Smile, It's a New Day

I didn’t ask to be transgender. Nobody in their right mind would wish for that. Given a choice in a world of possibilities, I would crave normality. What is normal, however? I lie in bed wishing for castration, is that normal for me at this time? Yes, I suppose it is.

I ask myself what brought me to this point, but there is no one event, no smoking gun to point to as evidence of a grave error in my gender makeup.

In my previous post, I wrote about the possibility of succumbing to pressures beyond my ability to overcome. In the time I’ve been writing this blog, I’ve whined, and whined, whined, and whined. Anybody who read it, must’ve wanted to slap me.

The truth is, everybody suffers. In every life, uncertainty raises its ugly head. We all fall short of our own expectations. In my life, as in many of yours, I went through cycles. There were times when my transgender soul came out and threatened to upturn the checkerboard.

At other times, I managed to put those urges into a box under lock and key, but they never went away. I cannot continue the cycle. It is time to bring myself into the fresh air. I’ve concluded there is no good time to come out. Shit will hit the fan no matter how much damage control I might try.

I wore panties and camisole under my male clothes to work the other day. As always it felt great to express my transgender soul, although in stealth. What I didn’t realize was the lace fringe on the top of my camisole showed under my button shirt. After I went home, my wife faced me with an issue. She glanced at my chest and saw the lace.

She reached for it, asking what it was. I nudged her out of my room and closed the door. It was abrupt, and a little rude on my part, then afterward, I kicked myself for not telling her the truth. I read other blogs and marvel. Many of my heroes have relationships of understanding, or they have partners who don’t object for one reason or another. I want that to be me.

I know, however, it could never happen. After sacrificing companionship on the altar of Gender Dysphoria, I think the rest of my life will be a solitary experience. Ironic isn’t it? The one thing we perceive to bring happiness in our lives, only serves to condemn us.

One of my Christmas gifts, (Merry Christmas, by the way.) was a book called The Art of Manliness. No kidding, I stared at the giver and wondered if there was a hidden agenda in giving it. I have currently not come out to this person. I doubt if they know anything, but later, he asked if my chain was a “gangsta chain”.

I took offense, and asked why I can’t just wear a chain, or something like that. I remember being offended, because, to me, my chain is a feminine expression. The butterfly is a transgender symbol and that was under attack.

It might be difficult for me to come out to some people. Anyway . . .

There is a bright side. Happiness is internal. It is also perpetual. People are attracted to happiness and happy people. By extension, if transition and SRS, relieves the pain of Gender Dysporia, my path to happiness has been paved. I can be happy if I choose to be. Then, my happiness will attract others. I won’t be alone.

So, smile. It’s a new day. I choose to be happy. There are many obstacles in the path to SRS. Not the least of which, is money, but I’m going to finish the journey. Yes, sweetie, you are a girl and you should’ve done this years ago.

      

Giving Up?

In the short time I’ve been posting on this blog, I’ve been up and down. I’ve learned things about myself that have delighted and depressed me. I look back on my stated goals and realized I haven’t even come close.

I now have a wardrobe. It’s not sufficient, but it would’ve been great when I was a teenager. Still, I’m too large to look pretty. I had goals to attend Diva last spring and missed it. I had goals to attend two pride events and missed them. Why make goals if you fall short?

I’m still vacillating between my failed role as a man and my desires to be a woman. I look at my selfies, and see a guy a guy in a dress. Other days, I see what she could be.

So where do I go from here? What great insight can I find that will sustain me? I need a therapist to help me sort it out but I have no money for therapy. Depression has set in, and I cannot keep it up.

I’ve toyed with the idea of putting Francine away. I should delete the files from my computer and box it up. I should take down this blog that nobody reads anyway. I’m too old for this.

Then I think of how young I feel when I dress pretty. Am I just a cross dresser? Is there a deeper need to be female? Could I really pull it off? Could I transition and not feel like a freak for the rest of my life? I think there has been too much testosterone under the bridge.

Shall I give it up? I’ll let you know.

Getting Personal

I seriously doubt anybody really reads this stuff, but if you do, you know I use this forum to sort out issues that confront me. Such is the case today, but I’m about to get personal.

For what I’m about to say, I apologize. Not for the belief, but for offending you. Many transgender women I listen to, say they were born in the wrong body. I wish I could say that, but I don’t believe God makes mistakes. It’s true, I was born with a female mind and more femininity than was comfortable in gym class. I took a lot of hazing and my interests confused the other boys, but . . .

Like everyone, I tried to fit into the masculine. I tried and failed, tried and failed again. Finally, I gave up. At that point I became little more than a blob. I didn’t care anymore. I might’ve killed myself but I didn’t want to offend God in doing so.

During that time something happened to me. If you believe elements of your life are placed in your way to help you grow and become better, then someone gave me a carrot. I don’t know when it started. I’ve talked about it here, before. One of the first things I noticed, was a loss of upper body mass. Then despite a high activity job, fat moved from my arms and shoulders and came to rest on my belly and hips.

I didn’t feel like eating. My body attacked me from the inside. Between heart problems and Venus Thrombosis, I thought I would die. I developed a respiratory problem I thought was asthma.

There were positive benefits, too. Although I experienced decreased sexual desire, orgasms induced with my fingertips were more intense. My skin was softer, body hair growth slowed and I noticed a complete lack of follicles on my arms. Does any of this sound familiar?

There were other changes I can’t mention, but MTF transgender women on HRT, might recognize some of those symptoms. My body was changing and I liked most of it. During a quick binge and purge, crossdressing cycle, I realized I felt better as a woman. I didn’t want to be a man anymore.

Finally, while researching my symptoms I discovered the possible effects of an estrogen overdose in men. Life came together for me in that moment. I recalled my intense wishes to be a girl at fourteen. SRS was infantile and experimental back then. I could have my dream, but the cost was prohibitive, and from the profiles I saw, success would be iffy. After many tears, I gave up.

The overdose in my adulthood, brought back the dream. I declared myself, transgender, and began making plans. It wasn’t easy. I had a lifetime of masculine training to overcome. I have a family that would make transition difficult, and many other obstacles.

Despite all that, and a few setbacks, I trudged forward and believed I could be a girl. I began to blame my failures on masculine insecurity. I decided that if I could be a woman with confidence, I would no longer have to perform in the man’s world. I could succeed in my life.

Through of that self-discovery, guilt and my religion got in the way. Remember, I don’t believe God makes mistakes, therefore I believe God would rather I be the gender I was born to be. Worse, is the faith that tells me, He will help me if I will follow him.

Did you ever want something bad enough you would risk your life to get the thing? I lye awake at night and plan outfits. Transition, even SRS sounds so delicious to me, I’m obsessed. How can I reverse my desires?

Now, my new semi-high pressure job is taking me down. Like before, I’m failing again. I know God loves me and will help me. I can succeed if I will follow. That means not being transgender.

I struggle in a cycle of turmoil. Pressures and failures drive me into my feminine world. Knowing that help is near sends me back into the masculine. The effects of whatever caused my body to change have worn off. My beard growth is driving me crazy. I am a man in a dress. In the meantime, the cycle continues; I resolve to be the man God wants me to be and failure drives me toward the feminine. I’m losing my mind.

Oh that I could believe the theory of being born in the wrong body. I don’t know what caused my symptoms, but I would give a lot to get them back . . . well maybe not some of them.

Some of you, if you actually read this, will scoff at the idea. You will say, "Just be who you are." Others will recognize my feelings in themselves. What do I do? God has blessed me beyond my capacity to express gratitude. If He would only give me permission . . .

　

Transgender Technology

If I were a drag queen, you might think the title of this post refers to panty girdles or breast forms. I’m not a drag queen, however, and my dysphoria is not about the clothes. At least, it hasn’t been since I was fourteen.

While writing the other day, I contemplated the changes in our world. Many lives have both improved and degraded in the last twenty years. Opportunities to live your dreams present themselves like at no other time in history. Transgender issues are going away.

As a twenty something year old, crossdresser I lived in fear of discovery. I tried to live in stealth, but my genderhad a way of "slipping" out. Like the time I wore a slip under my male clothes for a quick trip to the video rental store. While standing in line, the garment slipped out. I was mortified. Fear of my fellow man took over and I exited the store.

I don’t know why I chose to keep it on rather than just go to the store as a man, today, I would just finish the outfit. In those days, one just didn’t go to mainstream establishments dressed like a girl. Especially, not that early in the evening.

Life as a transgender woman is much easier. With the invention of the microcomputer and the Internet, many of us discovered we are not alone. Others have our same affliction. We all wish were born female.

I can read blogposts about similar experiences. Many of my sisters talk about their reasons and feelings behind what we do. In one post you might recognize, My sister talked about feeling pretty dressed as a girl, as opposed to feeling ugly as a boy. It was her chance to shine and feel better about herself. Before the Internet, most of us thought we were crazy. We didn’t know a boy playing with dolls wasn’t abnormal.

Shopping is easier, too. We no longer need to suffer the judgement and disapproval of salesclerks. Just go on a website, click and enter a credit card number. In my day, we could order from catalogs, but we still had to face the clerk behind the counter.

The Internet, and the media has made life safe for those who would. Most of us, (old timers) can tell you horror stories about the times when you could get arrested for crossdressing in public. Now, there are many who gravitate toward the lifestyle but I wonder if they are just bored. I suspect some of them can’t relate to feeling mis-gendered.

Still and all, there are myriad improvements, allowing transgender people the freedom to be. As a teenager, when I was seriously dealing with these issues, hoping and praying I could magically be the girl I wanted to be, the options were closed.

I read about Renae Richards in Penthouse Magazine. SRS was called Sex change operations, and the results were often tragic. Adding to the angst, was they were performed in some far off place in Europe and the cost was more money than I would see in a lifetime.

Now, medical technology and the science of gender reassignment have improved so much, it can be done with ease. The half-hearted transsexual now has the opportunity to live the life I fantasized about. Why couldn’t we get today’s successful results when I was fourteen? There is no doubt in my mind, I would’ve jumped at the chance. If only . . .

If the average life span is somewhere around ninety, I am in the last half of my life. I spent so much of it, fighting against my desires. I built a house of cards and a family. I have to consider, is it worth it now.

I also wonder, if technology hadn’t improved since I was fourteen, How many of us would’ve stayed in the closet? Would we have accepted our lot, and lived our lives in quiet desperation? I wonder about the kids coming out these days. I can’t believe they all have Gender Dysphoria. Are our feelings and secret desires becoming popular because of technology?

One thing is true, it is easier to be transgender these days, mostly because of technology. When I think of the generations that came before me, I wonder how many of them suffered in silence? How many of them gave up their desires because of fear? I wonder how many there were of us. I also wonder how many of them would’ve transitioned, had the technology been available.

It Doesn't Go Away

Many of the "gifted" people in our society, the concert musicians, poets, and even politicians, will tell you they’ve always done what they do. Pianists sometimes talk about doing recitals at a very young age. They seem to have come hardwired to be what they are.

When I think of my life, I think of the fads I went through. When I liked the Black Sabbath band, my father heard that younger kids like them but eighteen-year olds don’t. He was right, at least in my case. I grew out of that phase. I went through slitting the outside seams of my jeans. About six inches up the leg, down by the ankle. I don’t know why I did that, other than it was a fad.

I got into the citizens band radio craze in the nineteen-seventies. Then I got out of it. I didn’t do all the fads and I wouldn’t recommend some of them to anyone, but I did a few. Through it all, I’ve been transgender. Of course the word didn’t exist when I was young. I remember the first time I learned the word transvestite and decided I was, except for my female mind.

I never understood what drove my desires, until the Internet. Through it all, I had crossdressing. Like with everyone, there were times I thought I’d overcame my need, but I went right back. How can a get a dog to stop barking? It’s in their nature. Feminine expression was in my nature. It was my way of keeping my sanity.

Whenever problems arose in the façade of my masculine life, I ran into my female nature and recharged my batteries. What I didn’t know was batteries eventually wear out. After many uses, they won’t take a charge anymore. I reached a point when my masculine batteries wouldn’t take a charge anymore. I retreated from life. Now I’ve resolved to never be male again. I won’t live that life anymore.

My name is Felicity Nerissa Keller, and I won’t be squelched. I refuse to be the means for that man to recharge his batteries. I will be me, he will disappear, and there won’t be a need for batteries. My life is changing as I emerge and he departs there are growing pains but it is worth it.

Hey, Mom. Is Dad turning into a girl?



similar to the one I wear

That was the question my daughter asked the other day. She went on to explain why she’d asked. It seems I’m wearing a butterfly charm, on a chain around my neck. She claims I wear rings, and she listed other things, although her mother didn’t elaborate.

When I heard about her question, I laughed out loud. I didn’t confirm or deny the accusation, but I was proud of her astute observation. She’s always been that way. She’s not the only one to notice changes, however, other people look me over, but can’t put a finger on what’s different. You see, I haven’t told anyone.

They say I look good since I lost weight and shaved my beard, but they keep staring. They see it, even though they don’t know what it is. I’m not taking hormones yet. I haven’t even seen a therapist, but there is a quiet resolve in my soul. I’m in transition and there are days when the aches and pains of getting older subside, and I feel younger.

In several posts here, I’ve mentioned my suspected accidental estrogen overdose. I suspect, although I still don’t know, where it came from, but the symptoms were all there. I loved the positive effects even though the problems were scary.

Now, my body is fighting to be male. Body hair that had slowed and stopped has been growing thicker. Shaving is more frequent. Sometimes, it feels like fighting a losing battle, I need HRT. Still and all, my daughter thinks I’m turning into a girl and I am.

I’ve seen the view from the mountaintop and I will not go back. My quiet resolve shows through, but it’s hard. I feel like a flake when my mind doesn’t know what to do with a quiet afternoon. I try to remember what my masculine self would’ve done and I’m letting chores go, in favor of shopping at the thrift store.

I’m messed up, and people have noticed. I go from blissful self-control to a state of confusion as my mind tries to convince my body it is female. It’s worth the elevated high blood pressure, just to convince my body to get on board. I don’t know what’s hard about making the change. It did it before. Besides there are parts of me that never got the memo about being masculine.

Yes, Daughter. Your dad IS becoming a girl. It’s a daily battle of both mind and body. Adding fuel to dilemma is my transition from working nights to working days. I fall asleep in the afternoon and I’m awake at night. What better time than to dress in my chosen gender and go out on the town?

Still it would be better to dress that way all the time. I need a man to do all the masculine chores and I will do my nails. Yes I’m fighting a war, but he is a she, it’ll just take a little time to convince the powers that be.

A Confession, a Resolution, And a Poem

　

I think I’ve established, at least in my own mind, that I am transgender. I tried hard not to be. I’ve been bingeing and purging with gender specific clothing since . . . well, forever. In childhood, and all through the years, My feminine expressions were squelched. Like all of us, I tried desperately to overcome my need to be a girl.

When my masculine body grew up, my feminine mind went along. They’ve been at war the whole time. Life long erectile dysfunction finally cleared the field for mind to win. I’ve gone the route. I’ve battled depression and low self-esteem. I followed the path of least resistance, and I never took the road less traveled.

If you haven’t figured it out, the reference to the Robert Frost poem, infers that I never transitioned. I’m sure you younger trans, get tired of us older ones complaining that transition just wasn’t an option, but it’s true. That route, is a relatively new blessing and surgeons have honed their talents in just the past few years.

So, going down my well traveled, road has put me at odds with nature. I probably mentioned that I write fiction. In my current manuscript, my character claims that, in the beginning, every fetus is female. Then at one point some become male in the womb, She asks, "Why are some babies born male and others born female? Who gave nature the right to choose?"

All of this preamble, is intended to lead up the point that I’ve paid dues. Others have paid a higher price. Some have suffered extreme hardship, but I’m not new to this.

I requested friendship from a beautiful lady on Facebook the other day. She is transgender. At least I think she is. She caught my eye because of the pictures she posted of her and another of my Facebook friends. She apparently lives in the area where I live, and a girl cannot have too many close friends.

I admired her transition. By that, I mean she looks great. I envy her. She seems happy and she carries her femininity well. Hopefully I will meet her (in real time) someday, and learn her secrets. Anyway, while I requested her friendship I thought about my profile picture as compared to hers. I figured, she’s going to look at my profile and think I’m a wannabe.

For a couple of reasons, my Facebook profile picture shows my upper torso, only. I don’t have a good wig, and my masculine self is well known. I’m afraid of the risk. Besides, I want to control the reactions, and the pace, when my house of cards collapses.

It’s true, however. I’m a transgender wannabe. I want to be like Jennifer Bryant who recently came out to the world and is living the dream. She is absolutely beautiful, inside and out. She is an inspiration to us all. I want to be like Janet Mock, Laverne Cox, Krista, and so many others. As it is, I am the candidate for myriad surgical procedures.

Because of finances, and that proverbial house of cards I mentioned, You might say I’m pre-transition transgender. Like the air we breathe, I crave HRT, but my body has been changing and I can’t explain why. I’m enjoying my life for the first time. I am a woman dammit.

I still have a long way to go before I’m done. I hope to have my new house built before the one above collapses. It will not be made of straw, or cards. It will be made of titanium, with pink and purple sequins. Then, I will post a full head shot on Facebook. I’m a realist however, and I know I’ll be picking up the pieces of the old house before the new one is finished. I’ve delayed long enough—it’s time to come out.

Love you guys.

Awake My Transgender Soul--Finish the Training O' Padawan

I last time I posted that I was getting off the train. then I panicked and asked if somebody would let me back on. I came to grips with a simple truth this week . . .  I am transgender. I cannot go back. no matter what failures in live life drove me back to my feminine desires, I must complete my quest.

I want to be the woman I was born to be. We all have similar stories. a boy who is lost in the world. A boy who played with dolls and wanted to be a girl. I had all of that. Gym class was hell, and nobody is more cruel than teenage boys. Except teenage girls that is.

Anyway. my life of trying to fit into the masculine role, failed. I rediscovered my all consuming feminine desires and I persued them.

The seciond chance I mentioned has not helped. I am failing again. I plead with the universe to awaken my transgender soul. let me be the woman I was born to be.

Somebody Stop The train

In my last post, I talked about the transgender railroad train and how we all buy our tickets in different ways. I also mentioned my quest to fill the male role. It’s hard to be the man I was, even harder to be the man everyone expects me to be.

During the past couple of years it was easy to ride the train. I failed at being a man and I had a great excuse to the girl I always wanted to be. If you add my childhood experiences into the mix, transitioning was the best choice. It was the only choice.

Now I’m getting a second chance to be my assigned gender, I no longer have the failure excuse. If I can pull it off, it would make certain things easier. In the past, as a part time crossdresser, I went through binge and purge periods, but my wardrobe is too big now. I cannot purge. If I put everything away, it would be self-defeating. I lie on my bed screaming. I still need to be a woman.

There are so many strong women in the world; Ladies, who take care of their families, girls, who fill both roles. Why can’t I do the same? I’m caught between worlds. The girl I once was wants so badly to live her life. The boy wants to do the right thing. I can’t have both. I don’t want to be a part time crossdresser.

With tears in my eyes I stand here, at the station, begging for the train to stop and let me back on. Please conductor grab me, put me on the train and never let me off. Yes, I’m afraid of failing again. Yes, I crossed over. I’m a woman, trying to be a man. I want to escape in a cloud of estrogen and never look back, but there are people there. Those who expect me to be him are counting on me.

The male side of me placed all his skinny clothes in boxes, during the time he put on weight. The expectation of wearing them again was always there. Now he will put all his fat clothes in boxes, but he never wants to wear them again. Maybe he should just give them away. What do I do with my gender specific clothes? If I put them in boxes, I would expect to wear them again. If I can’t wear them again maybe I should give them away?

This is my quandary. I stand at the crossroads. I can no longer straddle the line. I should do what is best for me, but is that the best thing? These are questions asked by thousands of others on the train. I’m not the first, nor will I be the last. For now, I’m climbing back on the train.

 

Stepping Off the Train

A post on Facebook made me think the other day. A beautiful trans woman said she’d jumped off the train for a couple of days to get some things done. I’ve seen others refer to their journey as a train ride, before.

The image of a transgender railroad train coming into the station and picking up passengers is an accurate one. I think most of us "older ladies" can remember a time when we lay in bed at night, listening to the far off train whistle and not being able to find the station.

It happened each time we looked at a mail order catalog and admired the pretty, gender exclusive clothes. We heard the whistle each time we saw our sister’s panties, in the backyard, drying on the clothesline.

The way we bought our ticket varies with each person, but we all climbed onto the train at some point in our life. Some of us jumped off, only to climb back on later. Some of us jumped off and on, trying to fight our feelings, resolving to be the gender we were born with. After a while the distant train whistle beckoned, and we bought another ticket.

Some of us were blessed with the good sense to accept who were are and stayed on the train. Each time the train pulled into the station, they welcomed the rest of us back.

At first that train had a steam locomotive, now, a fission reactor is pulling the train. The train will never stop.

There are stations in diverse places, some destinations involve GRS, FFS, and complete transformation. Hopefully, those stations lead to happiness for you. Other places lead to suicide. PLEASE, DON’T GET OFF AT THOSE STATIONS.

Recently, I jumped off the train. I don’t want to talk about the reasons, but suffice it to say, I was give a second chance, a "do over", and I’m trying, once again, to fill the role. I still hear the train whistle, however.

I’m so happy for Jennifer Bryant, Sue Lighten, Krista Ann, and so many others. They finally have their ticket punched, they are reaching their destinations.

Here’s to those who continue to cross the line with no intentions of surgery. Ladies like Kimberly Huddle, Stanna Stanna, Crysti Hart, to name only a few. I love you ladies. Your beauty and courage surpass my ability to compliment. I’m jealous of your success, although it breaks my heart to think about the struggles you’ve had.

When I think of Diva Las Vegas, Southern Comfort, Krista’s pool party, or any pride happening, my soul cries out. Those kinds of events didn’t exist when I began to understand myself, some forty-something years ago. Never the less, I will always be drawn to that camaraderie. Not to mention being who I am, and not the lie of male counterpart.

So I am rejoining the journey. I’m giving myself every opportunity to succeed as a male. Somehow, this post feels like a eulogy. If it is, I will love each of you forever. If it’s not, I’ll be seeing you. Even as I write this, I’m planning a trip to the wig shop. Save a place for me at Diva 2015. I have a feeling I’ll be back.

Okay, I can’t do this. I’m going to leave my clothes hanging in the closet . . . well, wish me luck and remember I love you all.

I’m Disgusted—Who Cares About Him

I was shopping in the local thrift store looking for my size, and happily finding choices. More on that later, but an old fart and his wife walked into the store.

I say old fart, not because he’s aged. (He wasn’t much older than me), but because of his attitude. I was perusing the feminine racks dressed in masculine mode. I noticed the old fart because of his animated conversation with his wife. He was glaring at me and his thoughts were obvious.

I shrugged it off and went back to finding some great deals on pretty clothes. Before leaving, I saw the old fart again. I seemed to be his favorite irritation. The disgusted look on his face was priceless. I included a picture of Bill Cosby. His look is similar.

I’ve seen several reactions to my shopping over the years. Most of them were mitigated by my confidence in what I was doing, but that old fart wins the prize. Makes me wonder how much cross dressing he’s been doing.

You see, in my experience, most transphobia is a cover-up for people who think they are abnormal, but they can’t seem to overcome their addiction. Then like crabs in a bucket, pulling the escaping crabs back in, the old farts poke fun and pretend to be shocked and offended by those who honestly try to understand themselves.

As boys, we were taught that men don’t shop in the women’s section. When our wives and girlfriends take us with them, we must pretend to be miserable, like the men in the other picture.

Things are changing, but there are still a few old farts out there. Who cares what they do? I’m still big enough, and grouchy enough, to have taken the old fart apart at the knees, but I’m learning to let go of my ego.

Still and all, it was a great shopping trip. I came home with two pairs of capris, a white sleeveless blouse, and a beautiful pair of black pants to match my black blazer. All in my size, which brings me to the other point I alluded to.

I recently shed a little unwanted fat. Now, I can find my size on the racks in most stores. It’s not the size I want to be, but it’s gratifying. If the old fart knew how happy that makes me, perhaps he would’ve minded his own business.

Felicity, making up my mind

According to Webster’s, here are some of the definitions of felicity,

1 The quality or state of being happy; great happiness.

2 Something that causes happiness.

3 A pleasing manner or quality especially in art or language.

These paraphrased meanings describe my ideal state of being. After all, who wouldn’t want to be happy? After a lifetime of dwelling in the closet of denial, I am approaching the state of nirvana called femininity. Finally becoming the woman I always wanted to be, is a goal I never thought I’d reach.

Soon, the stars will align, and I’ll wake in the recovery room, feeling like a truck ran over my crotch. I will grin in my perfect state of felicity. No, I haven’t seen a therapist yet, but I finally made up my mind. I’m working toward that elusive state I should’ve reached years ago.

Do you remember when I debated a new name? Back in January, I posted a blog talking about my initials and how I hated being called Francine. As a young cross dresser, I went by Christine, Christy for short, but I grew up and turned my male initials backward. I became Francine Nichole Keller. As I mentioned in January, I’d never heard anyone call me that.

After my self-identification as transgender, somebody called me Francine over the phone, and I hated the sound. So, In January, I investigated other names. For a while, I thought I would switch the initials back and go by Kaye with the same last name I was born with, but it didn’t seem to work. When I read the above, definition, Felicity struck a familiar chord.

Felicity works with my pen name as a writer, so I will be changing to Felicity. (I love that name.) I know it will be more difficult to change my male name to Felicity, but I will live the life my name describes. I will pay it forward and help others find happiness in their circumstances.

Beyond the legal name change, there are myriad other things that have to be changed. Things like Facebook, e-mail and other correspondence. It’s going to be a lot of work. Maybe I’ll wait until I wake in that hospital room. I need to get a make-over to go with my new name.

Love Felicity.

Ain’t no Masculinity in Me

Some days I want be a woman so bad I can taste it. The all-consuming desire drives me to plan the conversations I will have in coming out. I shoulder my courage, shut down my ego, and relinquish my pride. On the way, I consider the implications. Love of those I would shatter comes into the mix and I turn around, seeking a better time.

Maybe I will tell them after the big event we have planned. I tell myself, you will be happier after . . . but will I? Do I have the right to destroy a life we built together? Are my selfish desires the deciding factor?

In the COGIATI, there is a question that I’ve been thinking about lately. It asks, A doctor offers you a painless, absolutely effective means to be completely masculine. All feminine desires and traits would be eliminated, and you would be happy and content to be a man. You would never need to dress, and you would never want to be feminine in any way again. You are assured that after the treatment you would be completely content. Would you take the treatment?

Without thinking, I immediately answer, hell no! How many of us have climbed back into the closet over the years, and purged our lives of femininity? Then we succumbed to our inner desires, and started the whole cycle again. Weren’t we trying to accomplish the results of the hypothetical question? I like being feminine. I want to be a woman. I finally know who I am. Would I give that up? NO, but I wonder . . .

Witch brings us to the question of my genitalia. Would I still have these desires if I were born with functioning, more masculine parts? If I could’ve had the sex life other men have, would I be different? I don’t know—I was born this way. I am sure however, I would’ve had a more rewarding sex life, had I been born with a vagina instead of what I got.

I now, stand at the crossroads. I must come out to move on. So much of my life was wasted filling a role. Trying to be what I’m not. Confession might be good for the soul, but it will ruin lives. Things will never be the same. I am living in my cocoon, getting ready to emerge. I will be the butterfly I always wanted to be.

What is Odd Anyway?

I recently commented on another person’s blog. She had mentioned that perhaps people were getting used to us. They no longer looked at transgender folks as an oddity. She said, I don’t know if people are changing and becoming acclimated to folks like us, or if my own perceptions have changed. I agreed with that assessment and said, I think you're right about society. They are more accepting or less afraid.

Right after I wrote my comment, I went out for the evening. The looks I received and the way I was  
treated shocked me. Okay, so it was a small Utah town, and I wasn’t entirely enfemme, but I thought diversity is what makes us human.
Perhaps it was a little early in the year for my denim Capri’s, pink ankle socks and deck shoes, but I’ve worn my pink camp shirt many times before. Add my sundry unmentionables, (but they couldn’t see those). Then put a lack of makeup, or wig, into the bowl. The results of the mixture . . . I looked different.

While waiting to be seated in the restaurant, I became the subject of

conversations at many tables. People, apparently, couldn’t take their eyes off me. I felt like a fever blister full of puss.

After eating and being gawked at, I went to a convenience store for chewing gum and was looked over by a boy. (Well, at my age, they’re all boys). He noticed the shirt and I watched his eyes go down to my feet, and my shoes must've clinched it. He shook his head. I was pegged as an oddball.

These days I don't really care about other opinions. I have a hard enough time with my own criticism, but the censure of those people surprised me. It took years to be able to buy my own clothes. Now I don’t hesitate to admire pretty things and check for my size. I wear my handmade TGLB bracelet with pride, and I go pretty much anywhere.

There was a time when the ridicule would’ve shut me down and driven me back into the closet, but I’m too old for that. Still, I need some new hair, teeth, FFS, and I need to drop four dress sizes. I do, however, dress my age and weight. After all, I don’t stuff myself into clothes made for a runway model. I don’t wear sexy clothes. I’m middle aged and I dress that way. I don’t want to look odd.

　

Make up Your Mind, Damnit

I have a limited amount of time in which, to play on my day off. So, when I spent an hour the other night, trying to decide what to wear, I reprimanded myself. "You’re wasting time, you idiot," I said. Then, I realized the irony.

One of the biggest complaints, registered by men, is about how long it takes women to get ready. They pace back and forth looking at their watch, saying, "We’re going to late."

Here I was, a transgender woman, trying to find the perfect outfit to wear, and I complained that I was making myself late. That’s funny when you think about it but I didn’t laugh. I chalked it up to my transition. "Of course it’s going to take a while. You have to look perfect," I said.

Add the whole presentation as a woman issue and I’m lucky I went out at all. Part of the problem, is the dozens of new outfits in my closet. Too many choices have always been my downfall. Another part of the problem comes when I try to impose my masculine routine onto my feminine self. I talked about this in a previous post, but let me explain.

While trying to live the masculine role, I learned to get ready within minutes. Just crap, shower and shave. Brush my teeth and my hair. Get dressed in whatever is handy, and out the door. That was my routine, now there is more to do, and since my decision to transition, I honestly believe it’s harder to make up my mind. When I go to bed, I fall asleep, planning what I will wear next week.

Please realize, I’m not complaining. I’m proud of myself. Truly, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I’m getting there. I’m becoming the woman I wanted to be.

　

I Yam What I Yam

I’m not the prettiest transgender woman you’ll see. Not even close—in fact, a mud fence comes to mind. When I see pictures of successful transitions I feel encouraged. When I see the before and after pictures, I sometimes cry. A lot of the prettiest were pretty, before they started HRT.

Where does that leave me? Well, as Popeye the Sailor was fond of saying: I Yam What I Yam.

As you know, (Or you should know, by now,) transgender is a state of mind. I have an irresistible need to be a woman. It would be wonderful to be pretty, when I’m done with transition, but I’ll settle for being feminine.

I was pretty once, back when it would’ve mattered. Now, my male body has gone down more roads than it wants to remember. As I said in a recent post, I’m an old broad, but thoughts of finally living the life, keep me going.

I mentioned seeing Trans America recently. Yes it would’ve been nice to see a real transgender woman in the leading role, but I cried during that scene when she is taking a bath. She touches herself and realizes her dream. It had finally come true. She was a real woman. I look forward to that day with great anticipation.

Recently, I read an article about one man’s opinion. Essentially, the article read,

Dr. Joseph Berger has issued a statement saying, from a medical and scientific perspective there is no such thing as a "transgendered" person, and that terms such as "gender expression" and "gender identity" are at the very least ambiguous, and are more an emotional appeal than a statement of scientific fact.

Berger, who is a consulting psychiatrist in Toronto and whose list of credentials establishes him as an expert in the field of mental illness, stated that people who identify themselves as "transgendered" are mentally ill or simply unhappy, and pointed out that hormone therapy and surgery are not appropriate treatments for psychosis or unhappiness.
First of all, I wonder where the writer learned his craft. Try to diagram those sentences. I think there are only two periods in the whole thing. Second, did you notice the insult delivered by using incorrect terminology?

Anyway, to DR. Berger, I would say, of course I’m crazy, but who isn’t? According to the parameters of your profession, everybody is neurotic, anyway.

The doctor thinks I am just unhappy . . . hmm—no kidding? HRT and SRS won’t make me happy? I would ask, what is his definition of happiness? How does one achieve that magical state of being? Doesn’t it come from within? If a person can’t find happiness in the guidelines of the Doctor’s version of normal, does he prescribe mood-altering drugs?

When a midlife crisis drives a man to purchase a Harley what would be the prognosis? When a woman retreats, at the end of a long day, to the comfort of a bubble bath, should we lock her up? Isn’t she escaping? Many of those in the Doctor’s profession must have alcohol at the end of the day. "Only to relax and wind down". Isn’t that substance abuse?

As I understand the article, Dr. Berger made his recommendations as a result of legislation being presented in Canada. The bill in question would provide for the protection of transgender people. In other words, those people who find happiness in their own way, drawing it from inside themselves, would like to be left alone. They fear for their lives.

Whatever your beliefs, everybody deserves to be free to find happiness in their own way, as long as it doesn’t infringe on others. If we suddenly ostracized every social drinker, we would alienate more than half the population, yet I don’t want my kids around somebody who is drunk.

Let people find happiness in their own way. Stop trying to legislate personal beliefs. If somebody wants to be a different gender, how does it hurt you? I yam, what I yam, and my choices are my own.

Of course transgender is a state of mind. For many, it started in the crib, but feelings are a personal thing. SRS won’t make me happy, my happiness comes from within. Expressing feelings also comes from within. Those feelings aren’t right or wrong, but they might be different than others. Diversity, is what makes us unique.

No Traditional Gender Questions

When I consider my standing in the therapy world, I’m left with a feeling of dread. I know that with the right diagnosis, the fast track toward SRS would be open to me. Convincing a therapist won’t be easy, especially, considering my non-classic symptoms.

As you know, Gender Dysphoria manifests itself in many ways. One of the most prominent is the belief of being born in the wrong body. Now, I know this will be controversial, but I don’t believe God makes mistakes. We all have different trials. We must, all jump our personal hurdles, in order to be a complete person.

With that being said, I must add, my body was undetermined. No, I’m not a hermaphradite. But certain parts were smaller, while other parts were bigger. I had breasts through puberty, and my penis was very small.

Why are some boys more masculine than others? Why do some girls shy away from the feminine? My answer, at least in my own case, is XXY syndrome. I believe that I was born with two-X chromosomes and one-Y. I believe there are many more undiagnosed cases than people think. Also, in the case of girls feeling masculine, I wonder if they were also born XXY.

Keep in mind, I’m not a geneticist, but I’m told the Y chromosome is dominant, so the reverse couldn’t be true. Can you image the macho jerk, born with two-Y’s? Anyway, I’m also told that every fetus was female first, and the Y develops in the womb.

I had issues as a child. My femininity came through, and was not welcome. My need to be a girl was squelched, and I was dragged, kicking and screaming, into a masculine role. I wasn’t born in the wrong body, but I’ve been blessed with a female mind. It has helped me understand people and express my feelings in ways a man would never do.

So here I am, with other issues that caused me to abandon the male role. My desires to be a woman are stronger than they ever were. If I could plead Gender Dysphora and convince a therapist, I would be on the fast track to HRT and SRS. There are myriad gender conditions I could be lumped into. Basically, I missed the boat at fourteen when my desires to be a girl were strong, but I didn’t have the resources we have today. So, I’ve lived a life of masculinity.

If my body had cooperated, heterosexual sex might’ve helped me become more masculine, but sexual dysfunction, left me frustrated for many years. Now, I realize that problem shaped me. With the right hormones and a vagina, life would’ve been different.

I want a do over. How many times in school, did we crinkle our homework and start again? How many times were we granted a second chance to make the right move while playing chess? "Are you sure you want to move there?" In answer to the gender question, No!!! I do not want to be a boy. I want to cry when I feel bad. I want to dress in frilly clothes. I want to talk about boys and get goose bumps when I think about them kissing me. I want to descend the staircase, dressed in a beautiful prom dress, while my nervous boyfriend admires my feminine beauty.

I want to use my feminine charm to open doors and bitch about the glass ceiling holding me back. I want it all. I want to piss everybody off during the times of PMS when I can’t control it. (I have those moments now, but I can’t claim the condition).

As I’ve mentioned before on this blog, I can never experience some of those things, due to advanced age. So why bother with HRT? Why resign myself to SRS and FFS? I guess the prospect of living the rest of my life, as a grandma, intrigues me. I want to finish life as the woman I always wanted to be. I want to quiet my mind with peace.

Isn’t that enough for an HRT recommendation? Taking it one step at a time, I will get there. With feminine grace, I will find serenity.

Next Year

http://www.geekbabe.com/dlv/

As you might’ve guessed, I didn’t achieve my goals. I just wasn’t ready for Diva Las Vegas this year. I’ve had a few setbacks, and I didn’t drop those dress sizes I planned. I could probably still go, but I don’t have the money.

On another note, I might be the last transgender person to see Trans America. I liked the story and I felt the actress did a good job, but like everybody else, I would’ve preferred to see a transgender woman play the role.



http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0407265/

Still, another subject is the Just My Size comfort bra I purchased. As you know, I have Size 52D breasts and love the support I get from a bra, but when I wore the comfort bra, well, Viva La Difference. For the first time ever, my breasts didn’t bounce independently when I walk. They bounced together, but if I walked carefully, with femininity, they didn’t bounce at all.

I now, wear that bra at work as much as I can, but alas, it must be laundered. I need to get more of them. The comfort bra doesn’t flatter my shape like more traditional bras, but I am blessed with plenty of breast. I am a woman, and it shows through my top and my comfort bra.




http://www.justmysize.com/plus-size/bras/
just-my-size/jms-pure-comfort-bra-25292

As Diva approaches, I glance at my goals for my transgender year. At my age, I can’t afford to miss any deadlines. I know there is life after middle age, and it will be filled with my feminine self. Perhaps I want more than is possible, but as youth fades away, I lament the closed doors. Doors that open onto certain rites of passage that every woman goes through. I will write more on that next time.

Anyway, next year will be my year. Diva will be my coming out party. See you there.





I'm a traditional Old Broad

Or should that be Nontraditional?

I feel ashamed when I read posts by Cyristi Hart, when she talks about doing it with dignity. She takes pride in being a classy woman. I've noticed she isn't alone in that thinking. It's true that Transgender MTF people should be the prettiest women on the planet. Simply because it takes so long to get ready.

One of the things I like about the male role, (Besides standing up to pee), is getting ready quickly. In my fiction, I created a female character who is non traditional. She is very femminine, but like a guy, she gets ready on the fly. Shower, towel dried hair, mascara and lipstick. There are times when she primps and takes a while to dress. When she does, she pops eyeballs and turns heads, but mostly she can't be botherd.

I can't help believing I would be like that, if I were born female. Now, I have to shave, put on concealer and foundation just to get started. I wonder, though, how much identity coverup I would do if I moved away where nobody knew me.

When I finish with transition and if I go through with SRS, I wonder how much primping I will do. I'm an old broad, who cares. after all, isn't transition about who you are, not what you look like?

The Line, Unisex Bathrooms, & Broken Resolve

The Line

As you might’ve figured, I’m a rather large woman. I fill a 52D bra with no problem. I think it’s my XXY genes, but it might be fat, too. I wonder how that will change with HRT and when I finally get off my behind and get the exercise I need. Anyway, for now, It gives me pride. Well, except when I wear a T-shirt in male mode and my breasts sag.

I watched him in the reflective surface of the door, as he walked into a store one day. The first thing I thought was, he needs a bra. I took him home, put on a bra under the T-shirt and I was back. I love the line my bra makes across the front of my top. There are other reasons that I love my bras. I love the way my nipples feel against the fabric, but mostly, I love the line.

Bathrooms

Several years ago, during my man up period, I hung out at a local coffee shop. It was a national chain store, and my friends and I started hanging out there as soon as it opened. On one of my late night ventures the other day, I went to that coffee shop. When I went to use the bathrooms, I found they had converted some space into a unisex bathroom.

"Cool," I said, but I used the men’s anyway. I was dressed in semi male mode and didn’t think to use MY restroom. After all they put it there for me. I don’t like that coffee shop so I never go there, but if I do, I’m going to use my restroom.

Resolve

I’m having trouble lately. I want to be a woman so badly, but life is getting in the way. I read blogs written by my personal heroes and I feel I can do it, too. I can turn my fifty-six year old body into my desired gender. Then, my responsibilities get in the way. I look at my selfies and I see a woman with the torso of a linebacker. Even with varicose veins, my legs are okay. Although they look like toothpicks attached to the body of a man.

Dressing is going to take more work. Especially, if I want to attract a man. I know that many of you have passed this way before. You’ve navigated these waters and emerged as the woman you are. I’m drowning in the waters of self-doubt. Damn it’s hard to keep my vision in the daylight of responsibility.

Anyway, he might win, but I’ll get through it. May God bless you.

 

A New Kettle of Fish

I know there are many with similar stories as this and others who have suffered greatly. I also know I’ve whined about this subject before. To those who would say, "Get over it," this, is a blog of self-discovery, but I hope my words can help others on their path as well.

Being transgender in middle age is not something I would’ve chose. I imagined looking back on a career, enjoying grandchildren, and going fishing. In those, my younger days, I got out of bed everyday, filled the role, and paid the bills. I also fought against my urges. Being a woman was not in the cards and crossdressing was not an option.

Oh what a kettle of fish I was in. Feminine denial was only part of my neurosis. When I hit the wall and lost my career job, I also lost my identity. Sounds drastic, but some men can’t separate what they do from who they are. They value themselves by how successful they are.

Did you ever hear the song from the great depression called Brother Can You Spare a Dime? It goes,

Once I built a railroad, made it run

Made it race against time

Once I built a railroad, now it's done

Brother can you spare a dime?

Once I built a tower to the sun

Brick and rivet and lime

Once I built a tower, now it's done

Brother can you spare a dime?

Like those who lost everything in nineteen twenty-nine, I felt like a failure. My best days were behind me. More than mid-life crisis, I felt like road kill on the freeway of life.



As middle age approached, I couldn’t cope, so I didn’t. I flaked out on family, friends and responsibilities. I self destructed and did things I’m not proud of. My lifelong battle with errectile dysfunction probably kept me from jumping off the deep end.

Finally, in a last ditch effort to save my sanity, I analyzed my life and saw the indicator lights. I recognized each little incident in my life for what it was. I recognized the tragedy that perhaps this boy would’ve been happier if I were a girl.

I mourned the loss of that girl, and tried to hold onto masculinity. It didn’t work. I failed, and lost my perspective. I was worthless. Telling myself I needed to change was easy. Admitting my need to be a woman came in pieces. Oh, how I wish I’d transitioned at fourteen.

Identifying as transgender, brought freedom I’ve never known. To use a cliché, I gave in to the girl inside of me. Yes, it was also a way of escaping my male role, but it hasn’t been easy. As every transgender person will attest, living a life of duality is rough. Self-criticism is crippling, and looking like a woman seems to be forever out of my grasp.

At the heart of it all, is the daily debate I stage within myself. The argument that starts with the question am I doing the right thing? Yes, I have a desperate need to be feminine, but it’s a selfish need. Too many people expect me to continue to play the role, but I can’t play that role. I fear that role.

Changing genders is hard, but it’s nothing compared to coming out to my loved ones. Certainly, my life will change drastically. I’m not talking about HRT, SRS, and FFS. I’m talking about banishment from my home and the hearts of those I love. I hate being homeless and alone. I should be used to it by now, though, since the transgender life is a world within anyway. How can I obliterate the life we built together.

I’m the victim of a powerful lack of masculine ability. Femininity is my salvation, but I don’t think they will understand.

Still, living life as a woman will be like sanctuary, a second chance to be a functioning adult. When the violet stripes on my, (right over left buttoned), camp shirt, glow in afternoon sun, I feel giddy. I feel comfortable in my own skin for the first time in my life. I know, the clothes are an outward expression of an inward resolution. Middle age will be a blessing. I will be completely free from masculine expectations. I will nurture my loved ones, and I can still go fishing.

No, it isn’t the way I imagined middle age would be. Eventually the grandkids will come around and it’ll be much better. It’s much better.

PS I didn’t get any suggestions for my new name. I think I will change it to Kaye. That way I can sign things with the letter K.

What are you called?

Being transgender gives you a lot of freedom. I know, we’re slaves to fashion, it takes forever to get ready, and most of us avoid certain places due to prejudicial treatment, but we are free nonetheless.

We are free to change, because we’ve accepted our need to change.
We are free to love, whoever and whenever we want.
We are free to be loved, hopefully by those who hate our choices.
We are free to start over. New life, new job, new residence.
Freedom comes when everything else is gone.
After a period of change, caterpillars turn into beautiful butterflies, & butterflies are free.

Along with the freedom to change, comes a new name. Legal problems not withstanding, we may call ourselves whatever we want. I switched the initials of the name I was given at birth, and came up with Francine Nichole Keller.

Until recently, I never realized how that name would sound when somebody called me Francine. It’s one thing to call myself that, but to hear it from others, well . . .

I think I mentioned that I write fiction. So does "he", (my male counterpart). For awhile, as an author, I went by Francine Keller, but as I said, the sound of the name Francine bothered me. So I changed it to F Nichole Keller, but "he" knows a GG named Nichole, and I’m not a Nichole.

You see the trouble is, I couldn’t think of a good name that starts with an ‘F’. So, now, I’m thinking of switching my initials back. I’ve heard many stories told by transgender women who picked a name with the same first letter as their male counterparts. That way they could just sign everything using an initial.

I like that idea, it would make transition easier. Can you think of girl’s names that start with ‘K’? Help me pick a name and I’ll love you forever. I think I’ll make a contest of it. Tell you what. If I pick your suggestion, I’ll send you a Walmart gift card.

What would you call me? I’m a Sagittarius, with a Scorpio rising. I’m overweight but losing. Two whole sizes in a year, yeah! Fist pump. My goal is drop more and get into my wife’s old dresses before Diva Las Vegas in March. I might not make it down that far, but I’m going to look good.

Also, I’m a fifty something artistic person, who loves to love and be loved. What would you call me? It should be a ‘K’ name but I’ll consider ‘F’ names, too. Good luck, and thank you.

Love, Francine, Uh . . . Me

PS Happy 2014