Been Sick

Isn’t amazing? We tend to think we are the masters of the planet. Then, a debilitating illness hits and we become subservient cry-babies. Something crawled into me the other day. I’ve had it before but I don’t remember what I need to do to make it go away.

The truth is I’m scared. It started with a hacking cough that’s not a cold. Now I can’t get to the kitchen without angina like symptoms overtaking me. I can’t breathe, can’t sleep. Can’t do anything. You should see me walking into work from the parking lot. I have to stop and sit down three times.

Needless to say I don’t do anything. Getting dressed up to go out just isn’t in the plans. Have you ever noticed that being sick is a real challenge to be being in transition. A person reverts to the days of their youth and the hanging out comfort of doing nothing.

Its just one of those learned things, like what you do when after a shower. In transition, I follow a regiment of lotion and grooming and makeup, this morning, however, I didn’t feel like doing the regiment. I almost put on his boxer shorts. I need to learn how to be sick and still be a woman.

Does that sound crazy? Any of you have this trouble? I’m not sure what’s wrong and I try to avoid the possibilities. Yes I should go to the doctor, but I won’t have insurance until September.

Can you Rewrite History & Eliminate Hate?

I read about an attempt to remove another civil war memorial. I shook my head. It’s obviously an over-reaction to the recent attacks on churches. With that being said, there is another danger emerging in our country and I think its being propagated by those we would not suspect, but that’s another subject. Its too coincidental that race is becoming an issue, again. So are the attacks on historical symbols.

The Constitution of the United States guarantees a right to exercise beliefs. Even so, prejudice and hatred should never be tolerated. The law also states that the free exercise of beliefs shall not infringe upon the rights of another.

Oppression, no matter the cause, or the excuse, is a horrendous crime. If a person is forced into subjection because of the color of their skin, it’s an atrocity. If a person has to show their ID, or their genitals to use the restroom of their chosen gender, there is a problem.

When two people build a life together, purchase houses, and cars, even raise children, they should expect to inherit the benefits of that work when one of them dies. Lifestyle has nothing to do with it. That, my friends is what same sex marriage is about.

Anytime a person is forced out of job because of their sexual preference or their physical appearance we should be appalled. Age and weight discrimination should never happen in our country.

I could run the gambit with possibilities, but suffice it to say there will always be people who would trample on the rights of others. In a country, that overcame so much to exist, It should never be tolerated.

As I said, the crimes should not be permitted, but symbols, especially historical ones, do not commit crimes.

The Southern Cross was a battle flag of the troops of Northern Virginia during the War Between the States. It was not the Confederate States flag. It was the state flag of South Carolina until recently. No matter what you think of, when you see it, the symbol has instilled pride in many generations. It does not stand for slavery or discrimination.

Regardless of secession, brave Americans, on both sides, died in that war. The American civil war was fought in families. It was literally brother against brother. As President Lincoln said, Our house was divided. To erase one side of the conflict besmirches the memory of our family members. 

In every conflict, there are winners and losers. The sight of the rising sun on a flag brought anger into the hearts of many of the greatest generation. That generation is almost gone and any residual anger is learned. The attack on Pearl Harbor was a tragedy, but it was a victory beyond understanding for the other side. Brave people died on both sides.

Some hate groups use Nazi symbols from another generation to rally behind, it’s the hatred, not the symbol that causes the infringement on individuals. While growing up in the nineteen-sixties, I wore the peace symbol. The sight of it, brought anger against me, but it was a symbol of my beliefs. Now I wear a butterfly. That too, is a symbol.

Would you remove the Star of David from the necklace of every Jewish person and replace it with a cross? What about those who don’t like the cross? What about those who would burn the cross in a front yard? Should we get rid of the cross?

I cannot know what motivated the current attacks on certain churches in our country, but to insult a generation by removing their symbols is ludicrous. Symbols mean something to people, but just like we must respect the differences of individuals, it’s stupid to criminalize a symbol or a monument.
 

Finger Painting

Do you remember kindergarten, when the teacher taught you to paint? Everybody stood behind a big easel with a huge sheet of paper and we were taught how to use the paints without making a mess.

Later, a model of some kind was placed in the center and we were told to draw it with paints. During a timed session we were left to transfer what we saw onto the page. Wasn’t it interesting?

No matter what the teacher used as a model, every painting was different. Not only because of artistic ability, but interpretation as well. As in adult life, we focus on different aspects. With a bowl of fruit, some artists paint the bowl, others place the banana in front of the apple, obliterating evidence that the grapes ever existed.

This is a great representation of individuality. It proves that unless somebody gives specific instructions and watches the progress, the results can vary. It also proves that people will follow their own heart.

God, or Whoever you worship, in Their wisdom gave us a set of instructions and left us to follow our heart in fulfilling those directions. As we fulfill our destiny, we must allow others that freedom, too.

Just as there is no right or wrong way to draw the bowl of fruit, the final drawing is up to the individual. Therefore nobody has the right to criticize another person’s painting. Why do we think we are free to judge and direct another?

If somebody asks for an opinion, do you condemn? If somebody chooses to live their life differently than you, do you have a right to criticize? I was given cause to examine my beliefs the other day. I realized my righteous indignation had turned into reverse bigotry.

I wrote about tolerance, but I wasn’t aware that I’d grown intolerant toward the other side of the spectrum. Some kinds of prejudice must never be tolerated, but as I said, I must love all my fellow children.

Intolerance is expressed in many ways. Just as we must see good in the paintings of others, we must allow our fellow trans the freedom to be individual. Did you ever consider how futile it is to organize a group of trans under one banner? There are as many different expressions of gender dysphoria as there are artists. There are more, when you consider every person on the earth.

Along with unlearning prejudice, I’m learning that lesson this week. I hope we can all find joy in our expression. May we appreciate the feel of finger painting and forget about whether our picture actually looks like the bowl of fruit or not.    

In Between

When I announced my intention to re-launch his writing career, and bring it into my life as a woman, I discovered some interesting things.

As a male writer, I developed an image of a bearded, artistic, friendly guy. I wrote fiction in an exclusive market. Without too much success, I might add. Since beginning my transition, I’ve attended his writer’s events. I can’t grow the beard back, and I dress differently, so people noticed. Some of them stared, trying to figure out why I look familiar. The truth is I act differently, too.

I haven’t come out yet, but my network is wondering what happened to me. Before transition I wrote conservative stories that always end up in redemption. Now I write a different kind of fiction. I stared at his head shot the other day, trying to figure out who he was. I read his books and can’t imagine writing that stuff. It’s time for my career to transition but for now, I’m playing two roles.

As part of that role-playing game, I’m posting a daily blog here, keeping up with his three, and starting a new one for my writing career. In the interim, time is the enemy. My day job takes a lot, quality time as him, suffers. My authentic life does too.

Things will be different, when the world knows who I am, but I sat on the bed, the other day, wondering if I really had the energy for feminine expression. Until HRT, I have to work at presentation, and I was exhausted.

Then, on another day, during my writing time, I realized, In Transition posts had taken the whole session. I hadn’t worked on my current story for a week. Lately, I open my laptop to get back to my characters and it turns into a blog writing session. I need to take a vacation and do nothing but write fiction.

I once read an article about multitasking and the difference between men and women. The author claimed that women do it better. I never noticed one way or the other, but if it’s true, wouldn’t that be a good test for gender dysphoria?

So far, with only a few hiccups, I’ve been able to manage. A thought occurs, however. What would happen if I got mixed up, and posted about transgender on his blogs? Wouldn’t that be fun? It might be educational for his network, but I’m not ready for rejection from them.

By way of update, my new career is going well. I’m writing better than ever, and I have three books ready for editing. He has thirteen. Do any of you want to take a look and let me know what I need to fix?

Although I feel like a juggler who is about to fall off the stage, my act seems to be working. Still, I might loose my sanity, so pay attention. I don’t want to freak out twice.

A want to be

Recently, on her blog, Stanna, over at femmulate, wrote about how she’s always been a woman. She’s been feminine throughout her life. She went on to talk about the difference between women like her and those who want to be women.

At first, I wondered if her remarks were discriminatory because I’m a want to be. Then a larger picture began to paint itself in my mind.

Like Stanna, I was born feminine, and I took a lot of abuse from my brother. I really had no idea what the difference was. All I knew was, I’d done something wrong. I learned to hide. As I grew older, I discovered the atrocities committed toward feminine boys, While I remained safely hidden.

Many times, I stood by, grateful they weren’t picking on me. With all my heart, I wish it had been different. It took years of frustration and getting in touch with aggression, before I was able to stand up to them.

Later, being thrust into the gender role I was born with made me fear the persecution even more. I rebuked my body for acting anything, but masculine, even so, I fought my secret desires.

Now that I am old, I can see with the eyes retrospect. I realize that some of us learned to hide it better than others did. As I return to feminine roots, I am jealous of Stanna. I feel sorry for her at the same time. She must’ve suffered on the playground of childhood, but now she is reaping the blessing of being feminine. Many of us would kill to have not eliminated that from our lives. 

Stanna is able to put on the clothes and the makeup and be the woman she was born to be. The rest of us have to work at it. With tears in my eyes I wish I were her.

I Was Cool When . . .

It’s good to have our issues in the forefront, but it seems like everybody is trans these days. There was a time in my little part of the world when I could’ve been arrested for cross-dressing. Yes it was illegal. The law was hidden in wording like wearing a disguise in public. Still, I was afraid.

During that time, as I’ve mentioned before, like many others, I felt like a freak of some kind. GRS was possible, but we called it sex change, and it was so expensive. My only option as I saw it, was to live with the gender I was born with.

Now, gender dysphoria looks so prevalent, it almost seems popular. The numbers of young trans on Facebook staggers my imagination, and leads me to believe the condition has been more of an issue through history than anyone imagined.

Still, I can’t help feeling like the old house cat who gets to meet the new kitten. Curious, but resentful. Don’t get me wrong, I empathize with, love, and welcome every person who suffers from GD. Also, I realize I’m the new kitten to many pioneers who went before me.  

There was a song in the eighties, sung by Barbara Mandrell that, sort of, illustrates the point. I was going to turn the lyrics around but I couldn’t think of any two-syllable words that refer to trans. Click the link to hear the song. Use your imagination to substitute relevant words. Here are the original lyrics:

I remember wearin' straight leg Levis an' flannel shirts
Even when they weren't in style
I remember singin' with Roy Rogers at the movies
When the West was really wild

An' I was listenin' to the opry
When all of my friends were diggin' rock 'n' roll
An' rhythm 'n' blues
I was country, when country wasn't cool

I remember circlin' the drive-in, pullin' up
An' turnin' down George Jones
I remember when no one was lookin'
I was puttin' peanuts in my Coke

I took a lot of kiddin'
'Cause I never did fit in
Now look at everybody tryin' to be what I was then
I was country, when country wasn't cool

I was country, when country wasn't cool
I was country, from my hat down to my boots
I still act an' look the same
What you see ain't nothin' new
I was country, when country wasn't cool

They call us country bumpkins
For stickin' to our roots
I'm just glad we're in a country
Where we're all free to choose
I was country, when country wasn't cool

Yeah, I was country, country wasn't cool
Yeah an' I was country from my hat down to my boots

I still act an' look the same
What you see ain't nothin' new
'Cause I was country, when country wasn't cool
Yeah, I was country when country wasn't cool

Yeah, I was transgender, when it wasn’t cool.

 

New Bling

While working as a cashier, I saw the hands of my customers when they gave me money. Some of the things I saw shocked me, but others made me jealous. I could never understand the need to get a tat on you hand. Some of them are interesting. Others worry me, like the letters on each finger spelling the word, H A T E.

There were many variations of nail art, including polish on macho fingers. The most interesting hands I saw, however, were the ones who wore rings. I was jealous. I wanted to wear some of that jewelry.

The concept of a thumb ring never occurred to me before my decision to transition. I had to get one. The other day, my wish was granted. With fingers a large as mine, it’s hard to find your size, but I did, in the mall. See the picture?

At first, like everything new in my transition, I hid it from my spouse. Finally, I realized my error, and brought it out in the open. She didn’t notice for a while, then she said something about how much I’ve changed and we dropped the subject.

Now, I wear it proudly. My bling is who I am, which is kind of surprising when you consider, twenty-years ago, I didn’t wear jewelry.

Coming of Age

In every kid’s life, there are coming of age rituals. Things like; first steps, first word, and the first time using the potty. Also, moving to the bed from a crib. In like manner, there are rituals every transgender woman must go through.

Recently, Jennifer Lopezgomez asked this question on Facebook: Girls, what is the biggest event of your transitioning to this point?

Her list includes: 

*Starting medical HRT?
*Going full time living as a woman in real life?
*Getting your very own vagina?
*Realizing with 100% certainty that you are female and therefore MUST transition no matter what the cost?
*Getting medically recognized as female?
*Getting legally recognized as female such as on your driver's license, ID card, birth certificate, or passport?
*Coming out to family? Coming out to friends? Coming out at work?

For her, the most important was going full time as a woman. For me, I can’t wait.

Reiteration

When you write a blog about your personal transgender issues, you tend to repeat yourself. I’m sorry, but this post will be reiteration. Something came up, and I need to revisit those feelings.

With so much “transgender” coming to the forefront lately, there are many things I could write about, but I’m no expert. There are others, either farther along in transition or recognized experts on the subject, who can do a better job of that, than I can.

The truth is, this is my journal, a chronicle of my journey, and I hope you will join me on the ride. I’m treading new ground. Many people came before, but it’s a discovery journey for me.

While reading Trans 101 for Trans People, on the, Open Minded Health website. I was reminded of the question: How do I know I’m transgender? My answer brought to mind a series of blog posts that I wrote as a purely anonymous heterosexual cross-dresser.

Posting on that blog, like this one, was therapy. Since, I’d spent my whole life covering up my transgender dysphoria, the blog gave me an opportunity to sort out my life. I constantly asked myself, am I transgender? After my lifelong attempt to play the part, I failed as a man, and I had issues. I was at a crossroads.

My life was like so many others. Many of us can tell the same stories. It’s too bad we didn’t have transgender support groups for kids in the fifties and sixties. Like all of those my age, we thought we were strange. 

How did I know I’m transgender? I’ve always known, but desperation forced me into the gender I was born with. Melancholy came to a head during the time of those blog posts.

As I’ve mentioned previously, a mysterious illness struck me. With many symptoms, I thought I would die. Since then, I’ve compared, and came to the conclusion that it was an estrogen overdose. I really loved the positive effects but it happened so fast, my body couldn’t adjust.

 

See the chart? Is shows some of the effects of HRT and suggests a timeline for each one. I experienced most of those symptoms, but because there were other, more dangerous manifestations, I figured it had to be a sudden overdose, and I couldn’t put my finger on the point of ingestion, but I digress.

When I accepted my need for transition, I reveled in smooth skin, slowed hair growth, total lack of hair on my arms and legs, increased nipple sensitivity, decreased muscle mass, fat redistribution. Well, just read the chart. I realized how much I enjoyed those changes.

It felt comfortable. It felt familiar somehow. I suddenly realized I needed to be a woman. Everything began to fall into place. My whole life had changed. Some CIS gender people can’t understand that question above. They think a person should know if they are trans or not. Those CIS people don’t realize that many of us fought the idea for so long, our minds took a little reminding.

When I listened to a sample of a feminization hypno mp3, I knew I had to make the journey. Returning to the girl I was, however, hasn’t been easy. There have been a few bumps along the way, many regrets about not transitioning sooner, and times when I jumped off the train. Through it all, I’m still on the yellow brick road. 

For me its not how did I know I was trans, it’s when did I embrace my need to be a woman.

Crisis

Back in prehistoric times, before doctors got so smart, transgender people had to suffer. Have you ever wondered why there were so many eunuchs in biblical times? We are blessed to live in these times, the golden age.

Medical science is at the point where gender can be a variable issue. We can choose to follow our heart, or can we?

In my short life, I’ve seen advances in cosmetic surgery, and hormone therapy that were only dreamed about. Now, as I approach middle age, I can set things straight. Or can I?

If you’ve followed my posts or read back through the archives you know about my episode a few years ago. I had a mysterious illness that was never diagnosed. Without delving into specifics, I think it was an estrogen overdose. Along with the scary stuff, I had symptoms that resemble a body on HRT.

The scary stuff, however, could’ve killed me and I’m still dealing with residual effects. A short time after the incident, I finally came to grips with my transgender condition. My resolution to abandon denial has made a difference in my well being that I never had before. I look forward to my remaining years with hope.

As part of my regular reading this morning, I discovered an article that made a dent in that hope. Well, discovered might be the wrong word. I knew that having venous thrombosis in the past might effect my HRT qualification, but until I read the article, I never thought it might disqualify me.

The irony is I’m convinced the blood clot was caused by the hormone overdose. The very thing that made me so happy might affect my future happiness. What kind of cruel joke is that? Okay, I don’t have proof, and I haven’t consulted an HRT doctor yet, but . . .

Tears fall as I overreact and wish for a different life. I don’t know what caused the hormonal effects, but I’ve often said I would almost welcome the health risks to experience the rest of it, again. After a lifetime of trying to fill the role, with the poisoning effects of testosterone, I experienced the euphoria of feeling like I did before puberty and I need it back.

Would you risk your life for the effects of HRT? I will—I hope my doctor will approve. Then again, maybe I could be a eunuch. I grew up on a farm and we used to castrate animals. Anybody got a sharp knife and some salt?

Do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell?

Dear Friend,
Big News . . .

Hey buddy,
I don’t want to freak you out, but . . .

The lyric of that Beatles song, in the title, insinuates my secret isn’t going to blow the minds of my loved ones. As I get closer to my self-imposed date of reveal, the more worried I get. How do you tell your childhood friends about your transition? Even worse, how should I tell my family? I’m sure the news will be a surprise for some. For others, it will explain a lot. Whether I still have any supporters after the conversation, is the big question.

I’m sure there will be an accusation that I’m following the crowd. Many of my friends and family will bring up Caitlyn Jenner and think I succumbed to some kind of fad. The attention she stirred doesn’t begin to explain the suffering, however.

The stupid comments made by national bastards are indicative of the thoughts that will cross the minds of my loved ones. I’ll try to explain how it felt to think I was a freak. I’ll try, but I know they won’t understand. Then again, how could they?

How can I explain my elation when I discovered an article about Renae Richards and Christine Jorgensen? Then my delight with the advent of the Internet, and finding out I wasn’t alone, there were many others. Unlike the famous, however, I was not brave. I wonder how many of my acquaintances will understand the frustration in failing to fill a role.

Will they sympathize when I tell them of my profound sadness at the loss of hope, when I admitted to myself that I would never be a girl? Since they probably won’t understand, should I even tell them?

I try to anticipate the contingencies in our conversation and the questions that might be asked, if they ask anything. Some of the questions:

“Are you gay? Do you like men?”
“I’m attracted to women.”

“How long have you known?”
“I knew there was something wrong from early childhood.”

“Do you think you were born in the wrong body?”
“I don’t believe God makes mistakes. I was born with a mind and an inclination toward the feminine.”

“But that doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.”

There are some who, really will ask the inevitable question:
“What’s between your legs?”
“It’s none of your business, what’s between yours?”

“Seriously, did you get it cut off?”
“I’ll tell you what . . . I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

I realize the need for the conversation, but I don’t know what to say. Many in my family won’t read a pamphlet. So, how do I express my angst? It’s not a fad. It’s a lifetime need that finally came back to the front of my life.

Maybe, I’ll tell the one person who is guaranteed to tell the world. There would be whispers, but those who matter, will ask the right questions. The others can go away.  

Are You?

Through my cross-dressing days, I suspected my spouse knew. Now that I’m in transition, It’s pretty hard not to notice the changes in the way I dress, and my appearance. Still, I’m waiting for things to line up before I come out to her.

When I quit fighting the battle and gave in to dysphoria, I changed. It felt good to turn my back on the long held defense mechanisms many people use to mask their true desires. Yes I was one of them. Although I’ve always held liberal beliefs about many things, I masked my transgender feelings behind redirect. No I never condemned anyone or anything, but I never stood up for what’s right either.

When a male family member announced her transition, I kept quiet about it. My lack of open support to her, is one of the biggest regrets of my life. Now with my own transition, my activism increased. My spouse has noticed.

While leaving the house the other day, dressed in capris and a big shirt with a bra underneath, I stopped and chatted. At one point during the conversation, I asked how same sex marriage could possibly affect the religious right? The rhetorical question was asked in frustration since I know how some of them feel.

The futility of trying to eliminate perceived sins, thereby making heaven on earth only serves to anger. It angers the religious right because their victims won’t change. It angers the victims, because . . . well, how could their lifestyle possibly effect their adversaries?

Then there’s the hypocrisy of ignoring all the other sins committed in the world. It’s hard to take somebody seriously about sin, when their own sins scream louder than they do. Also, there is the fact that a person can’t expect scriptural arguments to have any effect. It’s ludicrous to use the sin argument when the victim doesn’t believe in that interpretation. 

So, in my frustration about the whole thing, and adding the transgender arguments and fears, I vented. My wife, being non-political and non-combatant, didn’t want to participate. I drew her out. Suddenly she picked something out of the air and asked if I was trans. (I hadn’t said anything about trans).

She didn’t use that terminology, but the message was clear. She suspects. I don’t know how much she knows, but I’m not ready for that step. Those kinds of secrets, once told, have a tendency to snowball, and I need to get my ducks in a row before I go there.

I closed my mouth and said nothing. I left the house and came back. She hasn’t said anything since. In two months I’ll be ready. I will come out to family first then the world.

Blessing, Curse, or a Two Edged Sword

I have written about it before, but as a child, I had boobs. Not a good thing if you’re trying to fit into the mold thrust upon you by birth gender. My boobs were the source of ridicule, but so was the fact I loved to play house.

When I started cross-dressing, I took pleasure in the fact they filled my mother’s bra. I wanted to cut them off when boys tried to squeeze them in gym class. Perverts! Even if a CIS girl went, topless, into the boy’s dressing room, they wouldn’t have been treated like I was. Anyway, as a confused girl, forced to be a boy, I did everything to hide my boobs.

Looking back on that time, I wish I’d known about binders, but at night, I reveled in the pleasure of how they felt in a halter-top. They were my two edged sword. Oh how I wished I could be who I wanted to be.

Now that I’m older, and in transition, I celebrate my boobs. They fill my 52D bra and they look good under a tight shirt. Even without a bra, I look down and find joy in them. Now, I smile when I catch somebody looking at my chest. The tale-tell look on faces gives their thoughts away and in my mind I scream, I’m a woman damn it.

Over the course of my life, I assumed being overweight caused them to grow. Now I think different. I wonder if my male body kept a residual effect of being female in the womb. Still, my nipples are farther to the side, like man boobs, but I never wore a training bra. I never wore a bra for more than a few hours at night.

Also, without going into detail, my nipples have always been sensitive. When I suffered from a mysterious condition that I think was estrogen overdose, my breasts grew and my nipples were a source of pleasure.

I guess the proof will come, when I finally overcome the bulge and drop four dress sizes. I will know if they are mine or they are his. Even so, I look forward to getting into a smaller size. Hormones will distribute fat in a different way, and my nipples will be straight.

With all that to look forward to, I can’t wait. Like I said my boobs have been a two edged sword, but I love them.

This is: My Transition

I heard a question the other day. It made me think. A MTF asked about coming out to her family. She apparently wanted to tell everyone at a family reunion. She was concerned it would spoil the family gathering, and in the future.

I thought about my own extended family gatherings on both sides. They are well attended, by mostly conservative types. There are many true Christians, but the religious right runs prevalent. Telling them in a large group would be like a mouse stepping into a circle of alley cats.

My advice was to tell them in small groups or one at a time. Having come out to one person only, I’m not the best person to offer advice, but I think the news would be received better if you start with somebody who will support you when you tell the rest.

Also, my extended family aren’t close enough to trust with my vulnerable feelings. Even Caitlyn Jenner told close family members before she told the media. In my own transition, I have a plan and schedule. Even with that, there is no way I can plan for every contingency. There is just no way of knowing how the news will be received.

That’s why I suggested small groups, but with that said, It’s really not my place to suggest. My Transition is mine. Her transition is personal, too. Still, I’d love to hear how it goes if she decides to tell the whole bunch.

Some days, I want to tell the world, then I realize there are things that must be in place first. It’s not fear, just being practical.  

It Goes Both Ways

Those of us in the LGBT community, and especially transgender people, love to recite the injustices perpetrated by those who are full of hatred. In fact, it’s hard to overlook murder, so we tend to focus on the extreme religious right and condemn them.

To be fair, many of those (Including my friend who said we are possessed) had their intolerance wired from childhood. They were taught to fear those feelings of being born in the wrong body. Same sex attraction was never admitted. They suffered in silence.

In our transgender self-righteousness, we often cite the scriptures in our condemnation of intolerance. The other side uses them too. According to the religious right, we will all burn in hell. We, on the other hand try to point out the error of their religious missteps.

It’s a two edged sword of justice with plenty of guilt on both sides. I was proud when, as the leader of a certain hate group died a while ago, the LGBT community took the high road. Even though that hate group would’ve used the funeral for their protests, we chose to let the family mourn. In fact, many in our community, expressed sympathy for the loss.

Whether you believe in God or Karma, that is the right path. I’m reminded of stories from the trenches of WWI. The horrors of that war made many people believe in God. In one of those stories, it was Christmas. An impromptu truce was formed, because the combatants realized that God loved their enemy, as much as He loved them. Also, the enemy loved God as much as they did.

Christmas truces and not taking advantage of a protest opportunity are great signs of humanity. Turning the other cheek when you know you might be killed next, is another thing. As I’ve written before, I don’t think bigotry against transgender people will ever end. We live in a society that claims to celebrate individualism, but we want to reserve the right to dictate how far that expression can go.

We trans, however, stand at a crossroads. We must choose the scope of our activism. What do you think would’ve happened if the German soldiers who imprisoned Jews in WWII, suddenly lost power? Would the prisoners have killed every German they could find?

Ah, but you say, didn’t the allies take all the power away at the end of the war? Yes, but they didn’t abandon the fate of the captors. I’m sure there were many who begged for vengeance, but for the most part, the allies kept control of both parties and brought the guilty to a tribunal.

Yes there are many, still who feel that justice was not served, but a lot of those people deal with hate, and that emotion is the key. Do you hate your persecutors? Me, too. After a lifetime of ridicule and fear, I look back with anger, but as I get older, I also, see the opportunities to love I was given. I have a long way to go in some cases, but I’m trying to forgive.

Damn it’s hard, but that’s what I advocate. Perhaps forgiveness is the hardest thing we will ever do, but we must let it be. Hatred and the need for vengeance, will consume a loving heart, let it go. I’m not saying we shouldn’t remember, or that we shouldn’t fight for our rights. I’m saying I need to hold onto love from where it comes and release the hate.

Until recently, I didn’t know that my one desire throughout my life was to actually be a member of the traditionally passive gender. Sure, some women hate too, but many more, are models of love and compassion. I want to emulate that. It’s what being a woman is all about for me. I would betray my quest if I woke up in the hospital with a vagina and my heart was filled with hate.

I want to love my enemies—How about you?
 

Will it ever Stop?

I was in boy mode, dressed in shorts and a big T-shirt, (No Bra) and I went into the discount club store with my daughter. As I rounded a display, heading for the bakery, I came face to face with a man, who scrutinized me. Head to toe, several times. The look on his face said it all.

Okay, I know. I could be wrong, but in my mind he spotted a tranny and he didn’t like what he saw. To clarify further, my shorts were made for the female gender, but I had an altercation with our muddy dog, and my shorts were dirty. The shirt was old, with holes, so maybe he saw something else.

Then again, with my longer hair that curls in the back and my high forehead, I look a little androgynous. I’ve written before about how people notice a difference in me since I decided to transition. I think that man figured it out. Still, the look on his face pissed me off.

Although I’m working on eliminating my obstinate nature, I looked the guy straight in the eyes and said, “Have you got a problem, sir?” He turned away and nudged his wife to go another direction.

As I said, I can’t know what was in his mind. I’m overweight so maybe it was something else, when are people going to believe their own scriptures. If they believe in Christ, then they supposedly believe the commandment to love all mankind.

Also, you’d think that after a whole life of being the object of ridicule, I would’ve learned to ignore it by now. I thought I was past all of that. Perhaps the soaring summer temperatures are to blame, but he pushed a button.

As a young cross-dresser, reactions to my presentation were everything. Passing was more than whether I did or not. I grew up in a small town. There were laws that threatened to put me in jail for what I did. Consequently, I kept my cross-dressing to my self.

I relived that fear the other day in the discount warehouse. It made me feel like a freak. For a split second, I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. According to the Bible, differences, no matter what they are, must be tolerated. The Quran, from what I’ve read, is not a manifesto for intolerance either. Although there are excuses for bigotry built into the text of both.

Now, perhaps it’s the subject of a different blog post, but I want to know, when will we get past our western culture prejudice? When will we stop using religion to justify hatred? When will it cease? Whether the intolerant look, the other day, on the man’s face came form his beliefs or not, he really has no right to feel superior to me. Then again, neither do I have that right. I need to love him too. It’s only fair, and that will be the subject for my next blog post.

Not a Trendy Woman

I’m not an ordinary transgender woman. Since that word would never describe transgender anyway, my statement sounds like a contradiction, doesn’t it? Transgender women usually work hard at looking pretty. They want to blend in with CIS gender women, so presentation usually takes longer.

Many trans women follow trends in fashion, others make their own style. Getting caught, outside without makeup is terrible for them. It’s a little like reverting to the boys they once were. Consequently they primp and worry about image.

I tend to drift the other way, and I’ve come to identify with Cyrsti Hart who, like me, has a non-conforming approach to womanhood. She is one of my heroines. Until recently, her linebacker shoulders prevented her from wearing tanks and camis. Now, she looks great in them. Although I love to wear tanks around the house, I too, have linebacker shoulders.

Thank you Cyrsti, for adding this blog to your links on your blog.

In my non-traditional approach, I find myself dressing traditionally, like CIS gender women, who are my age. I dress up sometimes, but I lean toward the casual, and primping is not in my nature. Perhaps I would be different if I’d grown up as a girl, but I’m getting old, and most people don’t care how much makeup I wear anyway.

Cyrsti is happy with her femininity, but I plan to continue through GRS. I’ve learned it’s a personal thing, but for me, I always knew there was something wrong between my legs. When that day comes, and I wake up with a new vagina, perhaps I’ll primp. For now, though, I’m not a stylish transgender woman.

The Angst of GD

The closer I get on my timeline, to the next hurdle in transition, the more worried I get. What will I do if the therapist won’t sign off on hormones? I’ve seen posts on Facebook by people who were told no, and it adds to my anxiety.

After a life of filling the role, doing my best and then failing the gender I was born with, I can no longer function without that hope. There would be no hope.

Like so many others before me, I deeply regret not coming out sooner. Still, there are elements of the past fifty-plus years that I don’t regret. It’s a can of worms. Being condemned to live out the rest of my life as a male, however, would be a death sentence.

I would crawl into a hole and wait for the end. While thinking about the upcoming visit with a therapist, something occurred. It’s not about the child who wanted to do girl things. Also, it’s not about activities she preferred or the disconnected feelings she had with boys.

Although those things are part of gender dysphoria, therapists are concerned with the angst of their patient. I don’t know if I ever mentioned this but I hate job interviews. I don’t have the male confidence it takes to sell myself. Going to a therapist to sell the idea that I need to be a woman falls in with that.

In some units of the military the soldier is judged by their ability to blend in with their surroundings. I’m afraid it will be like that for me with the therapist. What if she decides that my ability to blend as a male is proof that I’m not a woman in the wrong body?

My angst is clear. My world fell apart ten years ago and I obediently tried to put it back together since. I failed. Call it a day. Stick a fork in me, I’m done. If my therapist won’t sign off, I will give up.

It occurred to me that if I could convince my therapist of my angst, she would sign off on the hormones and I would be on my way. Like a job interview, however, I can’t sell myself. I’m going to have to tell the truth and hope she can see my need.

What Does it Mean?

I overheard a conversation, one day, that made think. I’ve come to realize there are some discussions I need to stay out of. It seems I have strong opinions, but avoiding arguments is not the only reason.

I was in a group of conservatives and they were joking about Caitlyn Jenner and transgender people in general. I found myself debating whether I should reveal myself and set the record straight or remain quiet, and let my community down. I wanted to tell them they were embarrassing themselves, and they really didn’t know squat, but I remained quiet.

After a few minutes I realized my rare position. I was a spy in the enemy camp. I listened to the half-baked ideas and prejudice. Then, the idea for this blog post came to mind. A few moments into the conversation I heard so many untruths I realized that many CIS-gender people really don’t have a clue.

In light of when this will post, let’s talk about Independence Day. As you know, two hundred thirty-nine years ago, because of the tyranny of a king, a group of men signed an original document. Two hundred or so, years later, I read an Independence Day article that explored the question, what does it mean to be an American? As we celebrate the Declaration of Independence in the United States, this year, perhaps we should answer the question: What does it mean to be transgender?

Since being transgender is a personal thing, and gender dysphoria manifests itself in many ways, There are many answers to the question. So, let me try to explain what it means to me, and supplicate the responses from others.

First and foremost, is my great need to be. Like the men who found life so unbearable, they decided to risk everything to break away from mother country, Life is unbearable for me. My great need to break away from the gender I was born with makes me willing to risk everything to finally be a woman.

Many CIS people make hurtful jokes and just don’t understand our need. They ask things like, why can’t you just be the gender you were born to be? Trust me, I tried. I fought a constant battle throughout my life. Through it all, the need didn’t change.

Why can’t you just cross dress? It’s not about the clothes. There are many, for whom the thrill of dressing is enough. For me, femininity is a state of mind that doesn’t depend on how I’m dressed. The trappings of womanhood do hold a lure though, but like my desire to play house instead of baseball, it just feels comfortable.

Do you feel you were born in the wrong body? Many people do, but asking that question infers you believe in life before birth. I don’t believe the higher power makes mistakes, but the truth is, we just don’t know. Whether it was medical, spiritual, or some kind of cosmic mistake, my brain was wired to be a girl, even though my body was male.

If we were to talk about body parts, and impotency, I should’ve been a girl.

Many people in the extreme religious right wing debate the transgender medical condition. They hold on to antiquated ideas that transgender is a mental condition. Is that true? It doesn’t surprise me they hold that opinion. The theory helps them hold onto their vision of normal. Believe me, I spent most of my life in agreement with them. I thought I was abnormal. I was alone—I was crazy. Now, I know, I’m not alone. I understand where those feelings came from. As to what caused them . . . I’m persuaded to believe in the XXY syndrome.

The research proving a hormonal connection in the mother’s womb is also very appealing to me. Whatever the cause, I believe there are many more transgender people in the world than anybody realizes. Its just that many people have a bigger shovel and they’re able to bury the feelings.

During some of the more vulnerable moments in my life, I hated myself. I hated what I was. I felt I should be locked up or I should never have been born. That and the ridicule are two compelling reasons for so many suicides. Feeling abnormal can bring anyone to the brink. Is that a mental condition? Maybe, but suicide is prevalent in all walks of life. Depression, fear of the unknown, and persecution is hard to handle. Still we must help our fellow beings feel better about their life.

There is so much to say about this subject, I just don’t have the space in one post. I wanted to first address the myth that somebody suddenly chooses to be transgender. Holy crap! What a ludicrous idea—with all the ostracism and self-loathing that has been my life? That’s like suggesting a child would choose to have bad vision, there are many more examples I could use, but I think I made my point. Transgender life has been so hard for me, I would’ve never made that choice.

To me, being transgender in transition means I will finally match. Having the plumbing that matches the way I think will, hopefully, bring peace.

I will post more of this question in the coming weeks. I plan to take up this question on social media and other sources. Then, I will post comments, and quest blogs. Maybe we can dispel the myths I heard, while spying on that conversation.

So now it’s your turn. Help the world understand. Tell us what being transgender means to you. True understanding, begets love and isn’t that what we all need anyway?

And by the way, have a great Independence Day.

Once, Upon a Memory

I was removing stuff from my home office the other day. I think I told you that I haven’t used his office for years and it needs paint. I’m reclaiming that space and taking a lot of his stuff out of there.

I know. It sounds strange. One minute I talk about how he is part of me. The next minute, I’m purging him from my life. Let me explain.

The man I was, failed. If I had to do it again, I wouldn’t have tried to be the boy I was born to be. No, I’m not talking about suicide. Although I’ve thought about it over the years, (Who hasn’t. It’s part of being transgender.). Anyway, knowing what I know now, I would be me. Transition wasn’t an option back then, but I would’ve lived according to who I was inside.

That being said, however, I’m very grateful for the joys of my life before. He received many blessings from God and he had good times, too. So while boxing memories that just don’t fit in the life of a fifty-something year young, woman, I relived some of his memories.

At first, I worried that recapping would help me remember and discourage my resolve. His football trophy, for example, reminded me of my determination to be the boy I was born to be and my method of doing that was to be aggressive, to gain respect by being tough. Could I do that again, thereby remaining a man?

No I cannot. I cannot live the rest of my life without transition. Something surprised me while boxing stuff, though. I fell in love with him. Some things were rough, but he did a good job for a long time. I raised my imaginary glass in a toast to him. We won many of the battles in the war against dysphoria. We lost many more of them. We made the most of our resources, and I’m proud of me.

Some of those memories are part of who I am now, and I’ll bring them back out of the box when I finish redecorating. When I wake up after GRS, I will be complete, but I will celebrate the journey and who he was, because he is me, and I am him. We are the woman that I am.

I think his dirty work hat, however, will stay in the box. I just can’t find a place for it in my feminine décor.

What Would You Do?

I don’t remember the first time, but I remember the pain. The incapacitating feeling of being able to do nothing but breathe and moan. Like knocking your funny bone on the counter or getting your breath knocked out, it has to be endured.

For a man, getting hit in the balls invokes a protective response. I think it’s conditioned from the pain, but either way, its what made Huck Finn close his legs when the woman tested the reality of him being a girl.

Lately, I’ve been wishing my testicles were gone. The advantages would be terrific. I could cross my legs easier, although I now practice what I call the ball crusher maneuver, where I try to squeeze the life out of those little suckers. It’s a very interesting experience. Is that crazy?

Another advantage of having them gone is blocking testosterone. With them gone, My estrogen levels could increase. Of course, I’m not a hormone doctor, but it sounds logical. Either way I’m finished with them. Maybe I could donate them.

When you’re desperate and without resources, you tend to hope for magical solutions like winning the lottery. Anyway, speaking of magical solutions, my writer’s mind dreamed up a solution for me the other day. I thought about an episode of the MASH TV series. In the show, Margaret met a sexy guy, but he couldn’t perform because of an accident.

Okay, you know where I’m going with this, but I need to insert a disclaimer: I am by no means, into masochism. The kids who cut themselves turn my stomach. Still, barring the pain and all that, wouldn’t it be nice to be in an accident?

Those were my thoughts the other day when I was thinking about being rid of my testicles. Suddenly, I remembered the protective reflexes and wondered what I would do. What would you do if your balls were threatened?

Every time I ever got hit down there, it happened so fast, I couldn’t have thought about it if I wanted to. That’s the way accidents happen, but what would you do if that were different? Let’s assume you saw it coming. It makes me cringe to think about scenarios, but let’s assume something sharp and dangerous is headed for your scrotum and you have time to react.

What would you do? Would you get out of the way? Would you close your eyes and let it happen? Fortunately, we humans were born with an instinct of self-protection, but if it meant you would be rid of your male gender parts?

When my genitals are taken, it will be under sedation in a medical facility, but being involved in an accident that forces the issue . . . I know I need the process, but we all dream, don’t we?




   

Facial Feminization Surgery?

I don’t remember which one, but a point was once made on a blog I follow. She said, that transgender folks know more about the timer settings on cameras than anyone. It’s true, we take a lot of selfies. Then, many of us post them to Facebook and on our blogs. I love seeing new pictures of my friends. They are my heroines and I hope to emulate their beauty.

A comment about one of those pictures, though, made me think. The lady who posted her picture has since, left Facebook and I regret not knowing her better. Anyway, the comment was something like, you say you are happy, but your smile doesn’t reflect that.
 
Some of those selfies I mentioned, some of the ladies are grinning from ear to ear. It’s obvious they are comfortable in their own skin. They finally got what they have prayed for through the years and it shows on their faces.

I’m not sure why others don’t smile, perhaps they are worried about presentation. Perhaps it’s a natural state that fear of discovery has caused. As for me, I have terrible teeth. There are times when the euphoria of being a girl is so strong I grin from ear to ear. Then I retrench because of my teeth.

Needless to say, I will be getting my teeth fixed as part of my transition. I look forward to the day when my soul is set free to smile like all my heroines on Facebook. I was thinking of that while applying my makeup one day. I examined my nose and my jaw. Will other parts of my face, ravaged by testosterone need the application of a scalpel?

I’ve read that HRT can have a softening effect and I’m hoping for that, because there are times when I wish I could present well without makeup or fussing. Will the blockers reverse some of the damage caused by testosterone? Will I have to work harder at than CIS girls? Which brings us back to the scalpel.

I guess being old has its blessings. I refuse to compete with younger MTFs or with CIS girls. Getting the right plumbing and permission to act and feel like my authentic gender will be wonderful, but the before and after pictures of my heroines make me wonder.

Recently, the before an after pictures of Ann Kelly, on Facebook, have delighted many of us. The change is encouraging and I think about the possibilities. Ann is so beautiful, but she exercises hard. Her body is a reward and you can see joy in her face.

I know that beauty and happiness come from within a soul, but could I benefit from the scalpel? I think I will wait and give HRT a chance. Maybe with my joy, I will be beautiful too.
     

F2M

I met a new acquaintance the other day. He is younger than me and we have something in common. For his privacy I will call him George. Anyway, we were waiting for the doors to open on our first day on a new job and I introduced myself.

He paused, apparently struggling with the name he was given at birth, but ended up saying, “My friends call me George.”

Because of the chest binder and the fact that I am trans, I knew George was, too. I asked, “Are you in transition?”

My question seemed to surprise him. Probably because of the conservative place where we live, and the fact that very few are accepting of people like us. I called him George and told him I was glad to meet him. I wanted to share my transition with him, but I didn’t. He mentioned how hard it is to get treatment when you don’t make lots of money and understanding doctors are few. Still, George is much closer to his goal than I am to mine, and that intimidated me.

In contemplation of that chance meeting, many thoughts came to mind. George is tossing away what I dearly wish for and I always had a hard time understanding that. You see, I hated being a boy. Yes, there’s a lot to be said for peeing standing up, but I will gladly give that up to be a woman.

That’s when it dawned on me and I realized something so basic, I’m ashamed I never thought of it before. The idea that Gender Dysphoria is all-inclusive. We didn’t chat about it, but George must’ve dealt with the same feelings I had. Our birth gender was confused. He must’ve hated the things in childhood that I craved.

There must’ve also been other similarities too. I played the game so well, that people call me masculine. He played the game and ended up with the traits I adore. We now have a ton of traits to undo. No matter the age when we jump on bus, society has an effect.

I envy George, however. He is much younger than I, and he will have the rest of his life to enjoy his choices.   

Now, after all of that, I understand, and I feel stupid for not realizing it before. More troubling to me, though, is why I didn’t tell George I am trans, too.

I love you guys.  

Inclinations

Recently, I wrote about my experience on Facebook with a man who thinks transgender people are possessed. After discussing it with some other friends I began to turn inward and think about my own life of entrenchment.

Obviously, my bigoted friend has more in his personal life than he would ever want anybody to know. The clue is found in the line from Shakespeare “The lady doth protest to much, methinks.”

In other words, the loudest critics are often guilty of the same affliction. That makes your mind dance when you apply that truth to Mike Huckabe and his recent comments.

As I turned the principle inward, I remembered things from my life. There were many times, while deeply entrenched in my closet, I made too much fuss. While trying to ignore my own inclinations I reacted to others in a negative way.

Okay, you can throw rocks at me, but since deciding to transition, I’m trying to reverse all that. Foremost in my mind, is how I reacted to my uncle’s announcement that he would transition. To be fair, I didn’t condemn, but I wasn’t supportive. There were bridges I could’ve built but I was in hiding. My aunt has gone it alone, and I’m proud of her.

Now I’m in transition, I would love to reconnect but I can read the signs, and I’m sure there are others in my family who suffer from gender dysphoria. I intend to nurture and defend each one as they come out. In the mean time, I protest the inhuman treatment being perpetrated in the world.

That’s where we are in our society. Some of our most loved friends and family are choosing be happy and become the gender they identify with. We can choose to condemn or embrace them. A universal truth that seems to be ignored is that one does not have to embrace the sin to love the sinner.

Whether transgender and gay people are sinning is not ours’ to judge. The bible gives specific instructions and we must embrace our fellow man.

Judgements

I usually file stuff like that under everybody is entitled to their opinion, but I couldn’t do that the other day. One of my conservative friends claimed to be doing research and she re-posted an article by a dinosaur who claims psychiatric accreditation. He offered his opinion about transgender people, and I’ve been doing a slow burn since.

He, like most everyone in his profession used to do, claims we are suffering from a mental condition. He went on to give permission for religious hatred and persecution. Well, to be fair, I don’t think he knows the hatred is implied.

 So, I don’t really care if somebody thinks I’m crazy, but I resent somebody claiming they understand what it’s like to be me. You see, I’ve been fighting this thing through my whole life. I think I know how it feels better than some old guy who believes I am a sinner, going against God’s wishes.

As a young man, I was convinced that I was crazy. As an older, young man, I went through a period of intense religious training and service. I experienced many gifts from God, but even during that time, I couldn’t shake those feelings. I was able to temporarily put my dysphoria out of mind, but God never completely took it away.

With the advent of certain media times and trends, everything trans has been pushed onto society lately. I understand that many people are confused. They don’t understand and they admit that, but to spout your religious beliefs and claim them as fact only confuses people more. Especially, if you happen to have accreditation.

Worse is to claim to understand transgender people, without ever talking to one, is like somebody trying to determine how a dog feels, based on the prejudice of being a human. I’ll get into that later, though.

You see, I’ve been fighting this thing through my whole life. I think I know how it feels better than some old guy who thinks it goes against God’s wishes. As a young man, I was convinced that I was crazy. As an older, young man, I went through a period of intense religious training and service. I experienced many gifts from God, but even during that time, I couldn’t shake those feelings. I was able to temporarily put my dysphoria out of mind, but God never completely took it away.

So now I am old, and I’m tired of fighting against my dysphoria. The studies that conclude gender dysphoria is an actual medical condition, proves nothing. Neither do the studies that point out the hormone connection between a fetus and the mother’s womb. You see, the good doctor, previously mentioned, will not accept those studies.

Contrary to the doctor’s belief, the truth is that without actually being transgender, there is no way outsiders could ever hope to understand. Some people come close, but they can’t empathize. They can’t begin to understand how it feels. How could they after all, we are freaks right? Of course I’m being facetious.

Anyway, on Facebook, I tried to persuade my friend to actually do the research. I rebutted the article, and I asked her to talk to people who actually suffer. Before long, I was called out for what I said. Another of my writing acquaintances began to tell me how wrong I was . . . Okay, you should know, that circle of friends don’t know yet. Still, can you relate to the irony?

He went on to misquote scripture, and even went so far as to claim that we are possessed . . . yes that’s what he said. Needless to say, the discussion degraded from that point. I never came out to him, but I made several points that he could never hope to understand. At one point my other friend, deleted the whole post.

Feeling infuriated, I asked another person, a friend who knows about me, if I am possessed. I went on to say, if I’m possessed, then I have been, for my whole life. Even during that period of intense religious training and service. I’ve been fighting this battle forever.

In retrospect, I’ve concluded we have no hope of changing minds. When I come out to those writer friends in that circle, they will think I’m crazy. Most of them knew me during my last stand, the final battle to be the man I was born to be. Yes those friends will be shocked, annoyed, and condemning. Why do I care? Because I spent a lot of time building those relationships. I care too much to see them write the whole thing off, out of hand.

Hooray for Love

I can't help thinking that this whole thing would be different if only the right wing had agreed to a civil partnership law. They threw down the gauntlet by saying two people had to be married in order to get the rights people deserve. The "Sacred" word, (Marriage) wouldn't be an issue.

Still, I'm thrilled to know that anybody who loves somebody can now be married. 

Never Current

I’ve mentioned that I often write these posts ahead of time. If the muse crawls into my fingers, I often write several at a time. Consequently, by the time I post them, the subjects tend to be old news. My readership, however, isn’t what others have, so who cares, right? I do. Since I’m a writer by trade, I need to promote me and by extension, my writing.

Since I was deep in the closet when I started this blog, the readership didn’t matter. Now, I’m preparing to come out to all my family & friends and extend my public writing career to my authentic self. To accomplish that, I need to promote my blog. To accomplish that, I need to be current and consistent.

In an effort to do that, I began to post a series of articles last week. I set them to publish on their own but life got in the way and I didn’t get Friday published. As I said, my goal is to be consistent. Wish me luck.

She . . .

At the wig shop the other day, I had an interesting experience. I had dropped off an ancient black wig for restyling and was picking it up. I had to wait for the lady in head of me and another customer came into the store.

The stylist was alone in the shop and said, “let me help her.” Now, what floored me was not that she was taking care of the other woman, but the stylist was talking about me. Somehow I knew that the “her” she referred to, was me, without even noticing the pronoun.

She used it again, and again. When I finally noticed, the pronoun took hold and I wanted to cry. Yes, I know the importance of pronouns for transgender people, but as compared to others I’m just beginning my transition.

I also know that transition actually begins at birth for all of us, but I’ll address that philosophical talking point in another post, suffice it to say, I am thrilled. after a life full of having masculine pronouns forced down my throat, I’m elated.

I am her and she. Not him or he. I am the woman and I always was. The black wig I brought was used when in directly inherited the thing. I hoped for a flat and straight style, because black always makes my head look bigger.

They weren’t able to give me what I wanted. It was just too old and thin, so I got a big hair style that, as predicted, makes my head look huge. I thought about red lipstick and white foundation. Maybe I could try some Gothic eye shadow.

On the drive home, I kept looking in the rearview mirror and I got an idea. I tied on a scarf to pull the height down. It’s my windy day look. What do you think? 

Writing Blogs and Books

This post might piss some of you off, but it must be said. Keep in mind I’m not a perfect writer, either.

There’s a trend in the trans community that I applaud, but it bothers me, too. I know it’s not actually the case, but it seems that the whole world wants to write a book about their transgender life. I'm sure that many of them have wonderful stories to tell, but . . .

Some of those same people are bloggers and they post their complaints about the whole Caitlyn Jenner thing. The opinions vary, but the theme is generally the same. They talk about how Caitlyn never had to struggle, like they have. They mention the carnival like, atmosphere surrounding her very public coming out party.

Basically, Jenner is capitalizing on the same feelings we all had as children. Gender dysphoria runs deep in my generation. Anyway, isn’t everybody who writes a book, also capitalizing on that dysphoria?

It’s true. Exposure is good, but if that exposure draws more negative attention . . . Well, that’s another matter. As many of you know, because I’ve posted about it here, in my masculine life, I’ve been a writer of fiction. By all means I’m not an expert in the English language, neither am I extremely successful in that endeavor. I do, however, know when somebody writes poorly.

When the self-pub/Ebook craze hit, I cringed for many reasons. The authors immediately began pricing themselves out the market, and I knew there would be a landslide of books available that normally would never be published.

I’ve read many of the Trans biographies and as I suspected, most of them would benefit from the services of an editor. Now before you take offense, remember, I never mentioned any of the books by name, and you should know, I am probably in more need of an editor than anybody.

Perhaps you will see what I mean if you read through the posts on this blog. As a writer of novels, however, I wouldn’t dare publish a book without an editor. I don’t know why so many trans women want to write their biographies, but please be careful. Do the best job you can. There will be many who read your book to mock it, don’t make it easier for them.

With that being said, I love you, sisters.

Life on the Train

Do you remember last year, when I jumped off the train? At that time I wrote:

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.

That was a year ago, and I stayed on the train. There have been things during the last year that made me cry. Some things made me grin, but I’m still on the train. I’m here for the duration and I’m sad I couldn’t see a therapist a year ago. One more year against the day when I wakeup in the hospital with my vagina.

I got everything right the other day. Makeup was good. Hair was fantastic. Clothes were beautiful and I cried. I might’ve been born a male, but I am a woman. I am so ready . . . If only I could have the resources Ms. Jenner has, then I could do more than covet.

That will be my happy place. I will dream of inheriting a small fortune. Did you ever listen to the lyric of, If I were a Rich Man, from Fiddler on the Roof?

If I were a rich man, dubie dubie dum
I would be the woman that I am,
If I were a wealthy man.

Of course, between the cost of hormones, doctors, and surgeries, I wouldn’t be a rich woman at the end of it. Still, just so you won’t think I’m selfish, I wish I had the resources to assist others in their quest. I would be the woman that helps others, but I would do for myself, too. God bless you, sisters. I love you.

Would you like a little Cheese with that Whine?

After my failure to attend my Saturday Pride event, a realization painfully resurfaced. I’ve posted about it before, and still need friends.

The nature of Gender dysphoria, at least in my generation, made many of us introverts. Not because we don’t crave companionship, but because we thought we were freaks. We locked ourselves in the security of our closets to dabble in the need we didn’t understand.

With the development of the Word Wide Web, I and many others, learned we are not alone, but even with that, we were still alone. We learned we weren’t freaks, but cyberspace, is no place to develop relationships.

Since I bought my ticket and climbed on the train, I’m painfully reminded how much I need a friend. I have the best intentions, but being alone in strange places prevents me from exploring my new identity. I tell myself I’ll go to pride night at the local bar and never go. If I had somebody to go with . . .

I wonder how having somebody waiting for me would’ve helped me get to the pride event. I need somebody to cross the bridges with me. It would help if they’d been this way before, but I need a friend.

Okay, the whining will cease now, carry on as before.

Inferiority Complex

If Kimberly Huddle is your Facebook friend, you know that she posts a daily picture with the tag of today’s inferiority complex. I always enjoy those posts of beautiful women, but when you’re the size of a linebacker, those pictures do exactly that, to you. Then again, maybe if things had been different . . .

Recently, I found my daughter’s BCBGMAXAZRIA spring catalog for 2015 on the back of the toilet. The fashions were gorgeous, then came, the smack in the face. It was a whole book, full of inferiority complexes.

I haven’t been living in a cave for my whole life. I know what models look like, but for some reason I was struck by how thin those ladies actually are. Still, they make the clothes look good. I tried to imagine wearing the fashions, and came up short. Beautiful dresses, that would never work for a woman my size.

On the other hand, I don’t have the money anyway . . . Hmmm. I believe that constitutes a catch-22.

Pride is . . . the best laid plans.

The best laid plans of mice and men . . . that quote from the classic novel, tends to describe so much of my life. I got the time off. The plan called for staying in a hotel. I would spend the whole weekend meeting new friends and building my tribe.

The reality turned out different. Through employment, and family responsibilities, I didn’t get up there until Saturday but then again . . .

I planned to stop at the wig shop on the way to get my new hair adjusted and drop off an ancient wig for restyling. I got that far. Raindrops hit my windshield and I remembered I’d forgotten my umbrella. Added to the fact that I didn’t want to fight traffic and find a parking space close by.

I still have tomorrow. It’s parade day anyway. On the plus side, My wig fits perfectly and I never want to take it off. Damn I need to transition. As the title indicates, Pride is . . . is the theme this year. For me, pride is hard to attend. Anyway, wish me luck.

PS A family thing came up so I didn’t make Pride in SLC this year. There will be another opportunity this year, however, but I won’t talk about that. I don’t want to Jinx my chances.

The Butterfly Club

In a recent post, I wrote about the elusive butterfly. I talked about the song, but I also mentioned the symbolism of butterflies. Not to belabor the point, but it simply fascinates me. Imagine being a lowly caterpillar. Subject to the elements. Birds prey on you. Then, if you survive, you get to start your cocoon. When that is finished, you are totally exposed. Birds could still eat you.

During the time you are in your cocoon, your body changes. It’s a complete metamorphosis. Then when you are ready, you emerge and make adjustments. Fine tuning your new body, learning to appreciate the nuances. After the change, you spread your wings and fly. You are beautiful.

As transgender humans, we live our lives trying to survive the world we were born into. Survival depends on how well we play the game. Hazing, even death waits if we unsuccessfully wear the mask. At some point in our existence, something awakens within. For some, it happens later in life, for others, its sooner. The awakening is a personal thing.

Waking up makes us crawl into a cocoon, preparing for the grand event. During that time, we are exposed. The irony is interesting. Coming out means we have built our cocoon. During our time in the cocoon, we are vulnerable. Anybody with an agenda can and will pick at us, trying to make us give up.

HRT, during the cocoon phase often must be endured alone. After all, it’s a cocoon. It’s lonely in there. Toward the end of our cocoon experience, FFS and GRS are options that will make the whole unveiling more delightful.

Finally, we emerge, beautiful, ready to be the person we were born to be. The butterfly in our soul flies. Our soul is complete.

In another blog post, I coined a phrase I have never heard before. I said we were all members of the butterfly club, and so it should be. Many of us already wear the symbols of our freedom. The butterfly pendants on chains around our necks are symbols of our desire. After all, butterflies are free. 

Hopes & Understanding at the Pride Festival

I’ve been trying to get there in two different cities for years now. I’m crossing my fingers and toes this year, but it seems that something always works against me, and things come up.

Something is different this year though. I have a stronger reason to go. In previous years, attending the event appealed to me because I am Trans and it would be an opportunity to meet other members of the butterfly club.

Did you catch that? I just coined a new phrase. At least it’s new to me. I’ve talked about butterflies before and how they are the perfect representation of the feelings of transgender people. By virtue of gender dysphoria, we are all members of the same club. I just called us the butterfly club.

Anyway, back to pride . . .

As a boy, I built my life with blinders on. I didn’t allow for any other possibilities, because I was squelching my feminine self. So, when gay rights began, I mostly ignored the battle cry of inclusion.

When I finally got my head on straight and accepted transition, I didn’t subscribe to the whole LGBTQ thing. I wasn’t gay and my activism was confined to other political issues. I accepted the umbrella thing, I never heard much about the ‘T’ in the acronym. I was part of the community, but I’m not sure I felt welcomed, and I never made it to pride either.

One of the problems of being transgender, is the loneliness. Many of us spent our lives convinced there was something wrong with us, therefore, solitary expression was the only way. I need transgender friends, people who understand my feelings. Going to pride holds the promise of making those acquaintances. I have to go this year, but that’s still, not, the stronger reason.

Isn’t it interesting how focused our lives can be? Those blinders, I wore, helped me ignore much. I’m no better or worse than anyone, just self absorbed. Recently, I listened to associates talk about religious freedom. When I mentioned the Jim Crow laws of the past, they actually told me that they feel persecuted. To put it my words, they feel threatened by those who they would put in chains.

Ignoring history to repeat it, was nothing new. I’ve been fighting right wing politicians for years. Then, thanks to the recent atrocities committed in the name of religion, my activist mind has reawakened. Oh how I wish the bigots could see they are NOT doing God’s work.

In another conversation that I chose to delete on Facebook, those zealots reposted a link to an article about a lesbian couple who chose to put their son on testosterone blockers, because he is transgender and they wanted him to wait until he got older to make the decision.

As you might’ve guessed, the zealots felt it was child abuse. One of them actually said that boy has no chance. My God, are they that blind? I wondered how they would feel about it, if like me, that boy had been born in a religious family with two heterosexual parents (Male and Female).

I see a wonderful kid with the same gender dysphoria I have. What a blessing that her parents are aware. She will have all the blessings I never could’ve had. Those same zealots haven’t accounted for the boy’s ability to choose for herself.  

So this year, I have a stronger reason to attend. Whether I feel included under the umbrella or not, I cannot remain on the sidelines. I still believe, as I once did that people have no right to push their beliefs and lifestyles onto others. That includes the religious right.

For me, the gates are open. I’m a neophyte, but I am part of LGBTQ. I am a woman—I am trans. I’m going to wear my white capris so it better be warm. I’m going to volunteer to help educate the public. I’m going to have fun and maybe, just maybe, I will meet my tribe.      

Under Siege

Recently, I went out of town and took my friend’s trailer. I was invited to attend a conference of people who know me as a man. It was to be held in a small town, so I got reservations in a campground and stayed the whole weekend. Remember I said it was a small town? Not much happens after five pm.

Still, I got out. See the picture? It’s my Sunday, go to meeting outfit, without makeup. That reminds me, I need a makeover, and some serious training. While on my trip, though, I wrote. Did I tell you that I write fiction? I’m currently writing a murder mystery with a transgender character. I’ll tell you more about that later, anyway, while writing, I was flooded with memories from my own life.

Since my resolution to transition, those memories have increasingly bombarded me. Dealing with those memories has become an emotional thing, though.

You see on one hand, they provide confirmation that yes, I was born with gender dysphoria and I should’ve transitioned years ago. On the other hand, controlling the tears is sometimes hard. So much of my life was wasted and if I had only seen things the way they were . . . there is just too much (if only).

I’m under siege, not sure when the memories will attach. It’s like PMS and I didn’t get the right plumbing. Oh that I could’ve been given the right plumbing. Anyway, during the bombarding, I remember events, that if only they had played out the right way, I would be a woman today. Isn’t it funny how we can generally pinpoint the moment in our life when things went to hell?

To be fair, however, I had a good life, it just wasn’t the feminine one I wish I had. Well, there were aspects, but everybody has those. Then again, I would’ve made it through certain things easier if I didn’t have the masculine thing to deal with, too. See it’s like PMS?

Recently, I was hit by a few of those moments and the memories forced me to admit something to myself. Sound interesting? Maybe it is. Let me explain,

During puberty, I had a friend who was probably gay. And of course I was transgender, although that term wasn’t even invented yet. In my innocence, I didn’t understand. I’d also been indoctrinated from the beginning of my life. My masculine self was taught an attraction to females.

I loved girls. I still do, but as I said, there were small events that if they had been acted on, my life would’ve played out differently.

As we all know, most men think with their penis. Satisfaction in life is usually determined by how much attention that penis receives. As for me, I noticed a disconnect at an early age. Performance anxiety left me unhappy, but if only . . .

The friend I mentioned, and I, used to hang out together. He patiently listened to my suggestion that we pretend we were girls. Little did I know that fantasy was a solitary, and not a group thing. I wonder where that friend is now.

I stared at a billboard today and notice an attraction to a pretty girl. The attraction shocked me though, because it wasn’t about sex. I wanted to emulate her. I wanted to do my makeup like hers.

Okay, I’m sure you caught on by now. As my mind turns to unfulfilled wishes, in my old age, I’ve discovered something new. As I unlearn fifty-something years of programming, My mind has made room for other possibilities. No. I’m not gay. I’m a heterosexual female. And Damn, I never thought you would hear that from me, especially when you consider my post titled Great Minds Think Alike. I still hate those macho types, but . . .