Hello, World!

So, where to start?

Let’s start at age five. The early 1970’s. I had a dream that I was wheeled into an operating theater on a gurney, and as I rolled up next to the operating table, I see a girl’s head laid upon it’s side, smiling happily at me. I have no fear, only a child’s curiosity. There are some doctors and nurses milling in the hazy periphery.

“What are you going to do with that?” I ask.

One of the doctors responds, “We’re going to change your head with hers.”

“Oh, OK.”

The anesthesiologist puts the mask over my face and I drift off and awake in my bed.

I continue to be confused for a girl quite often as a small child. This can happen to a lot of kids, but it seemed it happened more often than seemed ‘normal’ to me. I start to think I would be happier if I was a girl.

I drop these thoughts pre-puberty when I realize there is no way that could ever happen. Ever.

I’m in my teens and in the full throes of puberty, and the desire to be a girl pops out again. It manifests itself as secretive cross dressing. I ache at how beautiful some of the women are in the magazines my mom and grandmother read. I wish I was that beautiful, wish I had hair like that, wish I had breasts like that, wish I could wear beautiful clothes like that, and I imagine myself morphing into a girl when I put on the clothes.

I’m confused.

Am I gay or what?

I think about that for a long time. I don’t really like boys much at all, except for my friends.

I decide I’m not gay. That leaves “what”. But what is “what”? I have no clue.

One day, I read about a transsexual and how he changed into she.

Wow! That’s possible? Really? Wow.

Time goes by. I crossdress. I fantasize. I dream. I guilt. I shame. I crazy? Junior high school sucks. I’m bullied because I’m small. I get called “pussy” over and over and over.

Then, one day, I find myself wondering again if I’m gay, and I think, “No, still not gay. Maybe I’m a transsexual. Is that what I am? Huh.”

All I know about transsexuals at that point is that they were men and were changed to women by expensive surgery and their stories are told all over the world in the media. I’m a teenager who doesn’t have much money and has a very strong private streak.

I might as well be wanting to take a ride on the Millenium Falcon.

I hit a growth spurt, and the bullying tails off because now I’m bigger than most of my tormentors. It takes me a year to realize it.

I’m sixteen, and I have a girlfriend. She lets me try on her skirt and she does my makeup. Heaven. But I can’t tell her that I wan to be a girl! She’ll freak out. It’s too weird. I’m too weird.

I’m eighteen, and I’m in a fraternity. We go on a panty raid to a sorority and I steal a red chemise, and don’t give it back with all the other things. I keep it for a few weeks until I become overly anxious that someone will find it, and I throw it out. I have the longest hair of anyone in the fraternity.

I’m twenty, and I begin cohabiting with a girlfriend. I work up the nerve to tell her I like to crossdress. She laughs and thinks it’s silly, but is generous enough to buy me women’s underwear. She calls me weird. I start to think I should get married to her. I come to realize that I don’t want to do that. I move out and briefly move in with my dad before moving in with a friend. I purge all my women’s clothes before I move to my dad’s. I’m afraid he’ll find them.

I have a conversation with myself around this time. It went something like this:

“You want to be a girl, right?”
“I don’t know. It’s confusing. I really, really like women. Maybe I like them so much, I’ve convinced myself I want to be one.”
“So. You think you’ll ever be one?”
{sadly} “No.”
“Why not?”
“I’d be ugly. People would laugh and point and stare and be cruel and hate and laugh and point. Plus, I have no idea how I’d even begin. Did I mention they’d laugh and point and stare?”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, it does.”
“So, now what?”
“I don’t know. Forget it?”
“That sounds like a decent enough plan. I don’t know what else to do.”
“OK. Let’s try and just forget all about it, OK?”
{sadly} “OK.”
“I can see that’s not going to make us very happy. How about we just fantasize, but drop any expectation that there is anything that can be done?”
“There’s nothing else to do, is there?”
“OK. On with this life then.”

I cut my hair short.

I’m twenty-five and I’m married to a clotheshorse. Unfortunately, she’s much shorter and smaller than me. I live vicariously through her clothes. I wish I had a closet full of clothes that looked like that.

“Self, self, self. Let it go.”

I’m twenty-seven and reading an erotic crossdressing story with my wife and I nervously tell her I really like the story. She’s intrigued, and she buys me some women’s underwear the next week. It spices up our sex life.

“Maybe I could be a closet crossdresser…”
“Stop it.”
“But, but, but…”
“OK, let’s give it a try, but don’t screw this relationship up.”

A few months later I tell her I’d like to have more than underwear, and we’re in Macy’s at the Everett Mall shopping for a skirt for me. I’m so nervous, I probably look like I’m on crack. She plucks a black, shiny, polyester skirt from the rack that has small flower details on it, and holds it up to my waist. It looks like it might fit. She giggles as she walks to cash register.

We’re at home and I’m trying it on. It’s so, so pretty and I have just the underwear to go with it. The sex life is spiced up again.

“Self, this might just work!”

A few more months go by, and I’ve worked up to buying my own women’s clothes on my own and with my wife. I’ve bought makeup and take to putting it on and getting fully dressed on the days that I work from home. She’s starting to get more than a bit annoyed and begins to complain about it.

My hair is shoulder length.

“Self, this seems to be getting a bit out of control. What are you going to do about it?”
“I think I better do some research.”
“That sounds like a good idea.”

I buy some crossdressing books from Amazon and start reading.

“Hey, self. There’s some good stuff in here.”
“Yeah, some of it. I get all the ‘accept yourself’ stuff, but there’s something that just doesn’t feel right to me.”
“Really? What?”
“Well, look at what I’ve found on the Internet.”
“Oh, that’s interesting.”
“I didn’t realize that crossdressing was just one form of being transgender.”
“Check this out.”
{Reads that many transgender people who go on to transition begin with crossdressing.}
“You think?”
“I don’t know. More research is warranted. ‘Many’ does not equal ‘all’ or even ‘most’.”
“Good point.”

I dive into newsgroups, mailing lists, and the web. I order books about transsexualism from Amazon.

“Um, a lot of this stuff seems to align more than the crossdressing stuff.”
“I know.”
“Now what?”
“Let’s go talk to a gender therapist.”
“That sounds like a really good idea.”

I’m twenty-eight, and I begin counseling. Over the next three years, it goes something like this.

Gender therapist #1: “You’re just a crossdresser.”
Self: “Wow. She was kind of a bitch about that, wasn’t she?”

Gender therapist #2: “When do you want to start hormones?”
Self: “Uh, er, thanks, but um…”

Gender therapist #3: “Do you think you’ll be happier if you transition?”
Self: “I have no clue. It looks to be the hardest, most painful thing a human being can do. That’s supposed to make me happy?”

Gender therapist #4: “So, what do you want to do? Start hormones?”
Self: “How the hell do I know? That’s why I’m here!”

To be continued…


About cistotrans

A Seattle-area trans woman seeking a happy spot to stay at along the path of transition.
This entry was posted in counseling, personal history. Bookmark the permalink.

5 Responses to Hello, World!

  1. Johanie says:

    Welcome to the world 🙂


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