![]() Ms. Lee Etscovitz, Ed.D.Butterflies and TearsSeveral years ago, in the midst of some unhappy feelings about myself and about life in general, I wrote a poem called "Butterflies and Tears." At the time I was not consciously aware of any gender discomfort within me which might have had anything to do with my unhappiness. And yet, as I reread the poem today, I can see a connection between what I said then and the gender struggle I have experienced over the years. Let us look, first, at the poem itself, and then at some of its transgender implications. When I see butterflies When I see people cry In butterflies
and tears As I said at the beginning, these words seem to speak to my gender struggle over the years. For example, especially within the transgender community, a butterfly is a recognized symbol of change, in this case a symbol of the unfolding of the human body as well as of the human spirit. Could I have unconsciously sensed such a potential change in myself as I wrote the poem? Perhaps those of us who do harbor private struggles of one kind or another (which probably includes most of us) are more aware than we realize of what is troubling us. The problem is that we often have difficulty listening to ourselves, let alone to others. Perhaps it is the accompanying pain which we also hear and which quickly frightens us away from ourselves and thus from the means of personal fulfillment. The "grief" of which I speak might refer not only to the pain of frustrated hopes and dreams but also to the pain of transgender self-recognition and self-acceptance, with all of the accompanying, and difficult, social implications. Another word in the poem which speaks to my life-long gender struggle is "predicament." I have always seen my feminine wishes as being the source of an ongoing and deepening predicament which I have faced in life. Perhaps that is what I somehow sensed when I wrote the poem, for I was obviously in the midst of some personal pain. In fact, my marriage was weakening, and six years later I was divorced. I was also plagued by sexual fantasies which I was afraid to disclose to anyone, including my wife. Nor did I think of myself as gender-confused, but I was definitely unhappy in some nameless way. I was a prime example of a person with "dry tears of discontent," requiring a "silent strength" in order to survive one day at a time. Over the years I consulted several psychiatrists in an effort to understand my inner discontent. Perhaps it was those sessions with a psychiatrist which, in retrospect, represented for me my "silent strength." And yet I never really dealt with my sexual fantasies, let alone any gender feelings, which may be an unfortunate commentary on the role of psychiatry in dealing with gender confusion and even sexual issues (at least between 1958 and 1980, in spite of Dr. Harry Benjamin's 1966 publication of "The Transsexual Phenomenon"). The fact is that my "predicament" remained, regardless of how much I did manage to talk with psychiatrists. Apparently, perhaps out of fear, I did not really talk about my life in any fundamental sense, because my "grief" persisted. Perhaps I was afraid to face life's uncertainties in general and my personal confusion in particular. On the other hand, perhaps my awareness of the possibility of beauty in life gave me the hope I needed to keep me going to psychiatrists in some vague search for answers to the riddle of my own existence. This notion of a search, with its roots in a sense of hope, points to the phrase, "a nobler plan," with which the poem ends and which also strikes me as having transgender implications. I do not recall what I specifically had in mind when I wrote those words. I think I was dreaming of something better for my life than what I had then, perhaps something possessing the beauty I saw in butterflies. I probably wanted a greater sense of personal fulfillment, a greater sense of well-being, a more "noble" existence. I used the term "Man" in its generic sense, which includes both men and women. The eventual "plan" in my case turned out to be a major shift, both consciously and physically, in my gender identity, as if I were fulfilling God's plan for me, regardless of the form it would take and regardless of the personal and social implications I would have to face. As I look back on my life, I can see how I have learned not only to listen to my tears but also to accept the butterflies. At last I can hear and believe what I was really telling myself several years ago. Perhaps the truth is inside us more than we realize. It may even be less fragile than we imagine it to be and far more beautiful than we ever thought possible. Our "sunlit flight" may be brief in the total scheme of things, but it may also be fulfilling as a bit of sunshine we can call our own. It might even become more than a pleasant interruption and instead an established part of one's life. Want to comment? Send email to Dr. Etscovitz at hmdm@voicenet.com. |
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