Love Lives Here

by Amanda Jette Knox

  Zoë was building up her wardrobe and getting bolder with what she wore at work. She was exclusively dressing in clothes from the women’s department, but she chose to wear the more gender-neutral pieces to the office.

  “Aren’t you worried someone is going to notice, though?” I asked her one morning as she was getting ready.

  “What if they do? What are they going to say?” she replied. “ ‘Hey, are you wearing women’s jeans?’ I don’t think anyone is going to ask that. And if they do, I’ll just say I am and watch them try to follow that up in a work-appropriate way.”

  I laughed at the thought.

  “Besides,” she continued, “here’s the thing about most people: they see the world as they want to see it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People tend to put others into a box. Right now, everyone sees me as male. So unless I wear something very obviously feminine that throws that into question, they’re going to assume I’m a man wearing men’s clothing.”

  I thought back to all the times when there had been signs of Zoë’s true gender, and how I had assumed they were signs of something else: a man being uncomfortable with his body, a man not fitting in with other men, a man trying to bond with his children. All reasonable assumptions, for sure, but assumptions based on the binary box in which my mind had always placed her.

  She was right. She went to work every day in these clothes and was never once questioned or given a strange look. When she started to let her closest co-workers know about her transition, I wondered if the light came on for them as it had for me when I finally put all the pieces together.

  * * *

  —

  Winter is particularly harsh in Ottawa. We’re the snowiest capital city in the world, with an average of 224 centimetres, or 88 inches, of snowfall each year. Temperatures can dip deep into the negatives and stay that way for days at a time. You might see your neighbours a couple of times in December and not again until April, when we all emerge from near hibernation, groggy and grateful for warmer weather. It’s not a fun few months for the happiest of people. But when you’re feeling overloaded by life, our northern climate, with its dark days and isolation, can make things even worse.

  I chronically shelve my feelings and remind myself that other people have it worse. I’ve been doing this for most of my life: using empathy for others as a reason to push my own emotions aside. “It’s not that bad,” I’ll tell myself. “Just look at what So-and-so is going through. Suck it up, Amanda. In comparison, you’re fine.”

  In this case, So-and-so’s name was Zoë, and I knew she was dealing with an inordinate amount of stress while leading essentially two lives. Sure, I had stress too. But it was nothing compared to hers, right?

  I knew Alexis was also dealing with her own stresses, including trying to be a typical grade eight girl when your body is in a medically induced pubescent stasis. She wouldn’t get the green light for hormones from the gender-identity clinic until at least her fourteenth birthday, which was still months away. Meanwhile, she watched as her classmates grew curves and breasts, looking more and more like she had always wanted to. “But lots of girls start developing later,” people who meant well would tell her. That doesn’t matter, though, when you’re waiting for a doctor’s approval rather than a flood of hormones. She was at the mercy of other people’s understanding.

  Then there were our boys, quietly putting the pieces of their lives back together in a way that made sense to them. For the most part, they appeared strong and together, but I had a feeling there was more going on beneath the surface.

  Aerik was in his first year of college after a challenging final year of high school. He had blamed a lot of his grade twelve stresses on having too much schoolwork, but I wondered if his problems were linked to the changes at home. Now he was doing well and making new friends, but I could see him trying to balance his more independent adult life with his need to be present for his younger siblings.

  Jackson, meanwhile, was having trouble concentrating at school. While we suspected ADHD, the psychologist advised us to hold off on getting him assessed. “He’s been through so many changes that there’s no way to make a definitive diagnosis right now,” he explained. So until the dust settled, our youngest would continue getting distracted in school, getting in trouble for disrupting the class and getting picked on by his peers because of it.

  Everyone was going through big things, and I needed to be there for them. My own little box of feels sat high on a shelf, and whenever it looked like it was going to pop open, I would just put something heavy on top and say, “I’ll deal with this later.”

  Let me explain what happens when I deal with things “later.”

  Buying our home in 2013 was an absolute nightmare. We were moving from one province to another, and that required different paperwork than anyone realized, additional lawyer’s fees and a last-minute loan reapplication. We were handed signed papers at the bank just minutes before they were due to be notarized in another building. Then we had a surprise bad home inspection on the house we were selling, and that resulted in a significant price drop from our buyers and a move we couldn’t afford unless we did it entirely ourselves. It became a panic buffet with a heaping side of freak out.

  Except I didn’t panic. I didn’t freak out. I held it together because I didn’t have time for that. We had a home to sell and another to move into. We had kids who needed a roof over their heads. I shelved my stress in an ever-growing box with a bunch of heavy stuff piled on top. Later. I would deal with it later.

  Everything eventually came together. The night we moved in, I told myself it was all worth it—the stress was finally behind us, and I could relax in the recliner I had just set up in the family room. As soon as I sat in the chair and turned on the TV, I felt an irregular thump in my chest, followed by a couple more. This didn’t stop. The next day, I was at the walk-in clinic. For the following three days, I wore a heart monitor. The irregular thumping didn’t stop for about two weeks.

  Thankfully, the heart palpitations turned out to be a harmless physical reaction to stress. But they did tell me something important: I am the type of person who, when she refuses to deal with the feelings in front of her, will have to deal with them blowing up in her face (or in her chest) at a later time.

  I’ve also learned I’m the type of person who usually needs to learn a lesson more than once.

  One weekday morning, I was sitting in my favourite breakfast place with my grown-up schoolyard friend Allison, the parent council chair. We used to meet about once a week and order the exact same breakfast special: two eggs over easy, sausages and rye toast. We were predictable and our server loved us for it. She had stopped bringing us menus months before.

  “You know,” I said that day to Allison, “I’ve been feeling a little off lately. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

  “Well, there’s a lot going on right now,” she said. She was one of the first people I’d told about Zoë. I had sat on her steps one evening and cried uncontrollably. She had never seen me so upset. Now, sitting across the table from her a few months after my breakdown, I spoke in a level tone about some thoughts I’d been having.

  “To be honest, I’ve thought about dying a few times.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Allison replied, in her best keep-it-cool voice.

  “I mean, I’m not going to do it,” I said. “I have kids who need me. But I want to die sometimes because everything is so hard right now. It would be a relief, frankly.”

  Allison put down her fork.

  “Um,” she began, as delicately as she could, “I think maybe you should talk to your doctor.”

  “Yeah?” I took a sip of coffee and glanced at the paintings lining the walls. I used to paint all the time, but I hadn’t picked up a brush in months. “Maybe.”

  “Why don’t you see if you can make an appointment?”

  “Okay. I’ll do that.” I wasn’t going to do that.

  “No, like righ
t now. Give them a call. Maybe they can squeeze you in today. You never know.”

  “I doubt that, but okay,” I said. I started searching for the number on my phone, not quite understanding why she was insisting that I call the doctor. Miraculously, someone answered the phone at the exceptionally busy clinic. Even more miraculously, the doctor could see me that afternoon. Two exceptions to the rule that had never happened before and have not happened since.

  I often think about that day, and whether I would have called the doctor at all if Allison hadn’t insisted. What if they hadn’t answered? Would I have bothered to leave a message or call back later? What if the doctor hadn’t been able to see me? Would I have gone to an appointment a few days from then? I’m going to guess no on all accounts.

  I was in such denial, so unaware of how sick I was, that the fantasies about killing myself seemed entirely natural. Even though I had been depressed before and knew what that felt like, this had come on so quietly, so insidiously, that I hadn’t noticed until I was suffocated by it. I didn’t realize I was no longer finding joy in the things I loved doing—if I even bothered doing them at all.

  I believe I didn’t see what was happening partly because I was so good at self-care by this point. I ate well, slept well, exercised regularly and even had a therapist. How could I possibly be depressed if I was doing all the right things? But even as I left the restaurant and made my way home before my appointment, the veil that depression had carefully placed over my eyes was falling away.

  By the time I got to the doctor’s office, I was ready to talk. Because he was also Zoë’s doctor, what I told him about our family wasn’t a surprise. I explained how everything had gone grey in the past few months, and how I couldn’t seem to find my way out of it. I told him I had no set plan to die, but I wouldn’t be opposed to it either. I said that when I drove my car alone, I often thought about going really fast and hitting something really hard—I just never went through with it.

  We completed a depression checklist and I scored high in symptoms. We did an anxiety checklist and I scored even higher. I started to cry, telling him how frustrated this made me. I had taken charge of my health and was prioritizing it, despite having many excuses at the ready. He told me that our brains sometimes need help anyway, and that if I was willing to try an antidepressant, I would likely see improvement. It could get me over this hump.

  I left with a prescription I was hesitant to fill. The paper felt like failure in my hands. This is what mental illness can do: it can rob us of healthy perspective and fill us with shame. I’m not strong enough. I’m not good enough. Never in a million years would I say those things to someone I loved who was depressed. I would say, “Take the damn meds if you need them.” I would encourage them, check up on them and love them through it. Yet when the shoe was on the other foot, I was filled with berating thoughts.

  I took the damn meds anyway.

  You know when things have been cloudy for days on end and you think the sun is never going to come out again, but then it does? About three weeks after I slinked out of the doctor’s office with that prescription, the sun came out and it was beautiful. It’s not that the problems were no longer there—it’s that they were more manageable. Instead of feeling overwhelmed by them, I could give each one attention and then put it away for a while to deal with something else. I didn’t have to think about Zoë’s transition 24/7. I could tell myself we were doing everything we could to help Jackson right now and believe it. I knew that Aerik would be fine; at nineteen, he was an adult with good communication skills and could come to us if he had issues he couldn’t manage. And Alexis had an abundance of support to get her through this time in stasis until she could start her hormone therapy. She would be okay too. They all would be.

  And you know who else was going to be okay? Me. I felt it to the bone. It was the sweet relief I hadn’t realized I needed.

  Manageability in the midst of change. Finally.

  TWENTY-ONE

  daylight

  ZOË’S BIRTHDAY was at the end of January, and she hadn’t had a party in a very long time.

  To be fair, Zoë, in her previous societal role, was not that interested in parties. She preferred solitude. But now? The girl was all about celebrating her birthday. And the growing number of friends and family members she had come out to were eager to celebrate with her. I decided to plan a “Zoë’s first birthday” event.

  We don’t live in a large home. So when I invited two dozen people over, I did it expecting only half of them to show up.

  I am not a good estimator.

  Everyone showed up. The house was packed with people, including Zoë’s parents, my mom, one of Zoë’s co-workers and a large number of female friends. They brought her thoughtful gifts like an engraved jewellery box with her name and birthday on it. Her mom surprised her with her late grandmother’s ring, which made just about everyone cry. As I watched my wife, surrounded by a circle of other women, sharing in stories and laughter, I remembered that party all those years ago, when she had stood on the outside of the circle looking in. Seeing her now, it was clear she was in her element at last. This is where she belonged, had always belonged, and she was finally here.

  Our eyes met across the room. “I love you,” she mouthed.

  “I love you too,” I mouthed back. My heart beat a little faster in my chest. It wasn’t palpitations this time.

  Zoë was now months into her medical transition and was eagerly awaiting the changes to her birth certificate and other identification. She had told family, good friends and those she worked most closely with at the office, but we both realized it was time to start telling the other people in our personal lives. We decided a friends-only post on Facebook was the fastest and easiest way to do this. I would post it, since Zoë had deleted her old account and had yet to create a fresh one under her new name.

  At the time, the people on my Facebook list were those we knew in person, fellow parents of trans children and some I had met online through my blog or our recent media exposure. All of them were LGBTQ community members or allies. (Everyone else had weeded themselves out after we told them about Alexis.) In theory, this meant that every person who was about to find out the news would be good with it.

  Still, I worried—not only about bigotry but also about loose talk. Would someone take a screenshot and share it? Would I get calls from a local reporter looking for a follow-up story on the family with the trans child who, it was now rumoured, also had a transitioning parent? Would Zoë’s co-workers who didn’t yet know get wind of this too soon? And if so, what would be the consequences?

  There are times when queer people are chastised for not “coming out right.”

  “Why did you wait so long?”

  “Why did you tell us in a letter?”

  “Why did you write a public post before letting your family know? Are we not important?”

  “Why did you have to announce it at all? It’s nobody’s business. Just live your life.”

  “Why didn’t you say something before surprising us with it? You just showed up to dinner with your boyfriend and that’s how we find out?”

  No matter how we do it, people judge us for it. But what they often don’t understand is how messy, complicated and utterly exhausting it can be to come out. Society’s default is straight. Society’s other default is cisgender. People generally assume you’re both unless you tell them otherwise. As a result, those of us who don’t fit into those categories end up coming out to people, over and over, for the rest of our lives.

  When we do say something about who we are or who we love, we do it in the best way we can, with whatever energy we can give to it and in the way that is safest. We take many things into consideration, but ultimately this declaration needs to serve our own interests. We owe it to ourselves to do it in a way that feels right, and we hope the people who love us will understand that.

  In this case, the people who love us did a bang-up job of showing it. When I wro
te that Facebook post, it was a coming out for both of us. “Hey, everyone! Zoë is a woman. I am not straight. Check out this stick of dynamite we’re using to blow up our walk-in closet!” (That’s not exactly what I wrote, but I should have.)

  We told everyone who Zoë was and what this meant for our family. I said that I was more in love with her than ever, and that the kids were happy to have two moms. I asked for their support and kindness but offered the same “out” as I had when we told everyone about Alexis: if you can’t be on board, please quietly exit our lives.

  Finally, I made a plea for privacy.

  Yes, we asked hundreds of people to keep this news quiet for two or three more weeks until Zoë came out at work and I had figured out a plan to deal with what I knew would be a media frenzy. It was a big ask.

  But they came through. Every single one of them. They cheered for Zoë, sent countless messages of support our way and waited for my wife to tell the rest of the world in her own time. They created a safe place online by forming a protective wall around our family.

  From friends to family to neighbours to co-workers, we have people of the highest calibre in our corner.

  * * *

  —

  A few days later, Zoë got the official documentation with her new name and gender marker. She was now Zoë Michelle Knox, and her birth certificate had an “F” on it instead of an “M.”

  She was thrilled to see her name in print. I was two-thirds thrilled, because I was understandably still hung up on the whole Michelle thing. The good news was I had recently met a Michelle I liked, and I believed, through her, I could learn to overcome my prejudice.

  We stared at Zoë’s shiny new birth certificate with amazement. It had taken letters from doctors, a pile of forms and some money thrown the government’s way to make this happen. But with this, we had finally come to the end of a long stay in the closet.