Hey,
What I’m writing here is a reflection of my experiences with gender and transition, as well as mental illness and trauma. None of this should be construed as representative of The Trans Experience or the experiences of all people living with mental illness or PTSD.
In addition to reflections on transition, this piece also deals with a wide range of experiences on mental illness, including a mention of suicidal ideation. If this is a sensitive topic for you, please proceed with caution. First and foremost, take care of yourself.
This piece makes a reference to “The Mower” by Phillip Larkin. While the poem has always had a particular emotional resonance with me, I cannot and will not overlook the fact that Larkin himself was an unapologetic racist and misogynist. Any analysis or review of his work cannot proceed without taking that into account.
Throughout this piece I reference my younger, pre-transition self by my deadname (the name I was given at birth, which I have since changed) and with he/him pronouns. This does not give you permission to do the same. If you are referring to me, at any point in my life, you should refer to me as Bridget and with she/her pronouns.
When I was younger and I found myself mired in a deep pit of depression, I always thought about my own death. Not necessarily about killing myself— although suicidal ideation was definitely a recurring phenomenon— or what might happen to me afterward. It was almost always about how other people would react.
In this fog, I kept coming back to the same place.
No one would come to my funeral.
No one would mourn.
No one will remember.
***
Yesterday morning around 10:00 am I logged on to a Zoom video call, and was joined shortly thereafter by The Hon. Judge Paul Karkula of the Circuit Court of Cook County, Illinois. Judge Karkula said “Good morning, Ms. Gordon,” before reviewing all the paperwork I had submitted months ago. After a few tense moments of shuffling papers, he said that everything seemed to be in order and that he’d sign the form granting my request. He wished me “good luck” and then left the video call.
That was that. All the paperwork, all the money spent, all the waiting and then more waiting, just for a three-minute video call to get a piece of paper saying that my legal name is now Bridget Madeline Gordon.
My partner was sitting next to me, just out of frame of my phone camera. When the call ended she stood up and held me for a good five minutes.
Is there a word for that thing where you let out a breath you had been holding for too long but you’re also crying? Just curious.
All this to say: I was elated. I was relieved. I was happy. I was gratified to find that something I had been working toward, something that took time and work and money and support from my community, actually paid off.
I was also grieving for the boy I tried so hard to be for so long, who had just been declared legally dead.
***
One of the things that being trans means to me is the intentionality of my lived experience.
I didn’t grow up knowing how to be a girl. No one showed me how. No one ever thought to. I had to figure it all out later. I had help, but I still had to ask for it, and there was a time when I was so out of my depth that I didn’t even know what questions I should be asking. Cis people at least have scripts, even if they’re largely bullshit. All I had was a small mountain of built-up dysphoria and a curiously large collection of body glitter.
When we talk about transition we talk about it in terms of benchmarks that are easily observable by outsiders; a change in pronouns, hormone replacement therapy, legal name changes, gender confirmation surgeries. All that comprises maybe 20% of what transition actually entails. Most of the work of my transition was turned inward, and revolved around a central question: what kind of woman do I want to be?
And as difficult and confusing as transition can be sometimes, I never let myself forget that I chose this. I didn’t choose to be a girl that happened to be assigned male at birth, but I did choose to acknowledge that fact, and I chose to make changes to better reflect who I really was, often at great personal cost.
I also don’t let myself forget that I didn’t just choose to live as a girl. I chose to live as this particular girl. I chose to be Bridget.
And that, I think, is part of what’s behind my feelings of grief right now.
Because James was an okay guy, all things considered. He was dorky. He was clever, on his good days. He tried to be there for his friends, even when he didn’t know what that actually looked like. He wanted to do work that mattered. He wanted to be the kind of person others counted on. He wanted to be loved, and he wanted to be able to trust that that love wouldn’t up and disappear one day. He wanted to be the hero of somebody’s story, since he didn’t feel like he could be his own. On his bad days, he just wanted to know what he did wrong, and why he never seemed to be enough. Never, ever enough.
Sometimes I think about a version of me from an alternate timeline. This version of me was assigned female at birth and named Bridget, and at some point along the way realized he’s actually a trans guy and that the name James suited him better. He found a way to make that work. He was the lovable, chubby dork that I wished I could be, that I spent more than 30 years trying to be. I think about this version of me that could’ve chosen to be him, that would’ve loved being him.
James was a good guy. I wish somebody could have been him, and that he could still be out and about in the world. But he wasn’t me, and I couldn’t pretend anymore.
At 10:11am on July 16th, 2020, James was declared legally dead.
Everyone who knew him is so preoccupied with being happy for me and my big step forward that there’s nobody there to mourn or remember him. Except me.
***
I told all this to my therapist last night, hours after the hearing concluded.
“What would you say to him now, if you could?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Can you elaborate on that?”
I couldn’t. I choked on my own words. We talked around it until the session was over. Then I started sobbing.
***
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same
***
I’ve been keeping vigil since last night.
Tomorrow, I’m going to celebrate being, finally, legally, Bridget. I’m going to put some fresh holes in my ear, then come home, eat pizza with the love of my life, and then spend time with my friends. (Via Zoom, obviously. We’re still in a pandemic.)
Today, I’m going to bury the dead.
***
I’m sorry, James.
I’m sorry I didn’t love being you. Someone could have, and should have, and I’m sorry it wasn’t me.
I’m sorry you didn’t feel safe for much of your life. I’m sorry you had to come out of a family where your vulnerabilities were punished or exploited. I’m sorry for every person who made you hide in the bathroom for hours at a time so that no one would see you cry.
I’m sorry you were ever made to feel like you were never enough.
I’m sorry that made you never trust anyone when they told you they loved you. I’m sorry you didn’t let yourself start to believe those people until it was almost too late.
I’m sorry we couldn’t figure out an escape plan together. I’m sorry you never got to be the hero of your own story.
I’m sorry you couldn’t see yourself the way others saw you.
I’m sorry you won’t have a funeral, but I promise you that someone will mourn you.
I promise you that I’ll always remember.
***
Take care,
Bridget