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She looks up from her book as her husband starts to tell her about his day. She used to enjoy these conversations. Now, she enjoys silence more than talking.
When did he become so annoying?
She sighs and reluctantly closes her book. She tries not to look annoyed but doesn’t succeed. He notices and stops mid-sentence. A pause. His eyes become misty. He asks her if she still likes him. Likes him. Not loves him. He knows she loves him. But “liking” is a deeper form of affection than love. To like someone you’re in love with is to adore them. To enjoy spending time with someone you have spent over a decade living with, to prefer their company to your own or anyone else’s—well, that is the magic in a relationship. To lose that is dangerous. It threatens to crumble everything you have cultivated throughout the years.
In truth, she doesn’t enjoy anyone’s company anymore, including her own. The entire world annoys her. When did everyone become so aggravating? Why does she cry so unexpectedly at times? Why is she ready to throw punches at random strangers but doesn’t have enough energy to work out anymore? When did life become so exhausting?
She sees the doctors. She dutifully applies her hormone cream every night, being careful to wash her hands thoroughly. Her husband spent four decades hating his female hormones and wants nothing to do with them. She loves him, and she doesn’t want to contaminate him with her darkness and progesterone.
Her every word and hostile look hurt him. Should she stay away more? Find excuses to work longer hours to lessen the hurt? He doesn’t want that either. He wants the old her back. The silly, sweet, adventurous woman he married. What has happened to her? She feels that old self out of reach. Maybe she’s died. Sometimes she herself would like to die. To escape this pain.
She stares at herself in the mirror, hating what she sees. Everything sags: the bags under her eyes, the skin on her neck, her breasts, her protruding belly. How can he stand to look at her? She dislikes herself and doesn’t understand why anyone else would like her. And yet, he does. He somehow finds her sexy.
Four years after phalloplasty, his penis has more feeling than ever. His sex drive is at its highest, while hers is suddenly absent. What cruel timing.
When his mouth is on her, she feels nothing. She cries, remembering when he could make her come. Her current antidepressant makes it impossible to orgasm. She has failed him. She loves him and encourages him to fuck her anyway. He comes over and over again, and tells her how much he adores her pussy, his strong chest moving above her, his scars barely visible under his tattoos. But he is sad, and holds her, telling her how sorry he is that she doesn’t enjoy it as much as he does.
A new antidepressant. She is able to orgasm, but she cries after sex, despite the bliss they experienced together. He’s been so patient with her. He gently strokes her face and tells her he has her back. He reminds her of all the people in her life who love her. He adores her and can’t imagine being anywhere else than by her side. What has she done to deserve this love and adoration? Why does he stay when she hurts him so? She fails again and again to deserve him. Yet she clings to him, to his love, to keep herself afloat.
They’ve been through worse, he reminds her. They have always come out stronger than before. His transition tested them, and they found a deeper and stronger love through it all.
Morning comes, in more ways than one. She is sweaty, as always, but insists on sitting outside in the heat and humidity to listen to the birds. This time outdoors will help her make it through the day. Maybe.
She surprises herself. When she sees his face, smiling as he brings her more coffee, she feels a flicker of happiness and gratitude. What a handsome face, with his masculine angles fully developed. She asks how he slept, genuinely interested. She knows her answer now. She still likes him, as much as she loves him.
She comes home from work. On time. She asks about his day, and she listens. She delights in his every word. Her heart warms when he smiles, and she laughs when he does.
She still hurts. She is still often paralyzed with her darkness. Yet she holds his hand, and she feels his love for her, strong enough for the both of them to survive. The months go by and she does her best to make it through each day without falling into her despair. When will it ever get better? When will she stop simply trying to survive?
Despite her darkness, she is able to repair that part of her soul that is intertwined with his. She slowly starts her way back to before. Before her depression seemed to metastasize throughout her brain. Before her hormones decided to malfunction. She blindly feels her way along that bond between their souls that has been there since before they ever met. He meets her more than halfway, pulling her into his arms.
Maybe she isn’t fully back to before. Maybe she never will be. Maybe that’s OK. Maybe they aren’t meant to go back. Maybe they are meant to make an after that is more beautiful and fulfilling than the before ever was. Until then, she loves him, and that is enough.
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