Recently at my child's school there was an opportunity for some
anonymous gift-giving. He sent a number to friends as well as one to a
burgeoning crush. Sadly, he received none himself. His generosity was
unsurprising, and equally unsurprising was that he's reached an age
where these children are all becoming so single-mindedly focused on the
objects of their affection that they start to neglect the valued friends
around them. I remember this from my teenage years, and certainly not
"fondly". But... it's a thing... I get that.
Dan's path is unlike mine for a number of reasons. I get that too. I understand his journey will be vastly different. Regarding the elephant in the room, I've spoken with enough trans adults closer in age to him than to me to understand that despite being on a road less traveled, his path still has incredible potential for wonderful, fruitful, loving and learning relationships. Different? Sure. Full of possibilities? Absolutely. As you might guess, this is one of the most common, immediate, and pressing fears that comes to mind among parents of gender-queer and gender-creative children. But this thing he suffered, perhaps his first little bit of heartache, this crossed a sort of boundary in my mind and caused much self-reflection.
Every time something bad has happened in his life... The Never-Ending Nosebleed from Hell, The Great Smencil Incident, Why You Don't Put Cayenne in Soup When You Have Small Children... each time, there's a certain benchmark in my head I use to settle my unease, to unburden my parental guilt: When he's older, will he even remember?
There are probably all kinds of horrible things that happened to me as a child, but there's only certain things I remember. That's not to say that they haven't somehow shaped me as a person or molded my behaviour, but I do think I can safely say that, on a day-to-day basis, they have no significant impact to my happiness as a person because I can't even bring them to mind when I try. As Dan has gotten older, I've often questioned him about events of the past so that I can observe as the sliding window of his memory leaves things behind. I was pleased, for instance, when he reached a point a while back where he could no longer remember being age one, which meant he could no longer remember a life without me. Selfish, I know.
In worrying "Is this a traumatic event that will stick with him?", I ask myself "Do I have memories of things like this?"
I have very few memories of anything before about age thirteen. I have some, both pleasant and unpleasant, but they are few and far between and relatively insignificant to me. Nothing I'd remotely call "traumatic" except maybe one so vague I can't tell if it actually happened or if it was maybe a recurring dream I had as a child. And I hesitate to call it trauma when I'm not sure it was even real. There's no lesson to be taken from it. I discard it.
But starting about the age Dan is now... well this is the beginning of the heartbreak years. I remember those all too well.
I turned out fine. I know that. I'm in a great relationship now and I've had other successful relationships in the past. I've had an average number of girlfriends for a Canadian male, I know that. (Because yes, of course I looked it up. We all know what I'm like. Shut up.)
Dan's path is unlike mine for a number of reasons. I get that too. I understand his journey will be vastly different. Regarding the elephant in the room, I've spoken with enough trans adults closer in age to him than to me to understand that despite being on a road less traveled, his path still has incredible potential for wonderful, fruitful, loving and learning relationships. Different? Sure. Full of possibilities? Absolutely. As you might guess, this is one of the most common, immediate, and pressing fears that comes to mind among parents of gender-queer and gender-creative children. But this thing he suffered, perhaps his first little bit of heartache, this crossed a sort of boundary in my mind and caused much self-reflection.
Every time something bad has happened in his life... The Never-Ending Nosebleed from Hell, The Great Smencil Incident, Why You Don't Put Cayenne in Soup When You Have Small Children... each time, there's a certain benchmark in my head I use to settle my unease, to unburden my parental guilt: When he's older, will he even remember?
There are probably all kinds of horrible things that happened to me as a child, but there's only certain things I remember. That's not to say that they haven't somehow shaped me as a person or molded my behaviour, but I do think I can safely say that, on a day-to-day basis, they have no significant impact to my happiness as a person because I can't even bring them to mind when I try. As Dan has gotten older, I've often questioned him about events of the past so that I can observe as the sliding window of his memory leaves things behind. I was pleased, for instance, when he reached a point a while back where he could no longer remember being age one, which meant he could no longer remember a life without me. Selfish, I know.
In worrying "Is this a traumatic event that will stick with him?", I ask myself "Do I have memories of things like this?"
I have very few memories of anything before about age thirteen. I have some, both pleasant and unpleasant, but they are few and far between and relatively insignificant to me. Nothing I'd remotely call "traumatic" except maybe one so vague I can't tell if it actually happened or if it was maybe a recurring dream I had as a child. And I hesitate to call it trauma when I'm not sure it was even real. There's no lesson to be taken from it. I discard it.
But starting about the age Dan is now... well this is the beginning of the heartbreak years. I remember those all too well.
I turned out fine. I know that. I'm in a great relationship now and I've had other successful relationships in the past. I've had an average number of girlfriends for a Canadian male, I know that. (Because yes, of course I looked it up. We all know what I'm like. Shut up.)
But memory is a
strange thing, and has a way of distorting truth.
One of the fundamental ideas in Taoism is the notion of
"P'u", the uncarved block. We are usually not made happier by learning
and remembering things, but by letting go of them and forgetting.
Everything that "carves" us takes a little something away. We long to
be whole again.
Over time, as we forge identities for ourselves, the way we are seen by others becomes fixed in people's minds, and in our own as well. We build a sense of self, and once carved, that block doesn't much change later, the carving only becomes slightly more refined. I am able to see myself as overweight when I look in a mirror, because it's right there in front of me, but the rest of the time I'm 'a skinny nerd', because in my mind, it's what I've been all my life. Despite the fact that I managed to somehow develop a certain charm in my 20s that lead to more dates than the "dry spell" that was my teenage years, and despite the very happy relationship I'm in now, I have always and likely will always see myself as "unsuccessful" when it comes to women, because I was raised in a culture of "more is better", it became a piece of my identity early on when numbers were low. It became carved. It cannot be un-carved.
There is virtually nothing I can do to protect my child from the heartache the teenage years bring to many of us. It's a path he will have to walk himself, and I can only hope that at the end, he finds the kind of happiness I have, and ultimately becomes someone he can love.
Yes, you read that right. See I have little doubt he will become someone others will love. That's hardly the point. He's already an incredible and incredibly lovable person. Smart, kind, clever, witty, funny, interesting... the list goes on. But I need to believe he'll become someone who can love himself. That's harder. A lot of people don't. Many don't even really try. It was a journey for me, and one I am forever glad I took, because if I was still spending my life judging my worth on a barometer filled with the whimsy of Duran Duran fans (no offense boys, some catchy tunes there), I'd be pretty miserable. I'll never look like Corey Hart; I'm trying for a rough approximation of Richard Gere.
This one piece of me, this small cut in the wood that I lament, this does not stop me at the end of the day from knowing, accepting and loving myself for who I am. Boohoo. Whatever. If anything, it's a reminder of humility. I'm comfortable in this skin. My best ever advice to others is always to learn to do the same: stop focusing on finding someone else to love you, and start with getting to know yourself. Happiness happens in one place. You need to make peace in there.
Over time, as we forge identities for ourselves, the way we are seen by others becomes fixed in people's minds, and in our own as well. We build a sense of self, and once carved, that block doesn't much change later, the carving only becomes slightly more refined. I am able to see myself as overweight when I look in a mirror, because it's right there in front of me, but the rest of the time I'm 'a skinny nerd', because in my mind, it's what I've been all my life. Despite the fact that I managed to somehow develop a certain charm in my 20s that lead to more dates than the "dry spell" that was my teenage years, and despite the very happy relationship I'm in now, I have always and likely will always see myself as "unsuccessful" when it comes to women, because I was raised in a culture of "more is better", it became a piece of my identity early on when numbers were low. It became carved. It cannot be un-carved.
There is virtually nothing I can do to protect my child from the heartache the teenage years bring to many of us. It's a path he will have to walk himself, and I can only hope that at the end, he finds the kind of happiness I have, and ultimately becomes someone he can love.
Yes, you read that right. See I have little doubt he will become someone others will love. That's hardly the point. He's already an incredible and incredibly lovable person. Smart, kind, clever, witty, funny, interesting... the list goes on. But I need to believe he'll become someone who can love himself. That's harder. A lot of people don't. Many don't even really try. It was a journey for me, and one I am forever glad I took, because if I was still spending my life judging my worth on a barometer filled with the whimsy of Duran Duran fans (no offense boys, some catchy tunes there), I'd be pretty miserable. I'll never look like Corey Hart; I'm trying for a rough approximation of Richard Gere.
This one piece of me, this small cut in the wood that I lament, this does not stop me at the end of the day from knowing, accepting and loving myself for who I am. Boohoo. Whatever. If anything, it's a reminder of humility. I'm comfortable in this skin. My best ever advice to others is always to learn to do the same: stop focusing on finding someone else to love you, and start with getting to know yourself. Happiness happens in one place. You need to make peace in there.
But that said, I do remember my heart breaking, and don't look forward to watching his.
