Mixing With His Friends

Even without hormones, I have changed since I began transition. Nothing drastic, other than a lack of hair, I’ve let the hair on my head grow, and its not right yet. Of course it will never be exactly right because of male pattern baldness, but that’s another subject.

Getting back the fact of my change, I went to a writer’s conference last weekend. The male who I was, learned to network with people who would never understand some of the stories I’m writing now. We talked about my inability to submit my manuscripts and I realized it’s because of my transition, but I’ll talk about that in a second.

Most of my writer friends noticed changes, but I don’t think they put them together with what’s really going on in my life. It’s been at least a year since we’ve seen each other and his Facebook profile still has a beard.

I watched their eyes. They knew something was different and I kept thinking, Yes I’m changing, but wait until next year. I plan to attend the conference then after going full time. I will be a woman. I bet they won’t recognize me.

So there we were, trying to catch up, while my soul wanted to scream out, “I’m going to be the woman that I always wanted to be.” Instead, I talked about some of the writing projects I finished, and what I’m currently working on.

I strategically omitted the book about the woman who finds a lesbian lover just in time for somebody to murder her abusive husband. Then there is the mystery that revolves around a trans woman who has decided to live an authentic life.

I talked about his writing projects. He wrote woman’s fiction that I’m rewriting. I’ve discovered I write differently than my masculine self.

Anyway, at one point, my emotions took over and I felt like a fraud. Not because of transition, but because of my writing.

As any transgender person will tell you, my life is in flux. I am neither, him or me. I am vulnerable, but what do I do with a book he published, I can’t be who he was, anymore. I can’t do book signings as him, because I’m not him.

So there it is, in a nutshell, so to speak. I will publish the books he wrote, and I will give him credit. I know that solution seems simple but it’s been a real quandary for me. I feel liberated. Time to move forward. Time for me to get an agent.

Deleting the Masculine

 I’ve talked about playing the role, on here before. I mentioned how many of us in my generation tried to accept what we couldn’t change, trying to fit the role cast upon us by birth.

In my life I tried so hard that I built a life of masculine mystique. As part of that life, I acquired office space in one of the rooms in our house. Since I do all my writing in other spaces, like coffee shops, I scarcely entered that office for about six years. I went in there this morning and looked at the walls, and discovered another reason.

As part of a recent writer’s event I attended a class about writing spaces, that’s why I went in there. I explored the feng shui and came to several conclusions. Then, I realized the real problem.

It’s full of him.

Ever since I started transition, I’ve been a different person. I want different things out of life. I finally feel alive and the trinkets that used to draw my attention belong to some guy. I know that sounds a little crazy, but seriously, I’m not him anymore.

I realized the need to erase him. Okay, I’m not that crazy. I know I wouldn’t be who I am without my masculine self. He brought us to this point and I can’t go forward without him. My experiences are here in my head, but my life has changed direction.

I’ll keep a few of the remembrances, but I need to get rid of everything else. I need to gut the office, repaint, and redecorate. My family will flip when they see the change. In essence, I need to move forward and I can’t take his stuff with me.

Anybody know a good decorator?  

Believe

I found a trinket at the convenience store the other day. Not that it hasn’t been done before, (Remember the pet rock?) Somebody got the brilliant idea to sell rocks. I bought the one above.

I’ve never been one to buy gimmicks and like everybody, I carry far too many things in my pockets, both metaphorically and literally. This rock intrigued me, however. You get the idea. A person carries it like rosaries, and they rub it while they focus on the desired wish.

My one wish is to be the woman I always wanted to be. Now, whenever somebody is cruel to the boy who would be a girl, I can rub the stone and believe. I believe I can make my life complete. I can draw confidence from the woman I am. I can catch the brass ring, because I believe.

Sisters, you can too.   

Coming Out

Sounds like a wonderful cleansing doesn’t it? Like taking a shower, to be able to wash the grime off. I’m not sure the shower analogy fits, though, because that would insinuate being transgender is a bad thing.

For more years than I can count, I did my best to hide the satin. After all, normal folks weren’t like that. Growing up in Utah in the early sixties, We were all alone. As I mentioned here in this blog, I’m just now, recalling most of it. Repression is a wonderful thing, until it all comes back in a virtual picture show.

I now consider it a blessing. Being trans is a wonderful thing, and I don’t care who knows about me. With that being said however, I have reservations. I want to spill my guts, so bad, but it will change the façade I built over the years.

I’ve been reading stuff on how to do come clean, but it doesn’t really help. I feel like the kid who’s conscience drives him back to the candy store to fess up. The idea of handing people a pamphlet and asking for questions appeals, but my relative did that, with disastrous results.

Many of my loved ones won’t read, and the blank stares will kill me. Nevertheless, this is my year. I will not go back even if I could. I am trans and I will be a woman for the rest of my life.

Good Morning, Ladies, and Happy Valentine’s DAY

“Oh crap . . . Why did you wake me?” you moan.

I know, next to Christmas, Valentine’s Day is one of the worst holidays. No matter what your sexual preference, it can be lonely for us. Christmas is hard, because choosing to stop the pain, and live authentically, often, alienates our families. It helps to know, however, It’s because of their, not our, choices.

Valentine’s Day holds some of the same horrors. The memorial day to a Catholic Priest who lived hundreds of years ago, is set aside for the expression of traditional relationships. Many transgender women have nasty divorces and separations to remember on that day. Why couldn’t you be happy living as a man? The words float in our brains telling us how selfish we are to seek our happiness and save our lives.

Beyond the regret of other people’s choices, we see others holding hands, embracing treasured moments and expressions of love. It’s a celebration of the life we never, quite fit into.

As another February ritual approaches, and fades into time, we are reminded of our loneliness. The depth of which can only be expressed in the years we’ve lived, since that first moment when we became aware of our Transgender condition.

We need not succumb, though. Sisters, we are blessed with a sense of style. We can turn the holiday on its ear. Have you ever noticed how many pink outfits are sold for Valentine’s Day? Regardless of your favorite color, you can wear pink. Nobody will concern themselves with whether you are or are not.

It’s like wearing a Santa Clause hat at Christmas. Valentine’s day is pink. What better feminine expression can there be, than that color?

Okay, so you don’t like pink, it doesn’t matter because I propose we seize the day. Let’s take the holiday in hand and make it Transgender Day. I’m serious, ladies. Celebrate the love you hold in your heart for your peers. I have many friends on Facebook, and I’m sometimes, overwhelmed by the expressions of support for each other.

Sisters I love you. If I could, I would send each of you a heart shaped valentine. I would express my support in meaningful ways to help you realize your worth to me, and to God. We have struggled, we will struggle, but we will endure.

Personally I’m scared to death. The future is uncertain, my transition is in jeopardy, but I’ve been embraced by the examples of faith you all set. Please accept this meager expression of my love for each of you.

Lets turn February 14, 2016 into a transgender holiday. Who cares about sexual preference? It will be the day when we all celebrate our community. My respects to LGBT and pride day, but we, the “T” part of that, need a day to celebrate, ourselves.

Ladies, Sisters, I love you.

The Starter Kit

I was about thirteen. I came home from school one afternoon and my mother called me into my bedroom. “I’ve got a present for you,” she said.

I gazed in amazement at the yellow Styrofoam tray, covered in plastic wrap. Inside were a bra and pair of panties. My first impulse was to hide. The secret had come out. What did she know? How did she know?

“It’s your starter kit,” she said.
“My what?” I asked.
“Now you won’t have to take mine from the laundry,” Mom said.

She apparently knew about that too. I wasn’t sure how to react. If I claimed shock, and denied everything, she would take my gift away. If I loved and embraced my gift, would I be in trouble? Was I being set up?

Before I could do either, she walked away. I shook my head. Did what just happened really happen? I tore off the plastic wrap. It was true. I could be true to myself. I could be the girl I always knew I was.

Tears filled my eyes as I tore off my clothes and tried on my new underwear. That’s when I woke up from my dream,

The glow of the city at night, shown through the windows. The motel room was partially lit and I glanced at the sleeping forms in the other beds. I was on vacation with my family and we had stopped for the night.

Real tears flowed down my cheeks as I realized it had been a dream. I’d been born a boy and I would have to stay that way forever. I closed my eyes and desperately tried to drift back into the dream I’d had.

That was thirty four years ago, and I haven’t thought about that dream for years. I knew I had repressed memories through out my life, but I never realized the extent. This week however, those memories have surfaced. I have been cataloging each one, and they prove my dysphoria to me.

I wondered why, and then realized how successfully I played the role. A neighbor once told me, that I was a very masculine. I don’t remember why she said it, but I hated the thought. I cried out from the depths of my soul and I didn’t know why at the time.

Now, with my resolve to transition, I know why. The woman I am is tired of being shunted to a corner of our life. The girl I was couldn’t remain. She wasn’t strong enough. It was the late nineteen sixties and early seventies and we both knew she wouldn’t survive in the world.
Even though she came out, over the years, in ways I’m just realizing now, we kept her under the surface. My feelings of dread and elation are indications of my dedication and I will never suppress her again. I rejoice in my memories. The are my connection to who I am.