this is me. I'm writing this here, because I can't seem to cope with these feelings. I showed an old friend, and they said it helped them understand me; so perhaps, this will help others understand too. But, I'll warn you a second time, this is whining; don't expect much more.

I never understood fully why I was born this way. It has not been an issue in some nine years. Well, that’s not true. It has always been a problem, but the past nine years it has been a quiet one. Tamed, I thought. Rationalized, compartmentalized, manageable and managed. It’s funny, how similar that is, the feeling of control, to the complete lack of it. When hidden away behind the cardboard walls of resolution, it did not rest. It festered; fevered; boiled, matacisized, and eventually found its way back into my blood again.

I watch my friend, I see how the hormones affect her; how her hair grows lighter and fuller on her head; how it recedes from the other parts of her body; becoming fine. Disappearing. I see her hips, how they have elevated outward, noticeably wide. Her sleek skin, it glows with that watery softness; that maternal potential. Her voice, has changed, too. And as her body re-creates itself, her whispers of glad aches and pains as her breasts blossom; I stand by listening. Happy for her, but ever her tortured captive as I gaze with hidden longing and envy; my fingers moving, my heart fluttering as I think “…that could be me.” Or maybe, it’s the voice deep inside of me, resentful; hurt by the sour gamble my genes made with life; whispering “that should have been me,” as the image of my motherhood hangs on the hips and figure of every would-be mother like a ghost.

I cradle myself behind my cardboard cut-out answers. I’m pensive, but fearful; every little doubt punching a new hole into my lame defense, letting the light of inevitable truth through, a little more. I suppose, on top of fearful, I am a liar. These new revelations; these new glimpses of a future and life I have longed for, these dreams I’ve banished myself from with the word “impossible”; they taunt me. They blow gaping shotgun-sized holes into my defense, leaving me amongst the ruins of my absurdly tired words of comfort. They tempt me to accept the truth, as they eliminate my bastions of emotional asylum.

But it is being a child of 25 that has broken the last of my resolve. Forced me to turn around, and see my life for what it is not. Forcing doubt past my teeth and into my stomach; then into my blood. There is not much more time for me. Even now, if things were different, if I were to change my mind, the affects would not be as great. I would risk a life of uncomfortable ambiguity, and perhaps; even more unhappy an existence than I am now. I am at the point of no return though; I am right where the decision must be made if I want a chance at that life.

I must look my unhappiness. My sister just told me “don’t look so solemn. It is a great day to be alive.” Her friend, my boss, also chimed in. “Sometimes, after all, people die.” Naturally, I smile, inside and out, because I know their words to be more true and honest than any of the three of us realize.

Perhaps, that is the answer. It is not eternally satisfying. Perhaps it will not work tomorrow; but the truth is I will never have ovaries; or a womb. Even if I had the sleek curve and whispers of second lips, the arches, and passages necessary for motherhood- for natures finest, greatest gift- I will still never be able to become pregnant. Never to be a mother. Perhaps hormones and surgery would bring me closer; that would likely bring me happiness, but deepen my grief, envy, and loss as well. Perhaps it would be a good thing; but it wouldn’t ever be real. In the end; I would be so caught up trying to change my life and myself that I would fail to live it. I am inclined to wanting it all, it seems. Even as I consider these words, they shrivel up; offended and singed as they curl into ash. It is a waste of time but damn it, I *feel* my motherhood, my desire to be female like a phantom body. My mind knows, my spirit knows, even my genes- after their poor gambit - know; but all to no useful end. If there is no changing it, why fret about trying too? If today is a reason to smile (which I whole heartedly believe it is), then why give time to reasons to frown?

Stupid, repetitive, childish questions. Nine years later, I have the same questions, the same doubts. I am fearing regret, and because I fear it I give it room in my heart and life. I ask myself a lot now: “Is this the way it was meant to be?”, “Do I have time in my life to regret a decision, a future, not my own?” I tell myself that I should simply feel and use that passion, whether happy or sad, and do all the things in my life that I am capable of controlling to make it better.

But still, every day is the same. I see someone else with that beautiful arc. That inward warmth. That fertility. And I think “That should have been me. That should have been…” No matter the resolution, always the same. It’s a lot like the fear of death. I don’t believe that this is my one shot; but if it is, then the thought of losing my only chance is unbearable. It’s a haunting, irrational fear; and there is nothing, or little to nothing that I can do to set it to rest. Even if I had the surgery; there is no going back. I run the risk of disfigurement, of disappointment with something artificial. I say that pain is necessary; suffering makes joy real- but I can *not* find reason in my heart to justify this kind of twisting, wrenching, self hatred. I hate to think that I can’t wear a swimsuit, or G string, and be sexy, sleek. I hate that I can’t understand how satisfying that must feel. Such simple pleasures, simple existence; denied me.

I am remembering how to hate myself, so how do I keep from growing jaded?