Becoming Me: Being Loved

Phew, it’s been a while. I’ve struggled persuading myself to vlog, and kept putting it off in case I did manage. There will be more in the future, but I think its time to accept that most of the time I’m just happier typing!

Friends, I’ve been busy. I got engaged, and just moved in with my partner!

Some other stuff too but let’s stick with that for now, because it’s what I want to talk about.

I’ve talked before about never really identifying with being a lesbian or a butch. For the longest time I didn’t know what I was, because nothing seemed to fit.

I was only occasionally attracted to people, and when I was, it was usually to a woman who identified as straight. I learned by getting my heart broken for the first time at 16 that it was best to keep that quiet, so I did. Never being attracted to someone until I got to know them meant learning how to do that unselfishly – in the end, I learned to accept it, and just make a friend instead.

After coming out as trans, I finally figured out that I was attracted to women, but not as another woman – as a masculine person – which seemed to explain some of my discomfort. I was aware of the hangup from back when I was 16, too, which I credit with much of the reason for me having never asked another person on a date. I’d always just fallen into things, rather than began them myself.

When I was still pretending to be female, I never thought I’d be attractive to anyone else. To my closest friends, I’d iterate the feeling I would never find someone (or multiple someones, but I’ll talk ethical polyamory another time) to love and be loved by. I thought I was meant to be alone, and after some sadness, I settled into acceptance of that.

Realising I was transmasculine only added to the feeling that I wasn’t meant to be loved. Even as I began to feel better in myself – as myself – I continued to draw from the feeling that I was unloveable.

Until the time I spent 3 days sick to the stomach, persuading myself that asking this woman I’d known for a number of years, who already knew I was trans, who I was good friends with, and who had hinted at some interest in me, was not going to make the world explode when she said no. If there was anyone I could continue to be friends with after that, it as this one.

So I asked, she said yes, and we started dating and dealing with the chaos of the universe together. You don’t need a list of why we work together, that’s not the point and not helpful.

What I want to say is this:

She sees me. She sees my pre-op chest, and my patchy, scruffy beard, and my tiny bit of chest hair. She hears my voice as it changes and cuddles me when I can’t stand to even look at my binder, much less wear it. She tells me constantly that I’m handsome and that she loves me, and my body, and will love it even more when I’m more comfortable in it.

She doesn’t judge me by what I’m supposed to be, she sees what I am, who I am. And that’s something I never thought I’d find. Around her, I feel more like me, and less like a bundle of mismatched pieces, than I ever have.

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