Some of these items are staying in storage, not ready for the irrevocable moment in which I dispose of them or the emotional exposure of joining their less fraught kin on my shelves. Some of them are now earmarked for clothing swaps, memory averted, better served by finding new homes instead of lingering in the shadows of mine. And some of them, in a moment of finality I have long, long awaited, are ready for the bin. They shall have no more claim on my heart, and I shall take my much-loved scissor to one more thread holding me to the past. I have thanked them for their hideous service, and it is done.
My head is spinning, and I have secured one more drop of freedom.
It is a good day.
A stack of photo albums I still don't have the emotional reserves to page through were in there, photos my parents took at various events at various times, built on memories that aren't mine and tied to the ones that are. Some of them bring up anger, others sadness, others nostalgia, and others the empty sensation of those events having meant something to the people who took those photos, people who will never understand what gives a thing meaning in my mind and so will never take a photograph that doesn't feel this way.
The last few gifts and mementos of a failed relationship, its death throes, its rage spasms. The last time I looked at these, they brought me to tears, too many disparate emotions for their sum to look any other way.
It is time. I am ready.
My old suit was in there, a backstop against the nightmare world in which I'm cornered back into [deadname]'s empty husk, a danger that felt all too real.
My old dance shoes were in there, trapped in the emotional hinterland between "I will probably never use these again" and "these helped me find myself," where sending them on their way is an admission that I may never dance again like I did then and a forced confrontation with the dance-shaped contradiction in my heart.
Last night, I decided I was ready to take stock of the two boxes on the bottom of my curio shelf that I think of as "haunted mementos." The boxes have been sitting for the better part of two years, because their contents seemed both too important to discard and too fraught to keep. There were photo albums in those boxes, and things that were big parts of my life pre-transition, and the most personal leavings of a relationship that went down in flames.
I have avoided interacting with these boxes. Three different traumas and three different anxieties lived there, unresolved and raw.
Before you disclose your transness to your relatives, dig two graves: one for the versions of them that don't accept you, the other for the part of you that they'll wrench out of you if they don't.
May you find that you can seal them both while they're still full of nothing but unfulfilled possibility.
Science writer, activist, atheist, Pokemon enthusiast, and lover of cats and fish. Read my blog at https://the-orbit.net/alyssa.
Welcome to the Serenity Laboratories public Mastodon instance. This is a stable instance with high standards of curation and moderation. Please read those before registering. The short version is: No Nazis. No Fascists. No bigotry. Listen and be excellent to other people.