want to get these swimming words to the dry ground of a page.
I am not here to speak for anyone but me. I will state there is no “right” or “wrong” way to be trans. I’ll say that often, because it bears repeating. One is trans because they know themselves to be so. Period. No amount of surgery, HRT, or living out loud and proud makes one “more” trans than anyone else. ALL trans folk deserve to live in peace and with dignity, regardless of what they can or can’t afford -or choose to do or not do for their own comfort and with their own person. That’s just That as far as I am concerned.
I feel drawn to writing with more vulnerability than I ever have, and I know I have to write. In fact, much like Miranda’s Hamilton, I feel I must “write like I’m running out of time.” There is so much I have never shared, never reexamined, and never thought I would revisit. I want to get these swimming words to the dry ground of a page.
I find that I resonate most profoundly with writing that comes from deep within the writer. And this is definitely that. So, I’ll keep at it, and I invite you, Dear Reader, to come along if you’d like.
Ultimately, the trans journey is always a personal one, can be loaded with years of fits and starts, and ends with a final breath. Sometimes far too soon. Just like every human life.
We each — no matter how we self identify in terms of orientation or gender identity — struggle. Most of us will suffer profound grief more than once. Most of us will have losses we were not prepared for. Most of us know what it is to feel deep insecurity about something. We all hide stuff. I don’t know anyone I find interesting who doesn’t have a deep secret or three.
We all explore versions of ourselves throughout life, wrestling with the masculine and the feminine and what those words mean. We each have an awareness of how we want to be perceived, and reasons why that matters to us.
Many of us alter our appearances for a variety of reasons — some affirming, some chasing a fading youth, and some thinking the container is more valuable than the contents, and deserves the most tending.
Most humans will live fewer than 100 years. Some in full heath and acuity, most not. The body diminishes, and too often so does the mind. Where there are means, some choose surgeries, procedures, potions and lotions and packaged illusions that help them feel a bit younger, a bit more viable, a bit closer to vibrant life, safer somehow from the fade toward a certain death.
It isn’t for me to tell anyone else what they do or don’t need to survive this brief human experience. And it isn’t for any of them to tell me, either.
That’s why I write — to examine this brief, glorious trip and make the most of it for Me.
Perhaps in the sharing, someone else will feel seen and less alone. We are all (briefly — ever so briefly) in this together, whether we like to think so or not.
Looking back, I was a controlling person in my early adult years. Some even said I was manipulative. I’d say persuasive. Ahem.
The insistence that I was a man having seeped into my being, I went about the business of deciding what kind of man I’d be. Since it was decidedly a role I was portraying, I could choose anything, try it on for size, and keep or discard it at will. I had determined I would be far more assertive than my father ever was. I was not going to be led around by the proverbial nose. I’d be more like my mother in that regard, building a “don’t even try to fuck with me” armor many have since labeled, “off putting.” I’ve tried to soften that, but I admit it still comes in handy now and again. *Glances toward acrylic nails and blows gently.*
Toxic misogyny did not come naturally to me at all. I adore women! I relate far better to women! My closest friends ARE women! I never assumed the right to tell a woman what she could or should do, how to look or how to be — until I tried to be a man.
The few regrets I have in life are ALL surrounding my vain attempts at masculinity. More on that another time.
As we each navigate our lives, we decide -intentionally or in disregard — the legacy we WILL leave behind. I want to be remembered for my heart. I want to be remembered for what I did with my gifts. I want to be remembered for how I made people feel about themselves. A Dear One once said of the little tavern I owned, “This is where people come to be their best selves.” I want more of that.
While I am trans and I write, it’s not my goal to be a trans writer. I’m a Human writer.
While I want my darling trans family to find peace and happiness, and I will do all I can in service of that goal — that’s my goal for all of us!
Whatever you need to do to feel a little better about yourself in this world — provided you don’t require an Other be put down for your ascension — I support it. I’m with you.
Get the fake tits! Have that facelift! Liposuction? Why not! And if you need to refashion your genitals to feel more at ease within — go for it! It’s all the same to me, and none of my business.
I’ve learned I control very little outside the boundaries of my own skin and brain. Sure, I like to influence the conversation where I can, but always in the direction of each moving closer to being their own best selves, tending their own gardens, and minding their own little business.
I will choose to be a light wherever I can — and you will choose as you see fit, and where I see suffering I will likely open my mouth in some fashion. If only to gently remind us all — this ends fast no matter what you buy.
Peace, Lovelies,
-MM
