First toe in the water

As I am typing these first few words, I feel deep trepidations inside, which could be coming either from the excitement that this is going to be wonderful or the foresight that it will lead nowhere.

Who knows for sure? I will keep it going as long as possible anyway.

First things first. It seems when you enter somebody's world, the polite thing to do is to introduce yourself. Thank you for letting me into your world. My name is... private for now, please. I am a... well, you see, that is the very point: I don't really know how to pursue this sentence.

It feels like I am failing at the very first step of basic interaction. I didn't say my name, who or even what I am. Ok, you're still here, not a big deal; we can make this work. Somehow. Whatever the feck 'this' is.

Shall we start again? Thank you. I must say, so far, you have been most kind to me. I shall remember that.

What do I know that I can actually tell you?

I was born 46 years ago in Western Europe. I moved to London (UK) in the early naughties - oops, I mean noughties - that promises some exciting side steps later...

I speak two languages (one of which is English - Doh.) I am pretty intellectual, a damn logical thinker who says "it makes sense" way too often and who thinks that everything can be explained. Well, most things. At least, you know, a fair amount. I have moved to the spiritual realisation that I don't have to understand to accept. I don't need an explanation to care. That revelation has grown in the last decade to make me a more open-minded adult. And with that came the gift that I could more openly admit things to myself. Things that earlier in life didn't make sense. It's not that now they do; it is more that their making sense is no longer what matters to me.

In the second that followed my birth, a doctor spread my thighs and declared to the nurse taking notes, "write: it's a boy". And so was I to be male. Ok, no big deal, right?

I am typing this at my desk, wearing a light male t-shirt, black tights and a mini black skirt. My avatar is what I see when I look down. Male, you said?

So, your author is wearing tights and a skirt. No big deal, she's fine this such clothes. Yes, but more like a he's feeling fine in his skirt.

I am married to a woman, born female, living life as a woman. She knows what I look like. She knows that my wardrobe is half casual clothes, half professional suits and that in between work shirts and weekend jeans are skirts, loose tops and dresses. I have trainers, leather shoes and high heels.

What am I? I don't know. I am not a woman trapped in a male body. Transitioning has been on my mind for years, but I don't feel the call; I wouldn't be committed enough to pass all the tests. I don't feel so female that I want the body, or not all of it anyway. But I don't feel male either, though that's my body.

I am grateful to be in a world that is slowly allowing people like me to explore themselves. I am incredibly privileged to live with a partner who allows me all my attempts at figuring out who I am.

And I want to write, to share, because quite frankly, to explore that shit is so frightening that I need to know I am not alone. Thank you if you decide to walk with me. And if you don't, thank you for reading these first lines.