Michael

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“It’s ok.”

Those words seemed like they would never be true…not together, about me, about my life.

Even now, as I write that, I gasp. The weight of it. How on Earth did I ever bear the weight of it? Well, I didn’t. Michael did.

First things first, I suppose I shouldn’t suppose, that anyone knows, just what the fuck I’m talking about. I’m talking about me. I’m Michael.

Now, if you’re saying to yourself, “I thought her name is Avril. What does that mean?”, then you probably don’t know me that well. Don’t feel bad, neither did I for most of my life.

It’s a strange feeling to have mental and emotional breakthroughs. It’s a good feeling, for the most part. There’s a little self-doubt mixed in, just enough, to stay grounded and avoid the sugar-rush of having a sudden candy sweet crush…on your own damn life. I say it that way because I honestly don’t know how else to describe it. I’m not narcissistic when I tell you that I’m in love with my life. There’s a distinction you see? I’m not in love with myself. I’m in love with living…my life.

So, back to Michael. If I’m Michael, wouldn’t that mean I’ve always loved living my life? No.

In the words of Demi Lovato and my namesake Avril Lavigne, “I’m sorry. I’m not sorry” to “make things so complicated”.

When Michael was taking care of all my business, there was no room for real happiness. It wasn’t easy to bear that weight, that soul crushing weight, that REQUIRED testosterone, in order to protect me. I was, to be metaphorical, an extremely slow-to-develop fetus. Avril incubated and languished under a blanket of security. Michael provided that blanket, while never feeling its warmth. Michael tried to shield me, feeling instead, every injury, most of which came from within. Babies often kick inside the womb. There’s no malice. It simply is what needs to be, for that beautiful new life to begin. A caterpillar spins a protective chrysalis around itself, from within itself, only to later break free of it, emerging as the butterfly it was meant to be. Miss Mariposa required the watchful, albeit blind, eye of Michael for a gestational/pupal stage of 46 years. How could I ever do anything less, than love a life that took such dedication to develop?

Some transgender people use the term “dead name” when referring to the name and gender given at birth. Now that I’ve given birth, to myself, I’ve never quite acquired a taste for saying that. I’m not dead. I am so. Very. Alive. Michael is alive now inside me. I feel it’s my responsibility even, to protect the one that protected me for so long. I tell people that instead of my “dead name” I just say Michael, because it’s like an older brother maybe (I’ve never had one so I can’t be sure), taking care of business until I was ready to take over. Now, to be fair, I am making some major changes from the top down, now that I’m in charge. This is what I was born to do.

Rest now Michael, under the blanket of my wings.

🦋