Be True
"Be true to yourself."
Her voice still echoes in my head when I least expect it to as though some deep crag of my brain released its hold on the memory at just the right, or wrong, moment.
She told me to be true to myself. She also told me to grow up to be the person she wanted me to become. She also told me that you can't save the world so I should stop trying.
Mom.
In another world I know exactly who I am so that I can be true to me. Every choice I make is straight-forward because I know my goals and my unflinching morals. Everything I do is chosen in a way to be true to the vision I have of who I am and how I want the world to conform around me. It's simple. It's true.
In this world things are muddied. Yes, I know who I am a bit better than I did in the past because I walked at least several hundred miles to figure it out, all the while fighting off the urge to just lay down and die. And sure, the people in my life now make it easier for me to be the person that I love. But who is the true me?
Is the true me the very overweight man who loves food, travels the world in search of their local cuisine, and doesn't particularly care about getting healthy? Or is the true me the man inside that breaks out every now and then, watching what he eats and getting in shape? The first man is happy except when he's thinking about how out of shape he is, the second man is happy except when he's thinking about all the food he loves that he can't eat.
Is the true me the man I am when I'm on my testosterone treatment? Or is the true me the man I am without the gel I slather on myself each morning to raise my testosterone to normal levels? The first man is sexual, more driven, and not as easily depressed. The second man is calmer, less angry with the world and more forgiving.
Maybe I'm the me who rises at 6 AM every morning. Maybe I'm the one who gets up only after 10 AM because I went to bed at 3. Maybe I'm the guy who cleans each room and keeps the kitchen spotless, or maybe I'm the guy who is more likely to leave the kitchen a mess and only semi-tidies a room or two every couple of days.
Or maybe it's much more complicated than that.
Maybe I'm every single one of those men, somehow. An amalgam of the flaws and strengths that meld and change on a daily, sometimes hourly basis. Maybe I'm more than the parts that make up the whole.
Maybe there is no true me.
And maybe that's okay.
Her voice still echoes in my head when I least expect it to as though some deep crag of my brain released its hold on the memory at just the right, or wrong, moment.
She told me to be true to myself. She also told me to grow up to be the person she wanted me to become. She also told me that you can't save the world so I should stop trying.
Mom.
In another world I know exactly who I am so that I can be true to me. Every choice I make is straight-forward because I know my goals and my unflinching morals. Everything I do is chosen in a way to be true to the vision I have of who I am and how I want the world to conform around me. It's simple. It's true.
In this world things are muddied. Yes, I know who I am a bit better than I did in the past because I walked at least several hundred miles to figure it out, all the while fighting off the urge to just lay down and die. And sure, the people in my life now make it easier for me to be the person that I love. But who is the true me?
Is the true me the very overweight man who loves food, travels the world in search of their local cuisine, and doesn't particularly care about getting healthy? Or is the true me the man inside that breaks out every now and then, watching what he eats and getting in shape? The first man is happy except when he's thinking about how out of shape he is, the second man is happy except when he's thinking about all the food he loves that he can't eat.
Is the true me the man I am when I'm on my testosterone treatment? Or is the true me the man I am without the gel I slather on myself each morning to raise my testosterone to normal levels? The first man is sexual, more driven, and not as easily depressed. The second man is calmer, less angry with the world and more forgiving.
Maybe I'm the me who rises at 6 AM every morning. Maybe I'm the one who gets up only after 10 AM because I went to bed at 3. Maybe I'm the guy who cleans each room and keeps the kitchen spotless, or maybe I'm the guy who is more likely to leave the kitchen a mess and only semi-tidies a room or two every couple of days.
Or maybe it's much more complicated than that.
Maybe I'm every single one of those men, somehow. An amalgam of the flaws and strengths that meld and change on a daily, sometimes hourly basis. Maybe I'm more than the parts that make up the whole.
Maybe there is no true me.
And maybe that's okay.