When you first told me, you were upset by my reaction – or rather, I think you were upset that I didn’t have a reaction, as if you expected me to process it all in an instant. How could I? You had told me something that shook the foundations of our marriage: the man I loved didn’t exist, you said, and the woman you had found inside yourself hated that man.

I’m glad you figured it out, and started down this path. I have always wanted the best for you. Our relationship ended not because you were trans, but because as you explored this new side of yourself, it felt as if the only person who mattered to you was you.

You told me you spent years trying to deny the truth to yourself. I think that’s why it was so hard for me to face your hurt when I said I needed time to come to terms with it. If it took you years to accept something that “felt right” to you, how could I instantly accept it? I asked for time, and you refused. It felt like a battlefield: you would make decisions that affected us both and lob them at me like grenades, unspoken ultimatums that told me I needed to shut up, or leave. “I’ve decided to start hormone treatment,” you said. “I’ve decided to come out publicly next week.” I had thought we were a team, and now I was left behind.

No one knows what to say to the partner of a person who has come out – we tend to get forgotten

Your friends surrounded you with love, and I’m glad of that. But the more they told you exactly what you wanted to hear, the starker the comparison with me. You told me you understood that it was difficult for me, but it never seemed to extend to your actions. Eventually, you stopped telling me things, and let me find out by accident; your lies of omission hurt me deeply.

I worry that no one is telling you the truth, now. Many of your friends err on the side of unquestioning support, in case they are seen as unsupportive, and I think that’s dangerous: being trans does not make a person brave or “right”, and it does not make them a good person. Nor does it make them a bad one. You were always a little self-absorbed, and I understand why this process exacerbated this – it is, by definition, a very self-focused thing. Yet you needed my support, and I tried to give it, but I needed yours, too. No one knows what to say to the partner of a person who has come out – we tend to get forgotten, or held to unreasonable standards.

I am sorry I hurt you. I hope you are sorry that you hurt me; I hope that, with time and distance, you will see I tried my best. I don’t know if we could have made it work, had things been different, or even if that would have been better. I hope you learn to communicate, compromise and be more compassionate in your next relationship (and in general). I hope someone in your life is not treating you like a fragile bauble, and is willing to call you on your actions; trans or cis, we all need someone to do that. But I’m glad you have people in your corner: the world will be cruel to you sometimes. I’m sure it already has been.

I wish nothing but the best for you, but I don’t want to stay in touch, not because I’m angry and unhappy, but because I’ve worked out that I am a better person without you. I don’t regret our time together, no matter how awful those last few months were, but I’ve moved on, and this letter is the capstone: this is the end.

Anonymous

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