Two months after I graduated from college my mother committed suicide. In the middle of the night she'd driven off of a cliff south of Santa Cruz into the rocks and surf below. In many ways I was relieved but felt guilty for that. I felt I was supposed to cry and look bereaved so I did my best at her funeral and it seemed that everyone accepted my act.

As I was growing up she was often depressed, sometimes unable to get out of bed. She was hospitalized several times, took antidepressants, and had electroshock therapy. And she had many conversations with me over the years as if I was her therapist. I am an only child so I was kind of locked up with her, too. Clearly, she had her own issues. Competition with her brother for her father's love. Measuring up to her mother's standards and expectations.

When I was six or seven I found a paddle in our laundry room cabinet, neatly placed on a shelf. It was from one of those child's paddle and ball sets that has a rubber band to bounce back and forth. No ball, no rubber band, just the paddle with the little staple still stuck in the middle surface. I asked her why it was there.

"It's for spanking you, if I need it," she said.

"Why?"

She looked at the palm of her hand and said, "I broke a blood vessel once spanking you. It hurt a lot and I don't want that again."

I stared at the staple, wondering what I could have possibly done to deserve such a spanking. And, wondering if she'd be flip the paddle away from the staple if she spanked me with it since otherwise it might cut my bottom. I put it back on the shelf and am happy to say that I don't recall her ever using it on me. I really did try to be good.

But inside I knew I was wrong and bad. I wanted to be a girl and every night went to sleep fantasizing about being taken away to become one, or having my mother buy me a dress or dance clothing, or... And I kept all of this carefully locked away. My ugly secret that I absolutely could not confide in anyone.

Which, no doubt, leads to resentment, lots of hurt and shame, and depression. Thoughts of suicide, certainly. But I'm not writing this looking for pity or something. In some ways I don't even know why I'm writing it!

In my twenties, thirties, forties, and fifties, I've seen a lot of therapists myself. Taken antidepressants too. For the last couple of years I've been seeing a therapist who's been terrific. I love his affirmations and understanding. He's not like so many others who simply echo what you say or say something stupid like, "how does that make you feel?" And my wife started attending the meetings too. It's so hard for me to express what's going on for me to her without having a coach in the room. Wisely, he stays unbiased - he's helping us both. So I've come out pretty darned fully to both of them.

My wife's always been steadfastly against any of this stuff. But hey, she has her own physical issues that she didn't choose. So when she understood that my feelings and desires emerged before elementary school she realized that, like her, I am what I am.

But I do still get depressed especially when I detect (rightly or more likely, wrongly) that my wife's unhappy with me. About a month ago I pulled my Prius up to a railroad crossing just as the arms descended. We'd had dinner out and I was alone in my car, driving home. I came very close to simply driving through the barrier and waiting on the tracks. It seemed like I had a long time to think about it, how easy yet terrifying it would be. I wondered if the train could possibly be moving so fast that it would actually do me in. Or more likely, how it would leave my Prius torn up with glass all over, me inside. Big deal, who really cares. I'm tired of all this crap. It weighs heavily at times. The train came past in an incredible rush, and I knew that yes, it would have destroyed me.

I was pretty shaken up for a couple of days. Like I might have suffered from some sort of stress disorder. But I came out of it and told my therapist. Here again, he's pretty cool. I worried that he might have me committed or something. Instead, he told me that he saw how serious this all is for me. I wonder if that's more manipulation on my part. But then again it was pure happenstance that I was at that railroad crossing at that time, and I felt what I felt. So I think I was being true to myself and to him.

These days I'm doing pretty well. I continue to see the therapist both by myself and with my wife. I really wish my wife and I could make progress faster (which means that we'd be able to talk more openly with each other) and I get impatient. I get frustrated and short with her at times, which I regret. I'm trying very hard to figure out who and what I am and then to be that person.

Best,

Emma

Photo: I took this about fifteen years ago. We'd left a B & B and were driving north toward Paris. I noticed this scene outside my window and very nearly drove on. Like so many times before, drive on and then wish I'd taken the five minutes to stop and take the photo. This time I pulled over and walked back, and I'm glad I did.