Great Minds Think Alike?

I hope I can be great like them.

Being on the same wavelength with other bloggers can be enabling. It makes me feel like one of the girls. That’s what happened a while back, when I first started writing this post. Like others, I had been remembering my past, and thought about the days when sports put fear in my heart.

The fear came from gym sports like basketball, when teams were divided into shirts and skins. I was a boy with breasts, and yes, I took a lot of hazing for it. How could I master the art of the lay up, or the jump shot, with my shirt off? I hated the words, “Look at the boy with the boobs.”

No, as a kid, I developed a bad relationship to sports. I wasn’t any good at anything. I liked baseball. I even had a few heroes like Bench, Koufax, and Rose, but I threw like a girl. (Imagine that.)

I endured the (coach encouraged), hazing for a long time. I even learned the harsh reality that on church ball teams, it can be worse. Eventually I accepted my lot, and avoided the opportunities to play. I hated gym class and didn’t go.

Yeah, I know. You too, right?

Shortly after my recent trip down memory lane, I discovered the excellent posts of my fellow bloggers. It felt wonderful to know I was in good company, but recalling my own nightmares brought deeper thoughts.

Being the object of ridicule both on, and off the field, became common. I learned to avoid most of the activities other boys cherished. After enduring my share of bullying, I finally struck back. I didn’t act out of hate or vengeance, I just got tired.

As often happens in that masculine world, and probably out of being bullied himself, one of the boys went after what he considered to be the weakest link. He probably needed to establish himself in the pecking order and he picked a fight with me.

I had no animosity toward him, but enough was enough. I met him in the schoolyard and took out my rage. Later, when another boy thought it was time for him to grow up, I beat the hell out of him, too. After that, the boys left me alone.

After accepting my forced masculinity, I tried to fit in, and enjoy things I hated. About that time, a local service organization started a little league football program. Of course, family and friends expected me to try out. I couldn’t be a girl, so why did I care? Being overweight, and having a bad ass reputation, helped me realize I had a great advantage. Psychological warfare accompanied by a real death wish can have an effect.

I excelled. I pretended to really like the game. Because I wouldn’t back down, I gained respect. For the first time in my life, I belonged in the masculine club. Little did they know what I did after the game. I remember having a secret desire during that time. I wanted to wear my mother’s bra under the shoulder pads.

If this sounds contradictory to you, you’re right. It’s also a good description of gender dysphoria. Many people would read that story and wonder why, if I found success in the masculine world, why did I feel a needed to be a girl? All I can say is exactly. Like so many people who came before, and will come after, me, feeling wrong, somehow, was inborn.

Don’t get me wrong, As I’ve said before, I believe I came out to the box with this dysphoria, but I don’t believe God made me this way. Even with all the success in a masculine game, I couldn’t shake my secret.

Also, denial has a way of coming back on you. The floodgates open, and all your secrets spill over. After several years of faking it, and playing the role, my soul rebelled. When I grew up I couldn’t solve my problems with aggression. I lost a career job, and was forced to re-evaluate my life. Football got me through the teenage years. I suppose the military and fighting a war might’ve helped, but then again, look at Kristen Beck.

Now, I look at my life through the lens of transition. I wonder about sex after GRS. Will I date those men who made my life so miserable? I think about sex with a manly man. I admit to certain fantasies but those men, who ooze masculinity, turn my stomach. I think it’s because of the way I was treated in my youth. Something inside of me wants to beat the hell out of them.