Jan 18, 2014, 6:24:17 AM

“A story is as good a way to organize your thoughts as anything else,” she pointed out, poised in the shadows in the doorway to my bedroom. Playing the part of my conscience, I concluded. That, or devil’s advocate. Either way, didn’t matter; she was me. I did this when thinking normally wasn’t getting me anywhere. While I waited to see where she was going, I start typing everything down.

That came in handy, later, when I needed to open up about all of this. I could not help thinking about the dream at that moment. In particular, that I could not claim she didn’t really exist without implying the same of me. She was in my mind, and of my mind, so I did not try to look at her. She could not be seen, not in the flesh anyway, but it’s not like I had to look at her to see her perfectly.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve done this, though,” she observed, watching me carefully. I could tell there was something on her mind. I felt it. Technically, it was on my mind, but I’d long since learned that her thoughts were her own when she choose to assert herself. Another quirk of being in two places at the same time–at the moment, a way to step outside the box and look at what I’d become.

“That’s because it takes more effort than thinking,” I respond distractedly while typing. “Even if it is no more contrived than any other thing written; it isn’t really a story,” I referred back to the problem I was currently having with my writing. I did not have to add that this manner of confronting myself was one of the reasons my stories never got finished; she knew it as well as I.

“It helps when you need someone to talk to, though,” she argued, crossing the room to sprawl on the couch next to my desk. This was one of those times when I wished I could have visual hallucinations; it would be nice to really see her when she troubled to try and fit herself into the world. Instead, I could only see her in the way I see what I am reading about in books, from everywhere and nowhere.

Of course, with her, there was no book, no words; she was self-rendered thought. Ignoring my musing, she continued her own, “It gives me chance to be myself, too.”

“You mean, get some distance from being like this,” I amended somewhat bitterly, in reference to all the unpleasant facts of my reality. Normally, I did not have the patience to write when we talked like this. Once I discovered I could split my attention two or three ways, it did not take long to become good enough at it that I would just talk to myself when I needed someone to talk to.

I could confront any part of myself that way, even the parts that were smarter and wiser than I can normally be. I came to believe that this was what angels and demons were, projections of ourselves, impressions of others and the personification of our hopes, fears, beliefs and doubts. It’s what I thought of as five-dimensional thinking. “So, what do I need to talk about?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you posted yesterday," she answered. I shook my head slightly, with a grim smile. I’d followed up my dream recap post with a bit of a rant on my blog. Opening a new browser, I found the post and re-read it.

Impulse

July 25, 2009 — eyeofparadox

Who am I? Why am I here? What is the point of my existence? These are questions we all ask at some point in our lives, and we can go our entire lives without knowing the answer. I suspect that a lot of people try to avoid thinking about it, not knowing how to begin answering, and I wonder how long a person can go without asking them. There are an endless number of situations and circumstances that can force a person to confront these questions–and other soul searching questions like them.

For me, these questions can come up as a result of gender issues, but I’ve had it come up in many other circumstances. The answers, whatever they are, test the limits of my understanding, because in many ways I am just this awareness brought into focus by the sum and gestalt of my understanding. In the scope of my understanding, I am aware that I am not driven by a mere desire to be female. I am driven by an impulse that is at once too simple and too complex for words, because words will never serve to express that impulse. It took root when I found myself in a body I could not express myself properly in. It was only natural for me to become obsessed with finding a better way to express myself.

I put a lot of thought and effort into figuring out the best way to embody myself in human terms, and because I was thinking in human terms, my self image is based on understanding which compromises with reality allowed me to be as true to myself as possible. Of course, human limitations are based on the limitations of reality, which are the perceived limits of existence–or rather the limits of perception. The plain, simple and painful truth is that I am driven to do something that can not be done within those limits–as we understand them.

I am a person who would have to change the world in order to show myself in it. It is who I am, it is why I am here, and the end–the point–is to have a beginning. It took a long time to understand that I was not limited by what anyone else knew or understood about reality; I can only be limited by my own understanding. At the same time, I realized that people understand a great deal more than they know, and that the truth is pretty much always hidden in plain sight. As I began to see and understand more, I felt the temptation to try to share what I discovered and help enlighten others.

I got side tracked trying to figure out how to describe and explain what I perceived, losing sight of my original purpose. I do not need anyone to tell me that what I intended to do was “impossible” and I got tied up in wanting to be able to explain how to do the impossible before I threw everything I had into trying to do it. I was focused on breaking down the impossibility of it, identifying precisely what had to occur to acheive what I intended. In spite of myself, I ended up spending a lot of time thinking about how impossible it was to do what I needed to do.

I should have obeyed my original instinct, and followed my intuition. I let myself get hung up on the consequences of doing the impossible. The question has come up enough in fiction, I had to consider what would happen if I succeeded. To truly be me, I had to stop being the person I appeared to be. I did not know how to do that without hurting people I loved.

I was also bothered by the deeper implications of what I intended, and the peculiar insight that motivated me to act. I intended to transform my body, but that was simply how I intended to use the power I perceived in myself, how I would truly show myself. Expressing a power like that would literally change the world. It was never my intention to change the world, but I found myself in a position where it was necessary in order to be true to myself.

This is what Morpheus was talking about when he told Neo, “There is a difference between knowing the path and walking it.”

I know it sounds insane, and I’m not inclined to convince anyone that it is not. This is mostly a case of me thinking aloud and not much caring who hears. I have spent decades trying to figure out what it would take to accomplish this task, and discovering where I am obstructed by a lack of knowledge, or experience, or resources. I’ve shared bits of speculation in past journals and blogs, and explored the concepts in my fiction, but I can never really capture my thoughts in words. Writing allows me to slow my thoughts down and get some of them out where I can focus on specific ideas.

I needed to get to the root of what was really bothering me, and even if it sounds crazy, I am more comfortable with what I have said in this post than I have been with any of the posts about being transgendered or needing to transition. Those other posts have forced me to revisit the things that have torn me apart, but in the hope of being understood and accepted I tried to stay within the bounds of what seemed socially acceptable.

The problem is that transition falls bitterly short of accomplishing what I really need to do. I have paid a huge price to give myself time to think this through, and for the second time in my life been tempted by the practical alternative and found the cost in terms of personal compromise to be too high. It was never an option, because I always believed in myself, even when that belief was undermined by all the doubt in the world. If I cannot act on that belief, is there really any point to living?

“Okay, that’s still weird,” she blurted, as she shared in my reading. Clearning her head with a violent shake, she continued, “Anyway; it’s as much my post as it was yours,” she sighed and scooted closer to the opposite arm of the couch, tucking her feet under herself. “I know what it has to sound like to anyone who reads it, and if people have trouble understanding and accepting me, well…” She could not finish the thought, because I already knew what she was going to say.

“People have a hard time understanding and accepting those different from themselves. It took me too long to realize that there is nothing I can do to make anyone understand or accept me. People have to take it upon themselves to understand anything, and it is impossible to truly accept what is not understood.

“I am inclined to think that an inability to accept something is in fact proof that you do not truly understand it,” I found myself declaring. I’d been unable to understand what was expected of me as a child, and so the role imposed on me was unacceptable. When I learned enough to understand what made me a boy, I also understood that I never had a choice, and that was unacceptable.

When I worked it out enough to realize I also had no power to change what I was, that too was unacceptable. It lead me to ask some devastating questions. What was the point of being able to choose if you were not given a choice–especially about something that practically defined you? What was the point of living if you were given a life you did not want?

“I am not the only one to suspect that there has to be more to life than this, or that there is more to us, for that matter,” I told her, in response to her unstated concern for what was at the heart of that post.

She tilted her head and shrugged in agreement, picking at imaginary lint on her skirt. “I know, but I did not stop at that, did I?” I felt her studying me. I can’t really meet her eyes, but I could imagine myself looking over at her, seeing thoughts written on her face.

“I know, some of this is impossible to put into words, but yeah, the post was really about believing in myself and the impulse to act on that belief,” I admitted, picking up on the thoughts this little game was bringing to the surface with a small sigh. “Although, there really is nothing hard about changing the world.

“The world changes with or without our help. What is hard is getting the results you intended. I might have gone out on a ledge by saying what I wanted to do, or why I wanted to do it. If there was a problem with what I posted, it was not being able to say how it could be done.”

She pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them. Our thoughts, though divided, were identical. I was not able to invest the time and effort needed to figure that out. “The hard part is not figuring out how it can be done. There’s plenty of scope for the imagination there,” she insisted, prompting me to think of thousands of stories I’ve read, and hundreds I’ve tried to write, where suitable means were presented.

“No, the trick is establishing that there are means and methods available, and pushing ourselves beyond our current understanding. It is kind of hard to work on that if it is not your job, though,” I laughed, bitterly. Of course, there was no job like that. Just another reason I’d been totally lost in this world. That sobered me up. “Honestly, even the little I’ve managed to find time to think about would take a lot of writing, and I don’t need another ‘job’ I don’t get paid to do!”

“And yet you sit up all night writing… are you planning to blog this?” she teased.

“Until I figure out what to do, what will make a difference, I don’t really have anything better to do,” I pointed out tiredly. As usual, I’d barely scratched the surface of all the things that were on my mind. She’d been patient enough for me to keep up typing, but writing our thoughts down was too slow and time consuming a way to deal with anything.

She looked at me, knowingly, and I shrugged. “Things have to be done in their own way. If this were a story, I could skip over all the deep thinking. Even in a simple blog post, I could just focus on making a point. You intended to ask me how this is going to work. What you really want to know is how much more of this you have to endure.”

I closed my eyes and leaned back in my chair. I knew what it would take to set her free, and that I had to find it in myself. The problem was, as long as I was not her, I couldn’t really be me. I rolled my head to the right and looked at her. She could not be seen, but she would not let that stop her.

An obvious truth, always staring me in the face.

While he typed in his final observation and submitted the post, I contemplated the oddity of being admired by him. Did that say something about how far life pushed me away from myself? I did not have time to think about it that night, but it touched on something I dwelt on often. As embarrassing and difficult at it was to explain, it was just another bizarre paradox, and a natural consequence of my life.

I mean, consider the situation. In purely physical terms, I was just one of the guys. I may have had to work at it, but the best way to lie is to convince yourself. To play the part of a boy, I needed to be masculine. I figured out how to do that, because I was raised with five other boys. By the time puberty hit, I’d filled in most of the blanks marked “male” in my psyche.

In order to become male in my own mind–the hardest, and most dangerous part of my act–I had to ignore my true identity. In short, I became a different person. Method acting. I didn’t exactly forget who I was, I just had to willfully ignore me. Serious “there is no spoon” mental mojo. I just wasn’t cut out to sit still and be silent, though.

Did I mention; red hair?

Right, so, when I was deep into character, I was completely disengaged from reality. I got bored sitting out on the sidelines and prowled along the edges of my cage. I distracted the hell out of the part of me that was caught up in his role. Since his identity hinged on my denial, he had to reinterpret my presence in his thoughts in a situationally appropriate way. Well, the situation was, he had a penis and testosterone–and a mandate to be a man.

It’s not surprising at all that he became obsessed with me.

It was kind of cute, actually; in a totally perplexing, mortifyingly “why is this turning me on?” kind of way. At times, yes, that really freaked me out. It was never less than baffling, but on occasion it was amusing as hell. What played out in reality was almost tragic, but from my side, it was a teenaged sex comedy of epic proportions, and no one knew about it but me.

He participated, and struggled to keep it out of the story, and ultimately gave up on the story to save face. But, the truth doesn’t need to assert itself. It’s content to be silent and wait. I needed him to survive reality, so I remained… tried to remain patient, and prayed. There were days I wanted to kill myself out of frustration, but somewhere I found inner peace.

Even at times when I seemed to surrender completely to my harsh reality, I was living–growing–and thriving. I accepted the sacrifice and suffering of my Earth-bound alter ego as the price I paid for the freedom to dream myself into existence. It was never going to be easy, and in strict, rational terms, it was outright insane.

I didn’t care. If I limited myself to pure reason, I would have been forced to admit life was hopeless, as pointless and cruel as it appeared to be. But, who knew better than I how deceptive appearances could be? I only suffered inside the box, and I’ve only ever lived in my own reality. If the truths I know are limited, depending entirely on the survival of my body; when that body dies, my whole universe dies along with it.

In that case, the best I could ever hope to do was to share my story; to be voice of that universe, and invite other dreamers to share it. The only way I could do that was by inspiring the person I must become to carry the burden of that body. Not so easy when that person was founded on lies, and discovered it was suicide to keep lying to herself. She stumbled. She tripped. She stepped into a crossfire. She almost gave up on her dream.

Hard to blame her; it had to seem smarter than dying for it. So, I took a step back and watched over her. I bit my tongue when she struggled to do the practical things, while the story gathered dust. Some of what she did would draw criticism. But in her own way, she was pursuing a better dream; a very high stakes gamble, but hell, I cheered her on.

Over the course of things, she was losing her will to live. She’d lost the knack of ignoring herself, but somehow she managed to salvage the man in her when the lie came completely unraveled.