Occasionally, people freak out around 40 or 50. Traditionally it’s a time for embarking on affairs, purchasing top of the range sports cars or packing in your job to start the cafe for cats you’ve always dreamt of. Or some such thing.
At the risk of blowing my own trumpet, I probably have those beat. “Hands down” roars the crowd. I’m not necessarily equating being Transgender with a midlife crisis though. Well, I was but just for effect. But 40 was just the age I was finally able to decide what I wanted to do about how I felt. And probably the first time I’d really had the confidence to try.
40ish is more accurate I suppose. I was 39 when I referred myself to the gender clinic. That phone call took every scrap of will I had and I was shaking when it finished. Looking back, I didn’t even know what I’d just started. It was just a recurring question that was demanding an answer. Which it got. Quite emphatically. But not without much consideration.
I don’t really know how to explain what goes through my head to anyone though. Most of the time, people can fill in some of the missing pieces themselves but it’s not easy to explain how you knew you were Transgender. Or that you were going to do something about it.
And not handling that at all well continues to haunt me. Not every day but it does keep coming back at various points. Had I been better at breaking the news, would it have done less damage? I’ll never know and it’s pointless to worry about it. Although worry about it I do. Often.
But it is far from my midlife crisis, it’s been the start of another life. A happier life, all things taken into account. But there are quiet little moments of doubt when I wonder, would getting a pink VW have been less trouble?