This year to date has been the most devastating of my life.
In March I lost my beloved mother Freda, suddenly and unexpectedly. It was a bolt from the blue; one minute she was there, the following morning she was gone. No warning, no pain, just eternal sleep.
From that moment my life changed forever. I found mum and tried in vain to revive her, but I knew inside that it was too late, but you just allow the body to kick in and you react like an automaton. My howls of despair reverberated around the house and the emptiness that I felt was overwhelming. Everything I did after that was as if on autopilot.
My grief was immediate and debilitating.
When my beloved father Graeme passed away with cancer in 2002, we were expecting it, waiting for him to succumb to his illness, trying to remain supportive for the family. He passed with courage and dignity, fighting to the end but at the same time accepting of his fate. He was the bravest man I knew. It took me ten months to finally collapse from grief having tried to be strong for the rest of my family and especially my mum.
When my surviving parent, my beloved mum passed away, I was left desolate and alone and my grief was, and continues to be, deep and everlasting. The bereavement destroyed me and continues to fight with me on a daily basis.
Since my father died my mother and I have co-existed in adjoining homes, sharing daily meals and companionship in the evenings. She was an intelligent and thoughtful lady with a heart of gold and compassion that would envelop you. This has made her passing more painful than I could have ever imagined. She left so suddenly that I have not had time to make any sense of it. I am lost and alone in my thoughts, berating myself when I cannot 'hear' mum's voice. I feel so sad that I cry even while writing this blog.
She was my mum, my friend, my counsel, a wise lady with the empathy of a guru and the heart of a lioness. She was outwardly shy, quiet and studious but was highly intelligent and her conversations were deep and meaningful, especially when she recalled the war years, living under the occupation of enemy forces in the island of her birth. She was the quiet strength behind my father's more outward and public persona, and this strength allowed him to flourish in the employ of our government as a Chief Officer (civil servant head of department) for forty years while being completely sightless.
For many years I have tried to explain the meaning of a japanese phrase to my aikido students; masakatsu agatsu, roughly translated as 'true victory is self mastery'. I was talking about student retention and often say that the study of aikido makes you look in the mirror where you get an honest and real reflection of your self. Those that cannot deal with what they see often walk away. Those that confront what they see will strive to 'polish the blade' and make improvements to their lives so that they can be true to themselves.
I have not practised what I preach and for that I apologise unreservedly to my students.
In 2009 after a lifetime of denial, I finally confronted the 'elephant in the room' ie me. Ever since I was five years old I knew that there was something in me that was wrongly wired. I spent years not understanding what I was feeling right up until the age of sixteen when a book I bought finally allowed me to complete the jigsaw.
Over the years since I read that book from cover to cover (My Story by Caroline Cossey) I had been trying to suppress who I really was but every time I thought I was 'cured' the feelings came back even stronger.
I now acknowledge that I should have accepted who I was inside and relieved myself of so much fighting and inner turmoil that has blighted my life.
In 2009 I finally accepted who and what I was; a transsexual, ie a person who has an inherent belief that their brain sex and body sex are incongruent; born physically male but internally with the brain functionality of a female.
For years I had immersed myself in male dominated sports, a macho career and had girlfriends, although most relationships ended in abject failure. I took up a male dominated world of martial arts, but I could even get that right; wanting to do karate and somehow being given the contact details for aikido (I did not know the difference in the early days). I even ended up getting married at the age of 41 but that too ended in disaster. I now know why.
I sought out a gender specialist in London and set about being true to myself. Later that year I was diagnosed and commenced hormone therapy, changed my name by Deed Poll in the Royal Court of Jersey and set about planning my transition, the part of the procedure where one is required to live day-to-day life in one's acquired gender. This I undertook by attending the annual Jersey Sports Association for the Disabled Dinner in November 2010 as Roisin for the first time and never changed back.
I have been fortunate enough that I haven't lost a student because of my change and I have had what can be described as a fairly easy transition in both my work, public and aikido life.
A good friend told me that,
"if you present as if you belong like everyone else, which you do, nobody will bother you"
Jersey is too small a place to not be known, especially as I used to be a well known police officer and martial arts instructor and so going "stealth*" as a transgendered woman would have been impossible.
(*stealth is the word used for transgendered people who live and work as their acquired gender without anybody knowing their past medical/personal history)
My mother's death was a defining moment in my life. Behind the grief there is a desire to do what is right for me and to live a life that is congruent to the way that I feel. I have to trust my instincts and go with what is right for me and my existing family.
I can finally look at myself in the mirror and start to feel at one with who I am. I am far from calling mine a victory over myself but I have a lot more understanding of the phrase:
Masakatsu Agatsu.
With love to my sister Christine, brother-in-law Mick and nephews Adrian and Russell.
Dedicated to the memory of my parents, Graeme & Freda Pitman
