I only offer the account below since people seem to feel it is inevitable that past chapters of a life need to be revealed. I offer a brief account of two long-term relationship I had--one where I told of my past without incident and one where I did not without incident.
I had a 12-year relationships where after about four years I "had to" reveal my past after being asked, almost point blank, why I did not come out and admit I was a cancer survivor. (I didn't menstruate, so what else could it be?) I felt cornered and revealed. There was a sigh of relief that I was "clear." But the curiosity was there. What was my past? I wanted to forget it, but now how could I forbid the topic with my main squeeze? Was I going to refuse to unlock the waterproof trunk in the basement where I had my vital documents and some family photos? I relented and revealed its existence, and wasn't I an adorable child and wasn't it was "obvious" from my childhood photos (just look at the eyes!) that I was always a girl. I was not sure I wanted to hear so much assurance, but it seemed to be genuine. Said lovingly, but still . . .
Some years later I was in another long-term relationship. This time I vowed not to tell. I was old enough by then that I was in menopausal years (50-ish), so the issue of cancer survivor did not come up. I vowed not to reveal given the fact I did not want to revisit a childhood 40 years gone. The locked trunk with vital documents and the few family photos remained locked in our attic. People in their 50s are not as anxious to see baby pictures and reminisce about high school and college days. Since I had transitioned in college, that marked a nice break to move forward from. My parents had passed away. I had no extended family. There was no one from my old life to out me. As a practical matter, there had to be some big benefit for me, or for him, for me to reveal this past that I was having trouble remembering. I read on a board about 15 years ago that for every two years you live post-full time, a pre-full time year is remember as full time. What a bunch of hooey! But you know what, it's true. You don't make up memories or have photos doctored in PS, but there is a vibe I got, and it was not linear. It felt kind of like seeing the character Samantha Stewart in the series Foyle's War, where it's "she," but not obviously. Does that make sense? That old life fades. Why in tarnation was I going to exhume that corpse and perform an autopsy? Would that delight me or him? I concluded, no.
All I am saying that for some people, it right, proper, and good to tell a husband or wife or life partner about one's early days and past as a different gender. However, for some of us it is not and the closed-narrative option should not be dismissed without discussion as to its benefits; at least that's what I think.
