facing facts

I’m going to have to tell my wife before seeing a new therapist — a gender therapist. It’s only fair, and I do so hate sneaking around. I can’t reasonably expect to be honest to myself if I go with a policy of dishonesty from the outset, and besides, with young children about there’s not much opportunity to get away without notice anyway.

But to do that I’m going to have that hard conversation. Boundaries are going to have to be placed on the whole enterprise. She’ll need reassurances that there’s an end to this that won’t involve me becoming a woman, that won’t destabilize our lives, that won’t end with me being someone she can’t relate to anymore. That this is about support, sorting things out, learning to cope. That’s fine. I’m prepared to make those reassurances. I mean, that’s what I want, isn’t it?

It’s just that…. I don’t feel like I even know that I’m not lying to myself. Things have been so crazy lately, with my heart and mind leaping from possibility to possibility with abandon, that I feel I can’t trust myself to know when to stop… and the irony is, I really don’t think I can figure that out, without … the therapy. At least not now. The other option is to wait out the storm, let things settle to a new normal in my mind as I get used to this new me I’ve been giving form to here. Only, I can’t be sure I’ll get there on my own, either.

So, the talk. I’ve been going through the lines in my mind, especially that first, all-important, one. I don’t know when I’ll be able to speak it, but someday, someday…

Goddess, give me courage.