Real Contradiction

Day 130 – April 2, 2006

I keep thinking about what “real” actually means.

People say it all the time like they know. Real. Be real. Keep it real. I just want something real. And usually what they mean is convenient honesty. Pretty truth. Curated authenticity. Something raw enough to sound impressive but still shaped enough not to make anyone at the table too uncomfortable.

That’s not what I mean. When I say real, I mean the kind that leaves fingerprints.

The kind that doesn’t become prettier just because the sentence is well written. The kind that does not ask permission to exist. The kind that lives in the body whether or not the room wants to hear about it. The kind that is both devastating and ordinary at the exact same time.

That kind of real.

What happened to me was real. What it did to me was real. What I carry now is real.

The fear, the anger, the heartbreak, the disappointment, the altered instincts, the body memory, the deep private insult of him still being free while I am the one expected to act like the continuation of life is some simple little civic duty. All of that is real.

And so am I.

That matters to me more than it used to.

Because for a long time I think I lived in a softer kind of reality. Not false, exactly. Just edited. Hopeful in ways that made life easier to move through. More willing to believe people meant well. More willing to believe that truth, once spoken, would land where it needed to land and be treated with the weight it deserved.

Life corrected that beautifully. By which I mean violently. So now when I think about what’s real I think about what remains when illusion gets burned off.

The woman I am is real. The body I fought for is real. The transition is real. The grief is real. The love I receive from the right people is real. The ways I am still not fully seen or heard by the systems and forces that should matter most? Also real.

The fact that I can be funny in the middle of devastation and devastating in the middle of softness? Extremely real. I think that’s why I keep coming back to this word. Because real is not one note. Real is not tidy.

Real is contradiction with a pulse.

A woman can be shattered in places and still seductive in the way she thinks. She can be sweet and still frighteningly observant. She can be deeply kind and still have very little patience for bullshit. She can be healing and still furious. She can want beautiful things and still know exactly how ugly the world can be.

That is real to me.

Not a contradiction to fix. A complexity to honor.

And maybe that’s part of what I’m building now. Not a prettier version of my life. A more honest one. One where beauty is real, not decorative. One where softness is real, not submission. One where love is real enough to protect. One where my anger doesn’t have to wear pearls and apologize for having a pulse.

That’s what I want.

A real life. A real self. A real kind of radiance that doesn’t depend on pretending I have not been through hell. A real kind of peace that does not require amnesia. A real kind of existence that includes all of it. The fight, the glamour, the grief, the wit, the body, the becoming, the nerve.

Roger is real in the purest way possible. Today he looked at me with such sincere and immediate devotion that it almost made me laugh. No performance. No game. No strategy. Just a giant grey and white love bug with opinions, muscles, and a complete belief that I am both his mother and his reason for being.

That kind of real humbles me.

Because it asks for nothing except presence. Maybe that’s the question underneath all of this. What in my life is actually real? Not impressive. Not plausible. Not sellable. Not “healthy looking.” Real. I think I know more of the answer now than I used to.

And the answer is not always comforting. But it is mine.

Chaos in one hand. Grace in the other.

And me, choosing real over pretty lies every single time, even when the truth shows up overdressed and bleeding.