The Fixed Stars

As far as I could tell, stories may enable us to live, but they also trap us, bring us spectacular pain. In their scramble to make sense of nonsensical things, they distort, codify, blame, aggrandize, restrict, omit,

How often, in everyday conversation, had I said things I didn’t mean or feel, just to be polite, to make things easier? How often had I said to Brandon what I thought I should say in order to maintain order, to repair a rift? We had never been good at disagreement. One of us always gave in when it got too uncomfortable. One of us would recognize that we were at a dead end, would begin to back out. We rarely paved a road through to the other side. We rarely stuck with it long enough to forge any kind of new, if painful, understanding.

The stars in the night sky are a long way from the surface of the earth, so even the nearest seem to move little, if at all. They appear to be fixed against the firmament from day to day and year to year, permitting us to think them into shapes and symbols. But astronomers know that every star is in motion, that each moves along its own trajectory, according to its own properties. The constellations we see are temporary creations, our effort to draw order and meaning from a mostly unknowable universe, to tell ourselves stories, to guide our way home across oceans.

Do not marry someone who will not go to therapy, both on their own and with you. Refusing to go to therapy with your partner is like looking the other way when they're drowning.

My husband and I would be separate people, as I envisioned it. We would be as important individually as we were together, as a couple. We'd be discrete entities with our own histories, energy, and motion, but we'd be bound to each other like stars in a constellation: a union born by the force of imagination and emotion, by the curious work of the human mind.

How could this kind of contentment coexist with the mess in my head? How could this love coexist with the desire for a whole other love? Shouldn't they cancel each other out? I had watched my husband and child sleep, choked with feeling. I wanted to press a woman against a wall with the length of my body--a woman who looks like a boy--and fuck her. Does one life preclude another? I wanted both. Two lives in this body. Running alongside each other in parallel, like ski tracks.

When I cannot watch her, I think about watching her. I think all the time about it. I leave the house each morning with my thermos of coffee, thinking. I walk down our street, turn the corner, walk a few more blocks, and board the bus, thinking. One morning mid-trial I catch the headline of a fellow bus rider's newspaper: the Supreme Court had ruled on Obergefell vs. Hodges, making same-sex marriage legal across the United States. I choke back a sob, elated, disbelieving. Then I want to cry for a different reason, and I cannot tell anyone why. I think about her wrists and her white teeth. I wonder what she thinks about me.

She walked the line between man and woman, smudged it under her foot.

What is left if we eliminate orientation—or if it changes willy-nilly? Is there anything solid to me at all, anything I can count on?

Both women and men who deviate from the born-this-way model have historically been presumed to be exceptions and weirdos.

Of course: under gender we find the bare thing, the person themself.

Diamond's writing is often impassioned, and I liked it. I felt set on fire by it, elated by not only the affirmation of her feelings but by their specificity.