The Protector

Summary

The narrative describes a transgender individual's journey of self-discovery and acceptance, facilitated by an inner protector, culminating in their embrace of their true identity after years of suppression.

Abstract

The article is a poignant reflection on the inner struggle faced by a transgender individual who, despite external appearances of happiness, felt deeply disconnected from their life and body. An internal guardian, referred to as "I," watched over them, yearning to be acknowledged but remaining silent for the person's safety and readiness. This guardian endured the individual's suffering through a childhood of denial, an adulthood of false protection, and repeated attempts to conform to societal expectations. The turning point arrives after over 40 years when the person finally walks away from the external pressures, allowing the guardian to emerge and embrace their non-binary and transgender identity, vowing never to lose themselves again.

Opinions

The author conveys a sense of profound empathy for the individual's inner turmoil and the silent vigil kept by their inner protector.
There is a clear critique of societal norms and expectations that force individuals into lives of inauthenticity and suffering.
The narrative suggests that self-acceptance and the courage to break away from external influences are crucial to embracing one's true identity.
The inner protector's patience and unwavering presence underscore the resilience required for personal transformation and self-realization.
The article implies that the journey to self-discovery is non-linear and can involve repeated attempts at conformity before achieving true self-acceptance.
The author emphasizes the significance of the moment of awakening, regardless of the time it takes to arrive, highlighting its beauty and transformative power.

A creative trans awakening reflection

They never did look happy, even when they were laughing. It was always on the surface. Their smile seemed real to the outsiders, and all they had were the outsiders. They were an outsider in their own life, their own body. They just didn’t understand why yet. So often I reached out, but they didn’t see me, didn’t hear me, didn’t feel me. I often wonder if perhaps they did and they chose to close their eyes, put their fingers in their ears, and scrub away at my very touch. Did they know I was there? I was never far.

Something wasn’t right. I knew that. They knew that. Still, I watched them struggle. I stayed silent because they wanted me to. No, that’s not true. I stayed silent because they needed me to. They weren’t ready. They weren’t safe. I would have my day when I would step forward and demand to be seen, heard, felt. I knew when that moment came, they would no longer be able to deny me, because for that moment to materialize they would need to allow to appear the crack through which I would flow.

So, I waited. Patiently. But all the time, it broke me to watch them suffer so needlessly.

I watched them endure a childhood that denied everything that could have been because they didn’t know there was another way. Sometimes I screamed at them, stomped on the ground, pounded my invisible fists against their chest, but they never heard. My words were so easily drowned by the words of the outsiders. I felt myself diminish and vanish as they began to cling to the words of the outsiders, and then, repeat them. I watched them graduate from school with still not a clue and step immediately into the arms of a false protector. I remember that day. I cried. I knew I’d be pushed away a little further by the dreams of the outsiders.

Still, I waited. Patiently.

It pained me so to watch them dissolve as I did. The smile stayed. The laughter increased. The lies were to no one but themself. And then, for a brief moment, their fake strength fell away and the crack opened. Slight. Barely enough, but yet, enough. Always enough. I slipped through and for a moment, a beautiful, perfect moment that endured for a few sweet months, we were together.

But they still weren’t ready to hear the truth. Not then. Not yet.

I watched them slip away once more. I watched them cry. I watched them pretend. I watched them try so desperately to fight against the outsiders and fail, time and time again. Year after painfully absent year passed. But, even throughout those years, when I was subdued to a point of virtual non-existence, I never left. I waited. Patiently.

As I clung to a thread, their existence became routine. Days passed. Life passed. So much so that I wasn’t even paying attention the day it happened. I didn’t expect it, but it was beautiful. It was glorious. The crack. They walked away. Just like that. Like it was easy. Like it hadn’t taken them over 40 years of pain, torment, and ridicule. Like it didn’t tear them apart. But I knew. I felt what they felt. Walking away from the outsiders was the hardest thing they ever did, and as they took each step, the crack grew.

The crack became a fissure. The fissure became a chasm. The chasm became a canyon and like a bolt of energy, we hugged. They heard me. They saw me. They felt me.

I still don’t know exactly who am I. Non-binary? Yes. Transgender? Yes. Isn’t that enough? I look back now on the lost years and think I finally understand. Perhaps. Perhaps I know nothing, still. Perhaps, it doesn’t matter. Perhaps it never did.

What I do know, is I’ll never lose myself like that again.