Love Lives Here

by Amanda Jette Knox

  But Emotional Amanda couldn’t just sit down. She didn’t want tea. She was frantic, panicked and fighting to understand.

  “How could you not tell me?” Emotional Amanda said to Zoë on more than one occasion, blame flying out of her mouth.

  “You know why,” Zoë would say. “There was never a good time.”

  “Right. Because when is a good time to tell me you’re not who I married?” I would shoot back venomously.

  “I am who you married. I’m still the same person. But I know what you’re saying and I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I’ll say it a million times if I have to.”

  She was sorry. Logical me knew it. How could I feel angry when I thought about everything she would have faced had she transitioned back then, and everything she was facing even now? But the anger would surge back unpredictably. I could be sweet and supportive one minute, withdrawn and bitter the next. It was the world’s worst roller-coaster ride for both of us, and I didn’t know how to stop it.

  There is no guide for what to do when your partner of many years comes out to you. How do you navigate their feelings alongside your own? How do you honour your feelings when you know they’re dealing with something bigger than you can imagine? How do you support that person when you don’t know if you can get through this yourself?

  I grappled with feeling betrayed, even though I knew this wasn’t really a betrayal. I struggled with anger, even though I knew full well that anger was merely a mask for the fear and pain I wasn’t ready to deal with yet. I wrestled with resentment, even though it made the supportive role I was trying to play much harder.

  I didn’t recognize this side of me and wondered just how much I had come undone to behave this way. I sometimes fantasized about dying—about running my car off a bridge or into a pole—but those fantasies were short-lived. My mind always rushed back to how the kids and Zoë needed me. In place of those dark thoughts, I would daydream of checking myself into a hospital for a few days, dazed and incoherent, so I could sleep and regain my strength.

  I felt as if I were coming apart, and I hated myself for it. I expected better of me. This just made me angrier and more frightened, and it fuelled the emotional roller coaster. You know what makes awful feelings even worse? Feeling bad about those awful feelings.

  I recently asked Zoë to tell me how I did in those early days. She said, “Well, you tried,” in the nicest way she could.

  I tried. That about sums it up.

  * * *

  —

  I still didn’t want to tell her it was over. I wasn’t ready to face that, and I was sure she wasn’t either. Zoë had many things to do before she could come out to the world, and they would take all her strength. I wanted to give her the emotional room to do those things. Also, although it surprised me to be thinking it, a part of me hoped I might come to a different conclusion about where we were headed as a couple. Even though everything about our marriage was bleak and grey, I had moments when I envisioned us miraculously working through it all and coming out the other side.

  For the moment, however, it all felt fake. Not only the wedding pictures of what seemed like a hopeful young bride and groom with a baby in their arms, but the entirety of our lives together so far. The day we met, the day we wed, the babies we brought into the world and the dreams we had for the future. The very house itself—every wall, every toy, every throw pillow on our bed. Looking at it was looking at a life I had bought into, believed in, when it wasn’t what it appeared to be.

  I needed time to sort through the rubble, to make sense of what I was seeing and to solidify it in my mind as a new reality. I didn’t want to cry whenever I looked at our throw pillows (they’re really cute pillows), and judging by how I was doing at the moment, that was going to take some work. Meanwhile, Zoë had to find the supports necessary to begin socially and medically transitioning. Two big, life-changing projects by two people overloaded by life itself.

  * * *

  —

  We began leading parallel lives. We didn’t do it on purpose—we just fell into it. It was simpler than figuring out what came next for us; we first needed to figure out where we were going as individuals. We still lived together, slept in the same bed, talked a lot and tried not to argue. I did my best to keep Emotional Amanda on a tight leash. We were both raw and sad, and trying to hold ourselves together for the kids. They still didn’t know anything. We both knew we had to tell them soon. But because we hadn’t sorted out where we were heading as a couple, we wouldn’t be able to answer the question we knew they would ask: Are you getting a divorce?

  We had rallied together in the most beautiful way when Alexis came out, making our family seem stronger than ever. I wasn’t ready to tell them we wouldn’t be getting through this one intact. It broke my heart to even think about that conversation.

  I know people get divorced all the time. I know families split up, assets are divided, tears are shed, papers are signed and life eventually moves on. Both adults and children often find happiness beyond the breakup. It feels like the end of the world at the time, and then one day you realize it’s just the start of something else. But I don’t know a single person who has taken divorce lightly, especially when kids are involved. We needed time. We wanted to set the course that would be healthiest for all of us.

  Zoë knew what she needed to do. There was both a medical route and a legal route she had to follow to be recognized as the woman she had always been. But the process for each was long and piled high with obstacles. “Have some patience,” those who had been through the process were telling her. She had met some trans people through a local support group. Zoë had been reluctant to get to know people in the trans community when she was still hiding from herself and everyone around her. Their genuineness was too uncomfortable when she wasn’t living genuinely herself. Now she was grateful for their guidance and friendship. To see people further along in the process was both inspiring and frustrating. She could see where she wanted to be, but she was nowhere near there yet.

  There was one local health clinic that had become the hub for adult trans-related health care. Services were free of charge, but the wait was long—six months at least. That was just to be seen by the clinic psychologist, who would need several appointments to make the assessment required to get to any next steps, like hormone blockers, hormone replacement therapy or surgery. When Zoë called the clinic, the staff apologized for the long wait but said they had recently been swamped by referrals.

  Six months just to begin the process felt like an eternity. She had already waited forty-two years. The idea of being stuck in a holding pattern was anxiety-producing, to say the least. She knew her mental health would take a nosedive.

  No, this needed to happen sooner.

  But her friends in the know urged her to settle in, to celebrate the small steps while she waited for the big ones. They reminded her that this was a marathon—not a sprint—and it would take time. This advice came from experience.

  Another piece of advice she got was to start putting money away because her wife was likely going to leave. She needed to prepare herself.

  “I don’t know if she will,” Zoë said, when confronted with the idea. “She’s surprised and upset, but she’s been really supportive of my transition.”

  Many in the local community knew of the advocacy work I did as the parent of a trans child. But still, they argued, Amanda’s human. It’s different when it’s your partner. You’re not her child. She doesn’t love you unconditionally. She might not even be attracted to you when you present as a woman. Have you thought of that? Maybe you’ll discover you’re not attracted to her either. So many things can change, you know. You should be cautious. We say this only because we care.

  These were fair statements. Many people had been through bad breakups. Some were estranged from their children. A few had partners who stayed, but the partners sometimes had strict rules about what was acceptable if their relationship was to survive:
You can talk about your desire to transition, but that’s as far as it goes. You can live as a woman, but only at home and not in front of people we know. You can medically transition with blockers and hormones, but you can’t get any gender-affirming surgeries. The trans partner had to compromise who they were to stay with the person they loved.

  None of those situations would work for Zoë. She knew what she needed to do to feel whole. She tried to remain hopeful, but doubt crept in. Maybe her wife wouldn’t be able to ride through this. Maybe her temporary distance would become permanent.

  It was time to face that head-on.

  * * *

  —

  We had exactly one big fight in the first few weeks. It took place in the kitchen, and there’s still a hole in the wall from when it ended.

  It was a sunny August weekend. Aerik had taken Alexis and Jackson to the public pool. I was cleaning the kitchen and trying not to think about anything but unloading the dishwasher. I find dishes very therapeutic when I’m anxious. We never have a cleaner kitchen than when I’m in the midst of a crisis.

  Zoë was hovering around, sorting recycling and putting things away. Ever since that night in the car, she had barely left my side when I was home. It was one of the reasons I went out as much as I did: her need to be close only fuelled my guilt. Some days, I wanted to run as far and as fast as I could.

  I also found the experience odd. For years, Zoë had been the one to sequester herself from the rest of the family. She built a music studio/office in the basement of our old home and would spend hours down there by herself. In our current home, which was too small for a studio, she would spend hours at her desk in the family room writing software, toying with an operating system or coming up with a new bassline for a song. It’s not that she didn’t spend time with us—she did—but there was some reluctance to it. In retrospect, I can see that the dad and husband role was so ill-fitting, so uncomfortable, that she needed to avoid it whenever possible.

  But now she was ever-present. When I was home, she wanted to talk, watch TV, take a walk or just be in the same room as me. I had often longed for this kind of couple time, but now I wasn’t able to appreciate it.

  “Hey,” Zoë said, turning to look at me that day in the kitchen. “Are we okay?”

  I broke out of my thoughts, jarred by the suddenness of the question. There was no lead-up, no small talk before getting to the big stuff. I felt the air in the room go cold.

  “I don’t really want to have this talk right now,” I said. “I don’t think it’s a good time.” I loaded cups into the dishwasher, aligning them as carefully as I was trying to avoid this conversation.

  She didn’t let go. “This is important. We need to talk about it.”

  “What do we need to talk about? The fact that you’re transitioning, and I’m supposed to have all the answers to what that means?”

  Uh-oh. Enter Emotional Amanda, ready to drama things up and with no doughnuts in sight to appease her.

  She was in good company. Emotional Zoë had stepped up to the plate too. It was a side of her I wasn’t used to seeing. She had stuffed her feelings down for so long that they bubbled up only as frustration and anger. In the past few weeks, she had expressed a depth of emotion that surprised me. She would get sad or scared instead of immediately angry. She would even cry, which I had seen her do only a handful of times.

  “I just need to know we’re okay,” she said. “That we’re going to get through this. Or that we’re not. I hate not knowing. I hate it. I’m on pins and needles with you all the time lately. It’s hard.”

  “This is hard too!” I shot back, waving my arms to show the scope of what I was trying to manage: our life, our family, us. “I’m exhausted, okay? I barely get through each day!”

  “You think it’s easy for me?” she asked.

  “No, but at least you’re getting something out of it. You get to be you. What do I get? To find out my relationship is a lie?”

  “How is our relationship a lie?” she asked, hurt mounting in her voice.

  “You know what I mean,” I replied, sitting down with a thump at the breakfast bar. She sat across from me. My pulse was racing.

  “This isn’t a lie, Amanda,” Zoë said. “We are not a lie. What we have is built on love. That hasn’t changed. We’re still the same people. I’m still the same person.”

  “I didn’t get a say in this, you know,” I said, my eyes filling with tears. “I’m just expected to go along with it. How is that fair?”

  “I didn’t get a say in this either,” she said. “I can’t help who I am.”

  “I know,” I said softly, looking down.

  “And no one is expecting you to go along with it. I’ve told you from day one, I’ll completely understand if you leave. You didn’t ask for this. I know.” Tears ran down her face.

  This was it. This was the moment for me to tell her it was over. I could walk away free and clear. What was there left to build on, anyway? Our very foundation was blown apart. We could chart a healthier course, building up a friendship from here and learning how to co-parent. No more fighting, no more avoiding. All I had to do was say the words.

  I couldn’t. They were stuck in my throat, clinging fiercely to the sides, knowing they couldn’t be unsaid once I spoke them. How do you say something when it will mean the end of the life you’ve built?

  But Zoë wasn’t waiting any longer. She wasn’t going to live in limbo. “Are we done?” she asked, looking me directly in the eyes.

  I took a deep breath. Out came the words: “I think we are, yeah.”

  “Fuck!” she cried. She picked up her phone and threw it as hard as she could at the wall behind the kitchen counter. She then left the room, sobbing.

  There’s still a hole in the wall from when that chapter of our lives ended. It’s right by the kitchen sink. I can’t bring myself to patch it up yet.

  EIGHTEEN

  solicitude

  WE DIDN’T TALK much for the next couple of days, save for Zoë apologizing for throwing her phone at the wall. She felt that I had just set her last shred of hope on fire. I felt like the destroyer of lives and kicker of people when they’re down.

  I also felt no relief at saying the words I had been holding back. I had expected to feel terrible, yes, but in that relieved, at-least-I-finally-said-it kind of way. Instead, I only felt terrible. I wasn’t planning a life beyond this marriage. I wasn’t working out budgets or thinking of living arrangements. I wasn’t working on ways to tell the kids. I was just sad.

  This was confusing, to say the least. Telling Zoë it was over didn’t feel like the first step in moving forward. It felt like the first wrong step on the wrong path. But staying in the marriage didn’t feel right either. There was too much resentment, too many emotions tied to a transition happening two decades into our coupledom. All I knew right then was that my decision didn’t seem final to me.

  I found Zoë folding laundry in the basement. “Hey,” I said, “can we talk for a minute?”

  “Sure, I guess,” she replied, not taking her eyes off the pile of towels in front of her.

  “Look, I’m sorry for what happened the other day. I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting. There’s no excuse for some of the things I’ve said.” Deep breath, Amanda. Keep going. “I know what you’re going through is hard, but it’s been hard for me too. I have so many mixed emotions, and I don’t know how to deal with them all.”

  “Of course you have mixed emotions,” Zoë replied softly, meeting my eyes. “I’ve had most of my life to think about this and I’m still a mess. You’ve had only a few weeks.”

  “Thank you,” I said, grateful for her understanding. “I don’t want to make this about me. I really don’t. But my feelings are all over the place right now. I just need some time to sort through everything. Can we please give it some time?”

  “Yes, we can,” she said. “That’s what I want too. I’m sorry I pressured you. Let’s hit pause on this ‘figuring t
hings out’ business and see what happens, okay?”

  I was shaking. She put down the towels and hugged me.

  Zoë—the real Zoë beneath the masculine mask—is a loving, caring person. In that moment, in our messy laundry room with its bad fluorescent lighting, I started not only seeing the positive effects of her coming out but feeling them too. This was a depth of love I hadn’t felt from her before, and I was surprised by how much it moved me. Her simple act of compassion was an ember in a fire I thought had been completely snuffed out. It was the beginning of something new.

  I didn’t yet know what this newness looked like, but for the first time, I wanted to stick around a little longer to find out.

  * * *

  —

  “Mom, what’s going on?” Alexis asked while I was making dinner a few days later. “Why have you been crying so much lately?”

  “I’m fine, sweetie,” I said. “I’ve just been dealing with a few things.”

  “Are you and Dad getting a divorce? That’s what we think.”

  They were on to us. They knew something was wrong, and with no facts to draw from, they were coming up with their own theories.

  “We’re all really worried,” Alexis said. “Could you just tell us what’s happening?”

  “I’m going to need to talk to Dad first, okay?” It was weird calling her “dad.” I hope that didn’t show on my face. “I’ll see if he can come home a little early. Let’s all sit down together and have a talk.”

  Alexis looked even more worried after that, but she agreed and left the room, presumably to go tell her brothers they were right about there being big problems between their parents.

  I shot Zoë a text: “Hey, I think we need to tell the kids. They’re asking questions. Can you come home ASAP?”

  “Okay. I’ll pack up right now. See you soon,” came the reply.

  Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit. Adrenaline hit me hard, almost knocking me over. I went into a full-blown anxiety attack.