Why don’t I just accept him as a woman, if I’m so miserable?
Because I love him.
Because the beautiful relationship that was everything I cared about, everything I wanted, everything I knew for 15 years, was a relationship built on us loving each other. It ceases to exist if I build it on hate instead. Without love, it’s a habit I’ve decided I don’t want to give up, not a relationship I nurture.
If I agree with him — that he has to die if he isn’t literally a woman — then I have not loved him enough. And I have agreed that there is ever any circumstance in which he should die. And while he hates himself, and tolerates only a modification of himself, and wants me to hate him in kind, I cannot.
If I join him in hating any hair on his body, any curve of his face, any facial pore, any angle of any muscle, then I have not loved him enough. And I have agreed that he isn’t beautiful and perfect. And maybe I’ve appeased him. And maybe I’ve protected my assets and my comfortable existence. But I haven’t loved him enough. If my marriage vows were not made so that I could show him love, what were they for?
If I join the chorus of those saying he might want to alter his perfectly beautiful body with off-label drugs that will damage his internal organs, increase his depression and cause him genital pain, just so he can look like someone else, then I have not loved him enough. And I have agreed that what he looks like now isn’t acceptable and must be changed. And I have agreed that his body is worthless and must be harmed.
If I ever agree that he might have his genitals cut off, rearranged, impaired in functioning, good lord, I have lost my moral compass and certainly my ability to love.
Perhaps I could save my marriage by agreeing with him, if marriage is a piece of paper and uninterrupted cohabitation. But that marriage would come at the cost of choosing hate over love. For me, marriage is nothing if it is not love.