The Great Pyramid of Giza is an incredible feat of construction, a marvel of engineering, and an enduring testament to human ingenuity. How it was built is a mystery.
Stonehenge may have been a temple, a burial ground, an observatory, or maybe even some kind of ancient calendar. No one knows for sure. Its purpose is a mystery.
Since the 1940s, humankind has struggled with the murder of Colonel Mustard. Who killed him? In what room? And with what weapon? Was it Mrs. Peacock? Did she murder Colonel Mustard with the candlestick in the library? I do not know. Colonel Mustard’s demise is also a mystery.
The thing about life, though, is that it is replete with mysteries. Mysteries, in fact, abound. Mysteries are everywhere, and surround us. Mysteries challenge us, fascinate us, stimulate the senses, and offer a sense of adventure and purpose. Humanity has sought out the answers to mysteries throughout its existence, and continues to do so daily. Without mysteries, life would be untenably tedious, dreary, and unexciting.
Some excitement, however, I am beginning to believe I can do without. The mystery of who and what I am, and my gender identification, provides such an example. I was born a male. I was raised to be masculine. I should neither be feminine, nor seek out femaleness. I live in an unforgiving, ignorant, and fearful society, where deviation from the norm is frowned upon, and cast in a disparaging and disapproving light.
Yet, I am a mystery unto myself. Since early childhood, I have mysteriously fought the shackles of a predefined gender that society would imprison me in to my dying day. Against the word that others have arbitrarily preached, I have cut across the grain, and travelled a different path. In this, I inexplicably enjoy applying and wearing a generous coating of lipstick. I unfathomably find it delightful to don a nice, feminine dress. I find it strangely appealing to denude my body of icky, masculine hair. It perplexes me to no avail that I want my own vagina and breasts. And it feels startlingly right to tuck him away.
All of these thoughts, desires, and emotions constitute a portion of my own personal mysteries. I do not know why I am this way, I just know that I am this way. The funny thing is, I have spent much time trying to figure it out, but to what end? I am no closer to an answer now than I was before, and I see no answer in sight. I do, for whatever it is worth, believe I am better off for the effort. I am just a hell of a lot more tired, drained, and mentally exhausted than I otherwise would be had I not put in the effort to solve these mysteries in the first place.
As a result of my fruitless efforts, though, I believe I am slowly but surely moving away from a need to know. In this, the mystery of my being is taking on less importance than it previously has. Perhaps, after all, it is better to simply accept myself for my own transgendered nature and essence than it is to fight a seemingly losing battle for understanding as to why I am this way. If, for the sake of argument, acceptance and understanding are somehow mutually exclusive, is it not better to ultimately accept one’s self than to understand one’s self?
What do you think? Are you a mystery unto yourself? Do you seek answers? Are you content and at peace with yourself? Does it even matter to you why you are who you are?