Every woman in my family was a saint. And a martyr. And a slave. And if you didn’t know it, and if you failed to notice it or had any doubts or didn’t acknowledge it with enough vigor and admiration, they would tell you just that right to your face. With spitting venom.
Every man in my family was just there. An empty husk of a being. At best tolerated, at worst actively discouraged from developing himself. Never treated as an equal, but being just an excuse for sainthood and martyrdom and slaving of a related woman. And rightly so.
No, wait — that wasn’t just my family. That was every family I have ever known. I am not sure when exactly I noticed that, or even if that was something to notice — that division of roles was as natural as breathing. There was no reason to notice that or to question any of that. As a boy, then a teenager, then a man, my role and my future were assigned to me at the moment when my gender become known.
As I said, I never dared to question any of it or entertain any thought of any possible change. I didn’t know if I can live my life in any different way, or can argue for myself for any change. What I knew was that what was around me and what they expected of me was wrong, burdensome, and unpleasant. And that I will not accept my fate and my destiny. And that I will not fulfill those imposed obligations and ideas and dreams. Since I knew that I didn’t fit in and never would, I needed to do something extraordinary.
So I decided to rebel, which actually was expected. And I was shut down and brought to a level quickly.
So I rebelled again, this time embracing my failures as a badge of honor and as something I adopted as a show of personality, since I didn’t have one.
Soon I lost control over things around me and forgot who I really was. Or even if I ever consciously was anybody at all. About the same time, those dreams started. I mean — a dream that would repeat itself every few nights. I was able to ignore it for a while until I realized that if I embrace it, I will have an explanation for any of my problems and an excuse for any of my behavior.
I do have plenty of free time now to embarked on a project. Project to write a book. And I mean to actually write it — not just make plans, and outlines and lists of chapters (and the advanced list of excuses why I couldn’t do it) as I did many times before. I planned for myself to have this extra free time in my life to be able to do it, and that written in italics above is the beginning of that book. I feel that I have a lot to say, and I know the good and interesting way of saying it. And even though I know very well that any chances of ever publishing a book are slim, it will not stop me. That will be a part of me still working on myself, still trying to get better. I accept myself as I am and want to share it. Let’s see how it goes