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Welcome to my Transgender revelation |
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I see my therapist on Thursdays. I've been seeing her for a little over a year. She is actually a child behavioral specialist and I began seeing her to figure out how to build a relationship with my four-year-old granddaughter and seven-year-old grandson. Their mother is my daughter. She was arrested for felonies she committed in pursuit of the high that she became addicted to (meth or heroine) and I acquired her children as a result. This is their third placement with me. The story of my grandchildren and I and their parents is interesting, however, that's not what I want to address today. Today I want to address what is going on with ME. A few months ago my boyfriend broke up with me. our relationship is another very interesting story as he is a quadriplegic sixty year-old man that I spent the last four years with and loved. I learned more intimacy and love in that four years than a lifetime taught me. I was, at first, crushed when he broke up with me. That happened in February, it is now June and I have come to understand a great deal in these months that I would not have come to had he not broken up with me. I am really rather grateful. Since he and I broke up I have taken the time to do a great deal of self-reflection, which is time I really had not given myself in the past. And therapy has become more about me than about the kids now too. Don't get me wrong, I've gone to therapists before, but this one (I'll call her Fanta) is the most insightful young girl I have ever come across in my life. She is insightful and direct and for once I am getting somewhere in my therapy. The thing about Fanta is, she listens. I know therapists are supposed to listen but its been my experience that most therapists come in with biases and pre-conceived notions and they don't really listen. It's like they take one look at you and decide your entire life story and do not see who you really are due to the limits of their own environmental experiences. I've seen that a hundred times. Fanta though? She's different. She does listen. I've said, to her, the same things I've said all of my life. Casually, in common conversations, I have said, "Yeah, I wish I had a wife." Usually these conversations are about a man who has treated his (good) wife poorly, or it might be about being worn out from doing all that I did. Taking care of a quadriplegic boyfriend and two grand children and his elderly mother and my disabled daughter was a lot of work daily. Sometimes, in conversations with my very closest friends, I would say, "I wish I had a wife like me - to take care of me like I take care of others." But it was long, long before then that my fantasy of, and speaking openly, about having a wife began. It began in high school actually, or maybe before then. From the time that I was very young, and I mean even before I turned five, I remember wishing that I had been born a boy. I knew that I was a girl and I hated it. In fact, I hated everything about it. I hated it when my mother fussed with my hair. I hated it when adults tried to make me wear dresses. I really hated being told "Act like a young lady." Yes, I hated everything about it. I fought against being treated like a girl too. I wore pants and jeans, no dresses, for one thing. I snuck out of the house and in to the barnyard every chance I got. I wrestled all of my boy cousins, and with the ones my age and younger I always won. While my sisters asked for dolls to play with, I asked for toy guns. My disappointment in having been born, biologically female was no secret. I expressed my anger and frustration to everyone. My Dad knew I wanted to be his son. My mother knew I wanted to be a boy. My full-blood siblings knew I wanted to be a boy. My stepdad knew it and my stepmother used her knowledge of it to hurt me. It was never a secret, but it also wasn't talked about. My first day of first grade at the elementary school in Dillon, Montana, all the kids were out on the playground playing, When the bell sounded to line up and go inside I watched the kids form two lines. There was a line of kids wearing dresses and a line of kids not wearing dresses. I got in the line with the kids not wearing dresses. Of course the boys pushed me out of their line and in to the line of girls and all the kids laughed at me. "You don't belong in the boys line!" I felt humiliation burn my cheeks and I wondered why my gender and not my clothes or my personality or my wishes got to dictate who I was, but in the early 1970's in rural, conservative, small-town Montana, there were no choices. If you were born with an obvious vagina, you had to line up with the kids who wore dresses, even if you hated dresses. That's just the way it was. A year after that, my Dad and mom divorced. I was devastated. Now, not only was I forced to stay with my mom, who, by the way, did not like me, I was also put in the position (in my mind) of having to take my Dad's responsibility and help my mom raise her three other kids. In a way I was secretly happy to get to be the man of the family, but I was also in way over my head and, even then I knew it. The year after that my dad married a woman that I could not stand, not only that, but she also had three sons. SONS ! Her oldest was a year older than me, the other two were the same ages as my sisters (the two other girls my parents had together). Dad lived with them, raised them and adopted them. I was replaced. My mother, on the other hand, married a pedophile. A pedophile who molested my sisters and I. But, long before he got his hands on me, I knew I was not in the correct body. His using my body for his own pleasure was disgusting to me on top of my disgust at having been born a female. It was 1978, I was ten years old, when the neatest thing happened to me though. Mom had put us in a daycare that summer so she could go to work. A girl, her name was Melanie, suddenly started showing an interest in me. For the first time in my life, I wanted to play house. I was her husband, she was my pretend wife. I got to hold her hand, and she kissed me on the lips! With her I got to be the guy that I was! I remember the elation of that! We even pretended to have a wedding. I had a wife! And she was the prettiest little girl ever! She had long brown hair and she wore dresses. I was happy. Then the man at the daycare started calling me a boy, and someone told my mom, and my mom got mad and told the daycare workers (very loudly) that I was a girl! And all that horse-shit needed to stop immediately. I had to stop playing with Melanie and I could not even talk to her after that because I felt so humiliated. I am going to pause here and move back in to what is going on with me NOW. This week I finally let me hear myself say, "I am a guy trapped in a girls body." I am not gay. I am not bi. I am not queer. I am a straight man who is confined to a female body - |
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