The Farm

Hey,

I've been carrying a lot of anxiety and existential dread lately, and I've had trouble naming it. I’m under a lot of stress with work, I’m worried about money, I’m worried about surgery in January, I’m worried about COVID and whether my friends will be ok. But this feeling was… something else.

It wasn't until therapy tonight that I realized it was the election.

I haven't been able to name it because I've been pointedly not looking at it. It feels like The Nothing. A sucking void. An event horizon that I can't see past. I have big work things and (socially distanced) holidays and fun stuff at home with L coming up, and none of that feels real because it's all on the other side of Tuesday. Any time I think about it I just feel overwhelmed and scared, and I have too much to do to give in to The Nothing, and so I've been pretending it's this distant thing in the far-off future that I could afford to leave for Future Bridget to deal with.

I can't do that anymore, because it's in five days. And I literally don't know what my life is going to look like this time next week.

The only thing I've been able to latch on to is a possible new job opportunity, and that feels like a dangerous thing to hitch my wagon to because I have no idea what my chances look like. But right now it’s the only thing I can see past the event horizon, so I’m hanging on to it for dear life. And hey, maybe it’ll work out. Right?

I've really struggled with, like. Wanting things? Having hope? Because historically nothing ever works out for me and then at some point I just stopped getting my hopes up. But the past two years have been an ongoing exercise in things working out better than I thought I would. My life is orders of magnitude better now than it was two years ago, and that's despite all the fascism and plague.

After so many years of being afraid to want things in life for fear of never getting them, I’ve had to repeatedly face the possibility that maybe, just maybe, things will work out. It’s frightening, in a way that I’m not quite accustomed to yet.

L and I have talked about the future a lot since I (officially) moved in a year ago, and a recurring theme is The Farm. The specifics change, but it all amounts to getting a house with at least some bit of acreage around it, enough that we could grow some of our own food and, most importantly, have enough space so that anyone in our extended friend circles and chosen family who needed a place to stay could have one. We want to make a safe haven for people who need it-- not least of whom is ourselves.

We've both been struggling a lot lately and we've coped, in part, by talking more about The Farm. (And watching homesteading videos on YouTube.) It's a thing we've held on to when things get bad. It's a thing that feels scary to hope for, not least because it's A. basically what I've wanted my whole adult life and B. closer to actually happening than I ever thought possible. I never dreamed this might actually happen. But there was a time when having a home or stable work or being a girl or finding someone like L felt basically impossible and, well. Here we are.

What if it works out.

So, this is the thing we've been telling each other when things feel overwhelming and scary. Feel free to swap out proper nouns and adapt for your needs.

"One day, he'll be gone. Either deposed or dead or hiding in another country. His power will be broken and the work of cleaning up will begin in earnest. Our family will be as safe and as happy as can be expected. We'll be married. And we'll make it to The Farm. And no matter what— we’re all going to take care of each other. Because we have to."

Whatever your Farm happens to be, please know it's out there waiting for you, and that you'll make it there someday. And no matter what happens— we’re all going to take care of each other.

Because we have to.

Take care,

Bridget

Keeping Vigil

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