PERSONAL STORY | MY TRANS TRIP TO MEET A FELLOW MEDIUM MEMBER PART II

Destiny Awaits — My Trans Trip to Meet a Fellow Medium Member

Periphery — Part Two of a Serial

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At 9pm Saturday evening, I leave my corner of the country to meet fellow Medium member Kay Luna. Kay lives in the opposite corner of our island, so location is one of the few things we haven’t had in common so far. Our shared love of long walks and aversion to throngs of people mean that meeting in the middle for a hike in the remote parts of England is a perfect plan.

Although I’d gone with my sister on a road trip last year as Rachel, I’d held myself back a little. My self-expression then was enough to draw quizzical looks, but I was metaphorically flying an LGBTQ rainbow flag more than the blue, pink and white transgender one. I was clearly femme and fancy, but I didn’t always fully express myself.

My sister has of course, known me the longest and knew the person that came before.

Kay is the first person who will meet me as Rachel having only ever known me as Rachel. If I am to live as a woman full-time one day, I have to stop using femme-to-androgynous as a crutch. If I am to respect myself as a transgender woman and a queer writer, I have to be brave enough to let Kay meet me. I cannot hide as “him” because Kay never knew him. The stakes are set — aside from the femme to unisex ensemble I drove up in, my bag has only my belongings, none of “his.”

Hundreds of miles from home, tomorrow I will spend my first day as Rachel from start to finish. My only other option is to cry off with panic after Kay has drove hundreds of miles to meet me.

I decide that either I will come back a lioness, or I’ll not come back at all. If I lack the fortitude to show up as myself, as Rachel, then I will stop writing because I’m a fraud and a coward.

As my car glides onto the slip road to the motorway under ochre skies to meet Kay, I’m also driving to meet my destiny.

Nobody is an island Everyone has to go ‘Pillars turn to butter Butterflying low Low is where your heart is But your heart has to grow Drifting under bridges Never with the flow

And you really didn’t think it would happen But it really is the end of the line So I’m sorry that you turned to driftwood But you’ve been drifting for a long long time

— Travis, Driftwood (1999)

Turning on my car stereo, I press repeat on the track Driftwood, the band Travis’s song from 1999. This was around the year I first had my overt queer and transgender feelings, the ones I hid and pushed down. A time when, without conscious thought, I decided to “go along with being a boy”.

The lead singer of Travis, Fran Healy, described the song:

“Driftwood is a song for the person in your life who has so much potential and, yet, doesn’t use it, because they’re afraid of falling on their backside, you know, they’re afraid of making a fool of themselves. But, yet, if they put their minds to it and just threw their plate out the window, they would actually do a lot with it and make themselves happy and other people happy.”

I used to play the song on repeat when I was a teenager, and throughout my life, getting teary without knowing why.

Now middle-aged, I’ve been drifting for a long, long time. Driving away from home is like swimming against the tide. The song bridges the gap between then and now. It serves as a warning and a challenge as the miles tick away and the ochre of the sky rusts further.

I’m not giving up on myself without a fight.

The roads are dead because of the World Cup. England are playing Norway. Millions of people will be glued to the screens, freeing up the roads for me. My anxiety and stress about zero hour approaching cuts through any fatigue. The thought of quitting runs through my mind…

This is it. This is it.

Am I really transgender?

Am I really transgender?

The thoughts loop through my head, like Driftwood is looping through my speakers. My chest feels tighter with each repeat and I stop singing along to save my breath.

The hours of processional driving pass.

My fitness tracker will later reveal my stress is through the roof. The fight or flight reaction started lunch time Saturday, and will last until lunch Sunday. My mouth is running dry, I sip from my water bottle. I’m getting close. By now, I know Driftwood off by heart, not just the lyrics but the music as well. If I stopped the song, I could play it on repeat in my head regardless. The hotel is 15 minutes away, and the knot in my chest grows and tightens as the minutes count down…

12 — You’re doing this. I hope I get a parking spot by the door.

8 — You have two more plays of Driftwood.

3 — I need petrol. Otherwise I’ll have to get petrol as myself tomorrow in the daylight.

At that moment the exit appears and as my car nears the ends of its long journey, I notice how dark the road ahead is. The three lanes and bright lights of the motorway disappear and I’m left with a single track lane, one that snakes past trees that cast ominous shadows from my headlights. There’s a strong sinking feeling that I’ve taken a wrong turn as in a horror movie. The terror subsides for a moment as the serpentine road kinks back another way past another tree, and reveals signs of life.

I pull into the petrol station and fill up, feeling good that I reminded myself to do this now. Fatigued, stressed and pre-occupied, there’s a reprieve in that I still managed to apply some rational thinking.

A full tank later, I leave the forecourt and follow the signs for the hotel. There are very few signs of life and plenty of spaces right outside the door of the budget lodgings. I check in and am relieved that the desk clerk responds to my effeminate manner by calling me ‘dear’ and going out of her way to be friendly.

I can’t help but consider if she’ll be the same if I leave while she’s still on shift tomorrow.

Keys in hand, and the midnight hour approaching, I enter my modest room. There is no air-con, and the night is sticky. Window open, I can hear the sounds of football and gasps and groans from a bunch of lads watching the game on their phones.

After a shower and slipping my jammies on, I try and breathe. My room, reception and car are a very short distance. The reception has a slot to drop your key when you’re done, there will be no need to do anything other than smile, say thank you, then keep walking.

Big shades, no eye-contact, don’t stop…I now have an exit strategy.

At her accommodation, Kay checks in with me via text. I tell her I want to puke I’m so nervous.

To assuage my fears, Kay offers to add two hours of driving from her hotel to come to my room so I’ll never be alone for my two-minute exit.

She’s a gem, but it is walking from a hotel room to a car after dropping a key in a checkout box. I remind myself that budget hotels on the motorway have seen all kinds, and I won’t be the first, the worst, or the last. Kay is a good person, but I have to do this bit alone.

I turn the lights and the TV off then bury my face into the pillow hoping to get some sleep…

My watch informs me I passed out around 2am. It is 7am and I am wide awake but exhausted.

Heart started again, my body revs up. The walls of this little hotel room look a bit closer than they did last night. Kay texts asking me if I’m sure I’ll be OK. I tell her that I am and to meet me at the destination.

I lock in my outfit for the day and run the rest of my stuff back to the car while the hotel sleeps. As I return, the room looks smaller than I remember. I pack my day bag for the hike, I shower, defuzz and feel like my room is now the size of a large wardrobe.

At 8am I glance out the window, there’s twice the cars there was a 7am and people starting to mill around. I have a cup of coffee. I shower again. The shower now feels bigger than the room with my outfit, wig, and makeup. I get ready, then sit on the bed shaking like a leaf.

“What other people think” has counted for very little.

The world falls silent as my painted nails fall to my lap, clutching the transgender flag keyring I have for my car.

In this moment, I realise t w e n t y — s e v e n years have passed since I first wished I was born a girl. I’ve been drifting away from who I am for twenty-seven years at least.

I don’t know if you can undo almost three decades of aimless living.

But sitting alone in this hotel room, I realise I’ve done very little of what I’ve wanted to do in those years. I don’t know about tomorrow, or twenty-seven years in the future. I know this moment is the best chance I have ever had in my life to walk out into the world as a trans woman, head held up high. Sober and in broad daylight. Not skulking around drunk like a creature of the night.

“What other people think” has counted for very little.

As I raise from the bed, and clutch my car keys and room key, it’s time to be visible.

It’s time to stand up and be counted as a proud trans woman.

I leave the room that was almost resembling a coffin in the end.

I don’t look back.

This is part two of a series. You can read all the instalments and my prior adventures below:

[embed]List: Rachel's Adventures | Curated by Rachel Addison | Medium Rachel's Adventures · 5 stories on Mediummedium.com