I see now that I was born to the wrong parents, and in the wrong body. That isn’t to say I’ve ever felt myself to be female, or that I didn't love my parents, but that I've never been good at the traditionally masculine stuff, and that my body has never had much interest in my winning other boys' or men's admiration. Very early on, I couldn’t master shoelace-tying. I wasn’t rambunctious. The only allure of Cub, and later Boy, Scouts was the promise of feeling that I fit in somewhere. I've never had that feeling.
I wasn’t brave. Indeed, I was the opposite of brave, but how could I have been otherwise? My mother, very much my dominant parent, was terrified of everything and everybody, and taught her handsome little angel — not intentionally, of course — to be the same. I never saw anyone stick up for himself. She ran roughshod over my very passive dad every day of my childhood (and indeed, adulthood), and he let her, even though she was meekness made flesh around any third party.
The wrong body I’d been born into wasn’t well coordinated. I adored sports, and ached to be good at them, to win the admiration of other boys, but was awful at them. I played them all, avidly, and ineptly, invariably getting picked second to last for every team. Given my lack of coordination and my parents’ reflexive passivity, I couldn’t imagine being very good with my fists, and walked away from every fight, each time with another little piece of my self-respect missing. By the age of eight, there was nothing left to lose. I had no way of knowing that the pain of self-contempt, which i’ve carried with me all my life, would exceed any physical pain I may have suffered by a factor of many million.
I spent yesterday in the darkest of my dark places, hating the world and everyone in it, no one more than myself. In the morning, a young woman friend ent me a message. She thought our friendship had become toxic, and wondered if she ought to walk away. Last week, I sent her a message offering to do a Website to promote her freelance social media consulting business. When she didn’t respond for several days. I sent her this message: Cat got your tongue? That apparently upset her terribly — and, in my own view, wildly disproportionately. Her furious response dismayed me, and I left it unanswered, which was what led her to threaten to abandon our friendship. I couldn’t summon the energy to argue with her, and told her to walk away if that;s what felt right to her. Welcome to Monday, Johnny!
Not long thereafter, as I was trying (not at all successfully) to figure out a way to make myself feel worthwhile and purposeful, rather than as though bing crushed by boredom, a young man whose accent I couldn’t place impatiently rang our doorbell while Dame Zelda was walking her dog. He wanted to tell me about how he could improve our little house’s exterior. I was in no mood for a sales pitch, and politely told him it wasn’t a good time. He made no secret of his exasperation. “Old people!” he snarled as he spun on his heel and walked away. “Fuck off,” I suggested loudly — and injudiciously. If he’d come back, one of two things would probably have resulted. Either I’d have gone reflexively into coward mode and slammed the door, and hated myself for it, or we’d have tried to hurt each other physically, which probably wouldn’t have gone terrifically for me, as I have one fewer functioning arm than most people, and he had the great advantage of being around 27.
I emailed Isambard Jones tracks to more Facebook friends, hoping that they’d like it enough to recommend it to others. (So far, three of the 40 people I’ve sent tracks to have responded in any way.) I managed to put together a page of my life-changingly hilarious comedy stuff, and sent it to half a dozen BBC producers and three agents. I fully expect not to hear back from any of them. I should, and indeed do, expect by now that the world will be in a meeting every time I call. I spent the day wishing it were much later, as I yearned all day for the oblivion of sleep, and felt ashamed of myself for doing so. I am ever mindful of how few days I have left, and of how awful it is to spend one of them feeling as though being drowned from within.
A bit later, I went on my daily constitutional, which usually make me feel better, but was in too much of a state to be heartened by the autumnal beauty all around me. I wound up at the local barber shop, owned and operated by Kurds. The guy who was going to cut what remains of my hair asked if I’d had a good day. I nearly burst into tears, and for the duration of my haircut had to keep fighting them back.
Welcome to my world, and thank God you don't live in it.
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