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.