The Blowfish Blog

Couple’s Couch: My Loved One is Transitioning

I think it’s a safe bet to assume that transitioning genders is an incredibly complicated experience. I’ve known quite a few folks who have undergone a transition from their designated gender at birth ( i.e.: male or female) to something different (i.e.: male or female, but also androgynous, questioning, bi-gendered, and others) later in life. I believe gender stretches out along a continuum, containing a range of experiences. I feel comfortable with my place along that continuum, so why shouldn’t everyone else be afforded the choice to find their own gender niche?

I’ve never struggled with the concept of people transitioning out of their assigned gender until my first female lover, the woman who “earned her toaster” with me (as some of us like to say in the lesbian circle) by turning me out, told me she didn’t feel comfortable living as a woman any longer.

I knew the appropriate response to this news. I knew deep in my bones how my face should structure its expression, how my arms should reach out, that I should feel honored to receive such personal, emotional information about a woman I loved so dearly. I knew all of this, but what I felt was betrayal. Betrayal and fear.

I believe that there is an idea propagated by our culture that says we fall in love with a person, not a gender. Countless friends told me that our relationship wouldn’t change much if her gender changed—”It’s just words and posturing on top of the real her,” they said. While I’m comfortable admitting that there is a portion of our personhood that is “us” without the construct of gender clouding the way, I think there are parts of our personhood that are linked to our maleness and femaleness that, if changed, will change parts of who we become.

She was my first female lover; the one I cheated on my nearly perfect boyfriend with, the one first who would not take “No thank you” for an answer. I hadn’t wanted to be attracted to her; I resisted even thinking about dating her through months of pursuit. She had a reckless femininity that enticed me like no one had before her. One night, after a few glasses of cheap red wine, I fell into her arms and then fell deeply in love.

Because I loved her so completely, I did everything I could to lend my support to my blossoming boyfriend. He bought Ace bandages and together we learned how to strap his C-cups so firmly against he chest that he could hardly breathe. The result was incredibly masculine and he loved his new look. I admired him with my words, but felt the absence of his breasts like a physical pain.

Our inner circles of friends were some of the first people to hear news of his new gender pronoun and new name. Keeping track of who knew which details was exhausting. I wasn’t the only person who was emotional about the change, either. Some of our friends were angry about being informed later than others and carry resentment to this day. Others felt like a mass email was not personal enough conduit of information; they wanted to hear this news from his own mouth if they were going to comply by his new rules. I believe they felt they were losing their close friend too, and wanted some reasons and reassurance that everything was going to be alright in the end.

I struggled with the nomenclature, too. I botched his gender pronoun over and over again, saying “she” instead of “he” to his face and accidentally outing him to uncles or teachers before he was ready. I was not as graceful as I could have been about the slights. I was angry at him for putting me into the position as secret-keeper and, funnily enough, would have been even angrier had he not.

Our sex changed, too. It happened slowly, a little at first and then more as time went on. He felt increasingly uncomfortable in his feminine body and told me time and again that touching him in familiar ways no longer felt good. I struggled to meet his needs while mourning the loss of the body I loved to stroke, to massage, to fuck. All I wanted was for us to go to bed and wake up as ourselves again.

But what was “ourselves?” We had been a loud-and-proud lesbian couple, active in the scene and the political sphere of lesbian rights. I felt like I was granted access to these circles because I dated women. Suddenly, against my choice, I stood in the doorway of my favorite spaces holding hands with a guy. Did his transition make me less of a lesbian? Was it possible to love this man he was becoming the same way I had loved the woman he had been?

It was tough for him to negotiate maleness without knowing the insights of manhood that come with growing up with a penis and a set of balls. It was tough for me because I felt that each step he took closer to maleness was an active step he took away from me. We could talk about it all day long, but the space between us remained.

In the end, we did not stay together. It is tempting reason that his transition was what finally tore us apart, but it would only be a partial truth. His identity search was but one component of a complicated relationship that failed mostly over our fear of being painfully honest and truthful with one another. This is a lesson we have both learned the hard way and try to carry with us into our interactions with new lovers, and with one another, to this day.

Over time I have come to blame myself less for my inability to be more flexible and giving. I also blame him less for insisting on space and pushing me out to facilitate his process. We each had to cope in our own way and it’s made us both stronger for it in the long run.

Most importantly, I have not lost him from my life. When we decided to put our relationship on hold to give us both space to grow, we dreamed that we’d come back together some day and find our groove as easily as we always had. About a year after our break, we began spending time with one another again. I see much more of her in the man before me than I had anticipated. I also observe a sureness of self that was not present in the same way before. He is my family, more now than ever, and we are inextricably linked in ways of the heart.

I’m currently watching as others in my life stand by as their loved ones transition before their very eyes. Some meet these changes with fierce love and dedication while others back away to ponder how fathers, siblings, and lovers fit back into their lives now that they are changed. It is tough for everyone involved.

I don’t have a set of rules for anyone to follow when faced with change of this magnitude. What I can say is that it is okay to question, to take space, to ponder, to fret. It is simply fine if this is a joyous time, a fearful time, an angry time, or a sad time. I believe that your emotions are valid and real, as are the emotions of your loved ones, and that openness and honesty are key components to honoring one another throughout change. Accepting our loved ones for whom they are as well as who they are becoming may not be easy, but it is goal we can strive towards together one shaky step at a time.

— Rebekah Skoor, MA

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This entry was posted on Friday, 2 November 2007 at 12:00 am and is filed under Advice. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.