Living suspended in our loss

My almost-ex-wife G. and I live suspended in our loss. We hung onto each other so tightly, and loved each other so urgently, that we managed to hold our marriage together through my entire crisis (eighteen months of craziness!).

Finally, the dust settled, and there I was: a trans woman waiting to go on hormones. She's a straight woman who seems to be a lesbian magnet, but she's so disinterested she's turned down every opportunity.

I couldn't compromise on my gender, and she couldn't compromise on her het-ness. On top of that, she hated living with my transition because it makes me crazy and "others" her by association--being my spouse means looking pretty queer. She must have hated those raised eyebrows. It's unbearably frustrating to feel someone else passing judgment on you without any conversation or chance to explain the context. My straight wife hated feeling those (fairly rare) stares that get directed at queers, especially those as openly trans as me.

Finally, after much therapy, we could no longer avoid the heart-rending truth: despite our love, our marriage couldn't work. I knew I was wrong for her, and she knew that I needed to transition. So we mutually, amicably, very sadly, agreed to split up.

And now we live inside our loss, trying to build a new relationship as friends and co-parents, both still loving the other, wishing she could make it work, but unshakably confident that it can't work.

It puts me in mind of a post-apocalyptic existence, holed up in the ruins of your once happy home, bravely making what use you can of the partially wrecked structure.

Tonight I'm throwing a house-warming party at my new place, and I'm simultaneously liquidating my guy clothes. When I think about the idea of inviting people over to celebrate this deeply unsatisfactory compromise I've been forced to accept, I feel like screaming. But getting better demands moving forward, and celebrating the person I am becoming. I spend more than enough time mourning the loss of the life I had.