fumbling towards pragmatism

I'm an idealist. I know, it's a shock. I'm not always starry-eyed about it, sometimes trading that for steely-eyed stubbornness, as if that alone can bridge the gap between how things should be and how they appear to be.

This strikes me lately when thinking about my interactions with my endocrinologist. my general impression of him is that I confuse him, but he's willing to work with me (so long as I'm still seeing my therapist) and doesn't judge or project. I think my first impression, confusion, may be only partially correct, and tie in with my (sometimes myopic) idealism. When asked earnestly things like, "do you crossdress (and ignoring the complications of what it would actually mean, in either my case or a more traditional 'transsexual')" or "how far do you intend to go?" and the like, I've interpretted the pause for regaining footing to be confusion, which from my benign perch of idealistic purity is endearing, almost cute. I think I might be making a mistake in that.

The goodwill seems genuine, as does the willingness to work with me and not rigidly follow a script or narrative. Where perhaps I err is in assuming his questioning is merely an attempt to ground me in what he knows, the kinds of patients he has worked with in the past. Based on the genuine goodwill, I'm starting to wonder, and perhaps worry, that it's a genuine attempt to bring the everyday, material and social forces awaiting me. My body is changing; I'm changing it, with his assistance. As much as I'd like to think there should be room for anyone to do what they want so long as they contribute no real harm to anyone else, much of the world I will come into contact with has a different starting place, a different set of initial assumptions, and those will end up impacting me. I'm not feeling hopeless or powerless, but... I'm seriously wondering what I'm going to do, how I'm going to live, and the like. There's a sense of.... something as of yet nameless, but not a sucking hole of fear and dread that I hope holds some clue, but at this point, I have no idea what I'm going to do.

realization

I'm skilled in a medium I distrust, and sometimes actively dislike. I use it to complain about my inability to use it, or to flirt with using it, but I'm only ever just a tease. I worry that I've nothing to say, or that what I do have to say is meaningless. I lack discipline that might make this functional, instead pissing it away like an aging diletantte. I want to write, but am afraid of words.