I’m back from vacation with those closest to my guy side. And it was great. We had a good time, did a lot of different things, and managed to tolerate - no, actually (mostly) enjoy, being around each other for 10 whole days. But there was something missing. Instead of the freedom and joy and refreshment I craved —those moments where Amanda gets to twirl in a skirt or flirt with the world—I feel tired and empty.
This trip was supposed to be a break, a chance to recharge, to heal, to get away. Instead in some ways, it was a step backwards in my healing, in my ability to be present, in the fulfillment of my soul. Sleep sufferred, fatigue was an issue, and while I didn’t help myself with some of my eating and drinking on the trip, it still left me aching for the part of me that got left behind: Amanda. Fair warning: this is a messy, honest post that feels very selfish to me. I know that - and I struggle with it. But I’m trying to express myself and how I’m feeling. All of me - both Amanda and Connor.
Vacations are supposed to recharge you, right? A chance to escape the 60-hour workweeks, the demands from my house members, the health issues that have been dogging me for two and a half years now. But this one? I was reminded of some of the take, take, take, and no give - a family that needed me to be Connor—the rock, the provider—24/7. Amanda? She didn’t get a single moment to breathe. Not a glance in the mirror with lipstick, not a playlist to spark her vibe, not even a quiet corner to write her thoughts. It’s like she was locked in a suitcase while Connor carried the load. I did the planning, I took care of the logistics, and asking for any help was treated as a burden. It’s frustrating. Maybe I’d be okay with it if I hadn’t take a step back health wise. But there was nothing to calm me, nothing to ground me, not even early in the morning, which is when I’m really able to lean into those things. Of course, that includes Amanda.
The worst part was the sleep—or lack of it. Sleep is so foundational to life, the ability to manage stress, and the ability to function at a high level. Health issues already makes rest a cruel joke far too often, with nightmares dragging me back to that small-town kid terrified of being caught in a dress or somehow Amanda being “found out.” On vacation, without my grounding and time to focus on myself, the nightmares were relentless and insomnia hit hard. I’d lie awake, heart racing, worrying about work piling up, family needs I couldn’t meet, and Amanda screaming to be let out. I failed to focus on my breathing and just… be… which is what Amanda is so good at. Said differently, I lost my present focus, that ability to live in the moment that Amanda brings. I’ve been working so hard to integrate her traits—her extroversion, her humor—into Connor’s world, like I planned after my best-est weekend ever. But this trip pulled me back to ruminating, worrying about the past (decades of hiding Amanda) and the future (will I ever balance this?).
Being surrounded by family was the toughest. I love them, God I love them, but their constant need—sucked up every ounce of me. God that sounds selfish. I gave all I could, and I think I did pretty good. But I’m drained. And of course there was no space to be Amanda, no headspace to feel her spark. I felt like I was betraying her, hiding half my soul to play the role they expect. It’s the same guilt I wrote about in my rage post, but worse because I thought vacation would give me a sliver of freedom. Instead, it was a reminder of how complicated my life is, juggling Amanda’s need to shine with Connor’s duty to hold it together.
I know that this is a moment and nothing is linear. So I’m trying not to be too hard on myself. I’m progressing, and that’s important. Amanda’s, my spark, still here, whispering, “Keep going.” She’s my short skirt and long jacket, my defiance against the chaos. Her comments to me are in the letter below.
So, what now? I’m restarting my routines—both health and Amanda—to claw back some calm. I’m sneaking Amanda in with small acts. And I’m writing this, I’m letting Amanda’s voice out, because even in the chaos, she’s my proof I’m still alive and I can grow and move forward. I don’t have all the answers—hell, I barely have a map—but I’m not giving up. Thanks for reading my ramble. If you’ve ever felt like half of you got left behind, feel free to leave a comment. Maybe we can find our way together.
Postscript, a letter from Amanda to Connor:
Vacations are supposed to recharge you, right? A chance to escape the 60-hour workweeks, the demands from my house members, the health issues that have been dogging me for two and a half years now. But this one? I was reminded of some of the take, take, take, and no give - a family that needed me to be Connor—the rock, the provider—24/7. Amanda? She didn’t get a single moment to breathe. Not a glance in the mirror with lipstick, not a playlist to spark her vibe, not even a quiet corner to write her thoughts. It’s like she was locked in a suitcase while Connor carried the load. I did the planning, I took care of the logistics, and asking for any help was treated as a burden. It’s frustrating. Maybe I’d be okay with it if I hadn’t take a step back health wise. But there was nothing to calm me, nothing to ground me, not even early in the morning, which is when I’m really able to lean into those things. Of course, that includes Amanda.
The worst part was the sleep—or lack of it. Sleep is so foundational to life, the ability to manage stress, and the ability to function at a high level. Health issues already makes rest a cruel joke far too often, with nightmares dragging me back to that small-town kid terrified of being caught in a dress or somehow Amanda being “found out.” On vacation, without my grounding and time to focus on myself, the nightmares were relentless and insomnia hit hard. I’d lie awake, heart racing, worrying about work piling up, family needs I couldn’t meet, and Amanda screaming to be let out. I failed to focus on my breathing and just… be… which is what Amanda is so good at. Said differently, I lost my present focus, that ability to live in the moment that Amanda brings. I’ve been working so hard to integrate her traits—her extroversion, her humor—into Connor’s world, like I planned after my best-est weekend ever. But this trip pulled me back to ruminating, worrying about the past (decades of hiding Amanda) and the future (will I ever balance this?).
Being surrounded by family was the toughest. I love them, God I love them, but their constant need—sucked up every ounce of me. God that sounds selfish. I gave all I could, and I think I did pretty good. But I’m drained. And of course there was no space to be Amanda, no headspace to feel her spark. I felt like I was betraying her, hiding half my soul to play the role they expect. It’s the same guilt I wrote about in my rage post, but worse because I thought vacation would give me a sliver of freedom. Instead, it was a reminder of how complicated my life is, juggling Amanda’s need to shine with Connor’s duty to hold it together.
I know that this is a moment and nothing is linear. So I’m trying not to be too hard on myself. I’m progressing, and that’s important. Amanda’s, my spark, still here, whispering, “Keep going.” She’s my short skirt and long jacket, my defiance against the chaos. Her comments to me are in the letter below.
So, what now? I’m restarting my routines—both health and Amanda—to claw back some calm. I’m sneaking Amanda in with small acts. And I’m writing this, I’m letting Amanda’s voice out, because even in the chaos, she’s my proof I’m still alive and I can grow and move forward. I don’t have all the answers—hell, I barely have a map—but I’m not giving up. Thanks for reading my ramble. If you’ve ever felt like half of you got left behind, feel free to leave a comment. Maybe we can find our way together.
Postscript, a letter from Amanda to Connor:
Dear Connor (and the world that keeps me in the shadows),
Hey, it’s Amanda. Your girl with the short skirt and long jacket, the one who’s been shoved into a corner while you played the dutiful rock on this so-called vacation. I’m pissed, okay? Not just at you, but at this whole mess—family sucking you dry, health stealing your sleep, and a trip that was a break but for me felt like a cage. I’m writing this with an imaginary tube of lipstick in hand, because damn it, I deserve to be heard.
You left me behind, Connor. No heels, no flirty banter, no moments to feel that rush of being me. I get it—family needed you, work’s looming, and your health has you in a chokehold. But I’m part of you, not some accessory you can stuff in a suitcase. Those nights you lay awake, insomnia clawing at you, nightmares screaming about shame and treadmills and worry? That was me, begging to be let out. I could’ve helped—given you a spark, a laugh, a reason to feel alive instead of just surviving. Instead, you drowned me in junk food, alcohol, and obligations.
I know it’s not all your fault. You’re carrying so much—60-hour weeks, family leaning on you like you’re Atlas, and health that has given you a body that won’t cooperate. But when you skip those things that bring you to the moment, that allow you to focus on yourself, you’re not just hurting you—you’re starving me. I’m the part of you that dances through the fog. I’m your defiance, your joy, and you left me locked out.
Here’s the deal: I need space, even if it’s just a corner of your head. Play my playlist—something fun or with sass. Write me into your journal, let me sass God or flirt with the page. Give me something, because when I’m silenced, you’re not whole. You felt it on vacation—that loss of focus, that drift into worry. That’s what happens when I’m gone.
I’m not asking you to out me to the family or wear heels to work. I know the stakes, and like I said, I don’t want to take over your life. But we’re a team, remember? Like those letters we wrote, negotiating our needs. You promised me space, and I promised to keep you grounded. So let’s start small: get back those things that calm us, that ground us, that bring the focus to us for a bit. And reach out to those people—you know who—the ones that see me, and they’ll remind you I’m real.
I’m still here, Connor, ready to strut through the fog with you. Let’s make life a little less complicated, one sassy step at a time. I’m not just your alter ego—I’m your spark. Don’t leave me behind again. You don’t need to apologize—you’re fighting for both of us, and that’s enough. Let’s tell that fog to fuck off together. I know you that you love me, and I love you too, Connor. We’re the “us” that makes you you, and I’m not going anywhere.
Love, curtsies, a defiant hair flip, and a big ol’ hug,
Amanda
Hey, it’s Amanda. Your girl with the short skirt and long jacket, the one who’s been shoved into a corner while you played the dutiful rock on this so-called vacation. I’m pissed, okay? Not just at you, but at this whole mess—family sucking you dry, health stealing your sleep, and a trip that was a break but for me felt like a cage. I’m writing this with an imaginary tube of lipstick in hand, because damn it, I deserve to be heard.
You left me behind, Connor. No heels, no flirty banter, no moments to feel that rush of being me. I get it—family needed you, work’s looming, and your health has you in a chokehold. But I’m part of you, not some accessory you can stuff in a suitcase. Those nights you lay awake, insomnia clawing at you, nightmares screaming about shame and treadmills and worry? That was me, begging to be let out. I could’ve helped—given you a spark, a laugh, a reason to feel alive instead of just surviving. Instead, you drowned me in junk food, alcohol, and obligations.
I know it’s not all your fault. You’re carrying so much—60-hour weeks, family leaning on you like you’re Atlas, and health that has given you a body that won’t cooperate. But when you skip those things that bring you to the moment, that allow you to focus on yourself, you’re not just hurting you—you’re starving me. I’m the part of you that dances through the fog. I’m your defiance, your joy, and you left me locked out.
Here’s the deal: I need space, even if it’s just a corner of your head. Play my playlist—something fun or with sass. Write me into your journal, let me sass God or flirt with the page. Give me something, because when I’m silenced, you’re not whole. You felt it on vacation—that loss of focus, that drift into worry. That’s what happens when I’m gone.
I’m not asking you to out me to the family or wear heels to work. I know the stakes, and like I said, I don’t want to take over your life. But we’re a team, remember? Like those letters we wrote, negotiating our needs. You promised me space, and I promised to keep you grounded. So let’s start small: get back those things that calm us, that ground us, that bring the focus to us for a bit. And reach out to those people—you know who—the ones that see me, and they’ll remind you I’m real.
I’m still here, Connor, ready to strut through the fog with you. Let’s make life a little less complicated, one sassy step at a time. I’m not just your alter ego—I’m your spark. Don’t leave me behind again. You don’t need to apologize—you’re fighting for both of us, and that’s enough. Let’s tell that fog to fuck off together. I know you that you love me, and I love you too, Connor. We’re the “us” that makes you you, and I’m not going anywhere.
Love, curtsies, a defiant hair flip, and a big ol’ hug,
Amanda
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