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That tortured soul. I remember you. Ridiculed and derided for what you were, for what you felt and how you felt it. I remember you. Kept in isolation, wanting only to love and to be loved. I remember you.

You lived a long time ago, but I remember you. You live on in me. Each tear you shed then, I feel upon my cheek now. I wish that I could talk to you, help you find the courage and the strength to break the chains that bound you.

I remember you. How can you help me find what I might be able to have in the time I have left?
dclarion: (Default)
I was fourteen years old.  I had already thought of leaving the house in which I had grown up.  I was treated horribly by my parents; I well knew that it was not a case of my resisting authority.  I did not know how I might find employment to pay rent and buy groceries, but I thought that just about anything I would face would be better than what I faced then.  Until I thought more.  I was intelligent and foresightful; too much so, I suppose.  I knew the risk I would be taking.  I was afraid of destitution, of hunger and cold.

You played the Offenbach Barcarolle for me.  Even before that gentle kiss, we knew.  We were terrified.  I was terrified because I knew that my parents would do everything in their power to come between us, to make life a Hell for us both, and they had a lot of power.  I could have made clear to you how I felt about you, I could have stood my ground against them.  Perhaps I would have gone down, but I would have gone down fighting.  Instead, I froze.  I was afraid of the war I faced, the loss of what seemed like security that would result.

I traded everything away, all of it.  I began then, and continued trading for the next forty years.  I traded away everything for security which is still not mine.  For the things I would never have anyway, I traded away the two things most dear to me.  I traded away you, and I traded away myself.
dclarion: (Default)
The calendar calls this a New Year.  I recognized my New Year ten days ago, for reasons astronomical and philosophical.  The date does not matter; what matters is that I have much to do, much that I expended great effort to avoid over the previous fifty-four years.  I spent my life running from the things that beset me; I traded my soul for shoe leather and bus tickets.  I have no more to trade, but if I desired, I could go ever deeper into debt to continue running.  I will not.

I am frightened.  I am terrified of the future.  It was my fear, my terror of what might befall me, that set me to running in the first place.  No matter where I ran, my fears followed.  I could find some other place to run, I could attempt to hide behind panes of glass, but I will not find peace until I stand and face my fears.

I am alone.  I am afraid.  But is that not how each of us come into this world, how so many of us leave it?  I look around me, at the little comforts I have, I think of how much I gave up to have them.  I have but one last thing of value; I treasure that thing enough to hold onto it with all the strength I have left.

I have Diana Athena Clarion.  I will not lose her.  I will not give her up.
dclarion: (Default)
Here it is, the last day of the Gregorian year.  I suppose that it is traditional to look back upon the previous cycle of the sun, and I will not disappoint.  Neither will I get all Dickensian, although by saying that I will not say it, I just said it.

I learned that I could love with this new heart of mine; it shook me to my foundation, challenging every precept I had held of my existence, while at the same time affirming my nature.  I grieved when it came to pass that that love could not be because of who and what I am.

I finally faced those who had subjugated my spirit for the entirety of my life.  I am still coming to terms with the fact that I need not have feared losing those ostensibly closest to me because, in reality, they were never close at all.  I am still coming to terms with a life lost on the account of the direction I felt I had to take in my youth, when the pain of being denied my essence -- and by this, I do not refer solely to gender -- surely far outweighed the benefit of the small comforts for which I had traded my soul.

I look ahead, and I am not sure what I see.  There is little to be had for a woman in her twilight years; society prefers youth and beauty over age and experience.  There is much that I still want; the time for obtaining it is passed.  There is still much that I can give; what value is there in that which is not desired?  Outside my window, the sun rises.  I cannot see it, it is obscured by clouds.  Is this, then, the way of my life?
dclarion: (Default)
I told her, in as many words, how abusive she was during the eleven years that we lived together.  I hadn't intended to say it.  I was hearing about how she just had to leave because I was the one who just had to change genders.  Well, yes, I remember a day in January 2007, when I did something really stupid.  She was screaming at me for something; I can't even remember what it was because it all melded together.  During all of this, she screamed "I don't know how to take you any more!  I don't know how to take you any more!"  I replied "Fine, I'll be someone else."  I went about trying to develop a personality so unlike myself that it would be impossible to connect it to the objectionable me.  That personality happened to be vaguely feminine.  You know how stupid that was, right?  The kid in the blue shirt who is the target of the playground bullies cannot escape them by coming to school in a red shirt.  The bullies just call out "Hey, the kid in the blue shirt is wearing a red shirt today!  Let's get him!"  And that is the way it was then.  I was the target of the most horrible abuse for nearly eight years.  I took it because I feared destitution.  I took it because I feared isolation.  I took it because I was stupid.

When I told her of her abuse, I said it calmly.  By the expression on her face, I know that she wasn't hearing it.  It was that dissociated half-smile I came to know and love in psychiatric wards and halfway houses.  So, I suppose that I'll have to withdraw.  Flour isn't prohibitively expensive yet.  I can play the Apollo 11 air-to-ground recordings for company.  I discarded that faked personality when she left, 2½ years ago.  I'm me now; I've paid dearly for that, especially through the emotional upheavals of the last three months, but I am me, and I like it.

I'll go on until I can go no further, then I'll stop.  At least I won't have a kitchen knife thrown at me with taunts of "Go ahead and use it on yourself," designed to try to get me to make the attempt such that she can call 911, get me committed, and take all of my options.  I've lately been
either very courageous or very stupid.  Maybe both, probably the latter.
dclarion: (Default)
I am thinking about the person who would call himself my father.  I am thinking about an exchange between us, six weeks ago, probably our last.  I raised my voice against him, not in defiance, but for the first time, in admonition.  With the power of my voice, I told him, without equivocation, that he was without honor.  For the first time, I demonstrated my superiority over another, and who would that person be but the one individual to whom I am to always unquestioningly defer.  He did not like it, and he has not spoken to me since.

What have I become?  If I am wrong, then why did I allow it and why do I not repent?  If I am not wrong, then why did this take so long?  Had I found it within myself to have done this forty years ago, my life would be very different now.  I would surely have had a much harder life, but is it possible that I would have had a much more fruitful life?

As much as I have lately fantasized, I cannot change the past.  I cannot agonize over what was and will always be.  But what can I do now to find some measure of fulfillment, or is it the case that that opportunity is long passed, erased by what I then was not?

What am I?  What am I to become?

May 2013

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