The You I've Never Known(48)

“Well, aren’t we just the expert?” He popped a beer, slurping it loudly for effect.

I chose to lower my voice, and my blood pressure. “I’m no expert, Jason. That’s why I’m asking for your help. You’re all I have here at Fort Hood, and you know that. Please promise you’ll be there for me.”

He got drunk and passed out without promising, but he did go to a couple of Lamaze classes. Together we learned the stages of labor. Practiced relaxed breathing techniques: in through the nose, out through the mouth, pretending to sink into beach sand beneath a blanket of September sunshine. Deeper. Deeper. Relax. Relax. The more you tense, fighting the cramping of contractions, the harder they’ll fight back.

After three sessions, Jason claimed he’d learned all he needed to know. But he never even heard about transition, let alone how to help me push when the doctor tells me it’s time. That’s okay. I’ve managed to make it this far mostly on my own.

Why change anything up now?

Except . . .

What I’m determined to change is family dynamics, at least where my child is concerned. Though I lived in my mother’s house until recently, she’s been missing from my life for years.

I’m not sure what kind of mother I can be, but I swear I’ll never desert my baby, or keep secrets from her.

I bought a new journal today, and I’ll write this one for Casey, so she’ll always know her mommy has nothing to hide.





Ariel



Altered


Changed.

Different.

Transformed.

Irrevocably.

Irreversibly.

Permanently.

Forever.

Trinity.

Troika.

Triad.

Trio.

Triangle.

Monica.

Gabe.

Me.





I’m Desperately Trying


To maneuver this territory— the landscape of three.

But it doesn’t show up

on a GPS, and there are no maps, no guidebooks.

Not only that, but the terrain is uneven, the trail unbroken.

The travel might be smooth for a while, but eventually I’ll trip on a half-buried rock or step in a pothole, and once in a while a veritable sinkhole opens up and it’s all I can do not to get swallowed. The weird thing is, the longer I journey, the less important right or left seems. And that’s what confuses me. Shouldn’t one path make more sense than the other?

If I keep walking in separate directions, won’t I split in two?

It’s not that I can’t accept the fact that I’m bi. I can. The problem I keep returning to is commitment.

Shouldn’t that be part of my identity?





Until Recently


Identity wasn’t something

I thought much about, at least not anything beyond the concept of a name. I mean, I always felt like a girl, and not just because Dad was very clear that’s what I was.

(And not a dyke, like my mother.) When I was little, he wanted me to wear dresses, and keep

my hair long, though I hated

brushing through it every

morning and again before bed.

But even after I was old enough to choose my own wardrobe

and cut my hair if that’s what I wanted, I felt right in my body.

As for attraction, I thought some girls were prettier than others, and ditto for good-looking boys, but didn’t everyone think that way?

With sexual awareness came new understanding, but that arrived relatively late, and not only

because moving so much prevented any real connection, but there also seemed to be physiological reasons for that. I never even had a period until I was almost fifteen.

When I talked to my health teacher about it, she suggested I see a doctor.

That took some convincing for Dad to finally let me go to Planned Parenthood, which was the only place we could afford. PP did a whole workup, and the ob-gyn told me the delay was probably because of a lack of early nutrition. Thanks so much, Father-of-the-Decade.

At least it wasn’t a true hormonal problem, something my height

and decent breast development

denied. I was ecstatic to know things were mostly right with

my body. Not like I ever had anyone I could really talk to about things like periods. Dad, of course, would swear otherwise, insist I could discuss anything with him. Yeah, right.





A Few Years Ago


Just about the time

I first really noticed there was a difference between boys and girls, we were living with

Jewel, the only one

of Dad’s women who

had kids of her own

in the same house.

Debra was younger

than I was, but Shayla was three years older, and had a boyfriend

who came over once

in a while, mostly when Dad and Jewel were out.

One time I made

the mistake of telling Dad I thought Carlos

was kind of cute.

Cute! he roared. Boys are not cute, they’re wild animals, and I’d better not ever catch you with a Mexican, understand me, missy? He shook me hard for emphasis.

I heard, but even with the jaw-snapping reminder, didn’t understand.

What I took away

from the experience

was the message that