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There's a trunk in our walk-in closet where my wife keeps all her personal effects: posters from concerts she's seen, shoeboxes of photos, personal keepsakes, hospital wristbands. Among it all are her diaries, the ones she kept up until meeting me.
Recently she re-read them, sharing some (but certainly not all) of the details with me as she reflected on stories from her past. The trunk is always locked, but this time after putting away everything, she left the lock hanging open. At first I resisted the temptation, but one day when I was home and she was at work, I went into the closet and pulled out a few of the diaries. What I read astounded me.
In them she recounts – in her unmistakable handwriting – a process that took place over years of her changing from a man to a woman. I don't mean that she is trans. I mean she was a man who experienced some kind of anatomical change and over time those continued until "he" was no longer a "he" and instead was a "she."
Over the next few days, I furtively read until I'd felt like I'd read enough. That's when I confronted her about it. Since then our relationship hasn't been the same. It's not exactly worse, but it's not exactly better. I don't know how to describe it exactly. They say talking about it is supposed to be good for you, and I don't have anyone else to talk to. Maybe that could be you. I am interested in a real conversation, exchanging thoughts and answering questions.
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- 7 months ago
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