I put on a western shirt with snaps for work the other day, and stopped at a coffee shop. I had left too many buttons undone, and suddenly noticed an odd feeling. I had revealed too much. It wasn’t a big deal, but it just didn’t feel right.
As a boy, I was expected to go shirtless at times, but I never did. Even when it was required in gym glass, I didn’t conform. I had breasts and knew the kind of ribbing I would take had I complied. Now I am trans and my breasts are more prevalent. In the coffee shop, I felt exposed, To myself I said, I’m not that kind of girl. The meaning is clear, as a boy with breasts, I was afraid of ribbing, but its different now.
In my mind, modesty took center stage. “I’m not that kind of girl.” The words echo through my mind. All through my life, I wished I’d been born a girl. At fourteen, I begged to be different. I cried for days when I realized it would never happen. Through it all I never referred to myself as a girl.
As I embark on setting things right, I look forward to the adventure. Some things need to be relearned, other things come natural, but other than the struggles of coming out, I am at peace. Almost every day, a memory of some kind comes back. My whole life has been a series of incidents. Events, taken individually, don’t amount to much. Strung together through a whole life, however, they confirm my need to be a woman.
One of those incidents came back the other day. It was years ago, I was alone, camping by the river in my friend’s trailer, and I was board. I snooped in the drawers and found a box of tampons. I stared at them, wishing they were part of my life.
I had it bad. My dysphoria was raging, but I didn’t understand. A short time later, I rented that trailer and lived in another place on the river. Every night, I dressed in a different expression of feminine attire. At least as much as I could muster, considering my limited resources back then. I was alone, but it was the first time I ever presented out of my own bedroom. If I hadn’t been so busy trying to fill the role I was born with, transition might’ve entered my mind. Of course that was the late nineteen-seventies and SRS was still in infancy.
Still, I was happier as a woman. I wish I’d stayed that way.
I believe that through our mindset, and inspiration from Deity, portions of our lives are brought to mind. Those incidents teach us something. I am learning that my dysphoria went far deeper than I first believed. It’s time for me to live, to follow the dream. Yes, the prospect of being alone in my old age frightens me, but to die without the vagina I always needed, would be a tragedy.
Be well my friends. Take courage. Know there will be hate and adversity, but you are trans, and you are strong. I love you.
