New Story: Emotional Perspective!
Hi, I started writing a story to put on here and it's spawled into something way longer than I expected! There's no sex in this part but there will be in the next (I think this started as a story of sexual awakening but I got caught up in the setails). I don't know if anybody will actually read this (it's about 14 pages in Word and again, no sex yet) but I thought I'd put the first, main part of this story up now to see if it's worth writing and posting the conclusion.
Anyway, here goes:
Butterfly
1. Step One
My journey began when I was 14. My grandmother had died only a few months after I started a new school the previous year when my father left home to be with a younger woman. Although he was strict and occasionally violent, he was still my father and it was an emotional wrench. I was always a shy child and withdrawn at the best of times so I hadn’t adjusted well to my new school. With all the upheaval in my life, I withdrew even further, staying in my room to read, draw and watch the occasional TV show.
My mother was obviously hit as bad by my dad’s abandonment and had to struggle to support us both. I did what I could to help but after a few months she was moving on with her life but noticed I was increasingly withdrawn. One night she tried to talk to me, assuming recent events were to blame for my depression.
“It’s not that, “ I said.
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing”, I lied.
“Look, I can’t help if I don’t-- “
“I want to DIE!!” I screamed and ran out of the house, speeding down the street into the night as fast as I could. I ignored my mom calling but I kept running until I found a secluded spot and sat down to sob uncontrollably for what seemed like forever.
Eventually I composed myself and with no alternative, resignedly went home. My mom was sitting waiting for me, a glass of whiskey in her hand and tears dried on her face. She was angry and upset, not because I’d run out but because she couldn’t understand me and couldn’t help me. I was shutting her out because I couldn’t admit my real problem because if I told anybody, all I could imagine was the negative impact it would have on my life forever. My mum begged me to open up but I couldn’t and we both went to bed in tears.
Three days later, my mum surprised me by picking me up from school. She seemed upbeat but she was normally still at work at that time so I immediately suspected something. I warily got in the car and asked her if something was wrong, if anything had happened.
“No, no, nothing’s happened. We’ve got an appointment…”
“With who?”, I asked suspiciously.
“A psychologist..”
“What have we --“
“You need help”, she snapped “But because you won’t talk to me, I spoke to the doctor and he’s referred us to a psychologist who might be able to get through to you…”
I would have hit the roof (if we hadn’t had a sunroof!) and refused to go in but my mother had control of the vehicle and I couldn’t jump out into oncoming traffic. Stubbornly I sat in the car and refused to go into the clinic but my mother had no problem haranguing me in front of onlookers so reluctantly I eventually followed her into the clinic.
The psychologist was called Dr Langkowski, a woman in her forties who initially spoke to my mother and I together to get all the relevant background details. Eventually she asked me if I’d like to reveal what was bothering me.
“Not today, thanks”, I responded sulkily.
She asked if I’d like to speak to her alone but when I remained silent, she kindly asked my mother to wait outside while she spoke to me privately. After my mom closed the door behind her, Dr Langkowski said that sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger as there’s no judgement involved so there would be no personal repercussion.
“C’mon, “ she said softly, “Will you tell me what’s bothering you?”
I remained quiet as I considered my secret and instantly felt my chin pucker and my lips tremble while I tried in vain to hold back my tears, which soon flooded down my face. Langkowski didn’t try to console me but after a moment again asked me what was wrong. The pressure of my problem, a secret I’d had for as long as I could remember built up and finally broke free of the prison I had maintained for years. I stammered at first because I was too upset to speak but eventually I managed to reveal my agony.
“I..I..I want..to..I wish I was a girl”, I blurted between the tears. “I don’t want to be a boy, why can’t I be normal and be a girl?”
With that admission, I had taken Step One of my journey to self-realisation as the person I always felt I was: a female.
2. Secret History
Langkowski sat back in her chair and asked how long I felt this way. When I said for as long as I remembered, she said “Gender identity is a very difficult subject and I’m not qualified to help in this field. There’s a service I can refer you to…but we’ll have to inform your mother…”
I began crying again, horrified of the upcoming moments but Langkowski handled it well.
“I know you’re nervous, “ she said, “so I’m going to ask you to wait outside while I call your mom in for a talk, okay?” I nodded and followed her out into the hall as she called my mother into her office. I was left outside for at least twenty minutes and to this day, I don’t know what was said. When the office door opened, it was Langkowski calling me back in. I glanced at my mother, who I can see had been crying but she looked at me and smiled sheepishly.
“The first thing you need to know is your mom’s not angry and she doesn’t hate you,” Langkowski said. “But this is obviously a shock for her and it’ll take her time to deal with this information. We’ve made an appointment for you to see a gender dysphoria specialist in three weeks but you have to remember that these following weeks will be difficult for you both. The only thing I can say is rather than ignore the issue, you should both talk as openly as you’re able to.”
Well, that didn’t happen on the silent trip home. I could see my mom was upset and I didn’t want to provoke her so I kept quiet and looked out the window most of the time, occasionally flicking through the pamphlets for transgendered families Langkowski gave us before retreating to my bedroom when we got home. I only came down for dinner, when we finally made some small talk that completely evaded my problem. I wanted to speak to my mom but still didn’t want to upset her.
Around 9.00pm that night, I went to get a drink from the kitchen and saw my mom smoking in front of the TV, a glass of scotch in her hand. She rarely ever smoked, only when she was very stressed, and hadn’t smoked since my grandmother had died, not even during the divorce. I walked to the doorway and realised she was crying and that inevitably started me off too.
“Mom?” I said, but she didn’t hear. I walked closer and spoke louder. She heard me and looked up, tears till streaming down her face. She tried to wipe them away, looking like a lost child.
“Mom, I’m sorry,” I said and burst out into sobs too.
“It’s not your fault, you don’t have to apologise,” she said. She stood up to put out her cigarette and then I did something I’d never done, I hugged her and again apologised nevertheless. We both sat down and had a good cry and that seemed to be a cathartic moment as afterwards, we were able to talk openly.
Langkowski had given us some pamphlets about gender disorders and I think my mom had briefly looked online for more info but she still has a thousand questions. I had never acted effeminately so the issue seemed to come out of the blue for her and over the next few hours, and completely non-chronologically, I laid out my, well my secret life really, for her.
I can remember back fairly early in my childhood, certainly around kindergarten but I don’t know when I first felt like a girl. I think I probably always did but wasn’t cognisant of it. I had always felt different and detached from everything around me and as a result could never really mix well. I always detested sports and although I liked traditionally male genres like science fiction, fantasy and so on, I never really played with action figures or video games. However, I never had any compulsion to play with toy horses, post office sets, tea sets or dolls (especially baby dolls, which still freak me out—although I was always fascinated with Barbie dolls not because of wanting to play with them but loving their outfits and wanting to wear real versions of them myself!), all more typical playthings for young girls.
Mind you, I would have killed to play dress up or experiment with makeup and secretly coveted cute stuffed animals. That made it odd for me as at school I always felt at ease with the girls and wanted to be in their company but couldn’t bear the silly role-playing games they played…although skipping and hopscotch looked fun. Instead, I would spend hours drawing, reading comic books, magazines (secretly devouring my mom’s mags too!) and later novels (my reserved nature made me a slow learner when young but I soon advanced to near the top of my class) and watching movies.
I distinctly remember the first time I wanted to BE a girl (which is different to feeling LIKE a girl) and I was only 6 or 7. I was at school and was watching the girls play and was studying their clothes, particularly the skirts and dresses. I so desperately wanted to play with the girls and wear similar clothes but I couldn’t make sense of those thoughts and feelings at that age.
In later years, I would be more educated about gender issues and realise that no two transgendered people go through the exact same experiences. Some people’s inner natures express themselves early and some children with understanding and supportive parents are able to live in their desired gender roles from a very early age. Others exhibit mannerisms and behaviour before unsurprisingly switching gender roles much later but others struggle with their true identities and their transistions arrive with great shock as there had been no indicators of such feelings (in fact some even over-compensate in their genetic gender roles before finally accepting their true selves). With my disciplinarian father and responsible mother, it was not surprising that I learned to curb any signs of my feelings. In fact, my mother spent so much time placating my father or skirting around problems likely to invoke his ire, I no doubt followed her lead in dealing with mine!
The main emotional lynchpins in my life were therefore not my parents but my grandmother, who I stayed with most weekends and my cousin Kirsten, the first child of my mom’s older sister, Sarah. Four months my senior, Kirsten and I saw each other three or four times a week as we only lived fifteen minutes walk away. As a result, we grew up together and were so close we were almost like brother and sister. We hung out whenever we could and always enjoyed each other’s company. She was always warm and fun-loving (except when it came to her irritating younger brother Sam) and as we got older, I really looked forward to the times I would hang out with her and her friends at the mall, the park or at the cinema: at those times, I secretly felt just like one of the girls. We’d talk about music, school, clothes and relationships with boys, when I was viewed as the insider to a different way of life…well I was, but not in the way they imagined!
On such gatherings, occasionally I would be praised as “like the gay best friend”. I liked the fact that they accepted me but the gay comment always bothered me. Not out of homophobia but because while I wanted to be a girl and was becoming increasingly secretly depressed as I started adolescence, sexuality was still a grey area for me. I wanted to be a girl but was also attracted to them: I harboured romantic fantasies about settling down with a beautiful woman in a lesbian relationship. By and large I hated males: aggressive, rude, arrogant, smelly and self-centred on the whole, I couldn’t contemplate a romantic relationship with one. However, I can’t deny noticing cute boys but usually pushed the idea quickly out of my head.
Anyway, when I was about 11, Kirsten’s mom left two bags of old toys at our house for my mom to drop into the charity store later on. They were placed in the hallway outside my room in two unsealed boxes so when I went into my room, I glanced at the top box and saw the most tempting thing I’d ever seen. Kirsten used to play with a baby doll and never really mothered it but was always redressing it instead. One of the things she frequently dressed it in was a tartan kilt skirt, which I always loved and wished I could have had one for myself. Now the skirt lay folded in the top of the box and all those memories called out to me. I picked it up and looked at it before wrapping it around my waist. Kirsten always kept it buckled on one of the lowest end notches but miraculously, if I put the final notch to the buckle…it fit me perfectly. Within seconds, I’d whisked it into my room and hid it under my pillow.
It seemed like hours until I went to bed that night as all I could think about was that skirt. My parents downstairs and my bedroom door locked, I slid off my pyjama bottoms and nervously buckled up the skirt. I nearly swayed as the sense of calm from putting on the skirt rolled over me. For years, I’d wanted to be a girl and dress like a girl, and now I was wearing a skirt and I felt magnificent. I literally felt all the stress of keeping in my true feelings lift and I felt so relaxed, I cannot describe it. I slowly walked over to my drawers to pick up a book to read in bed for a while, savouring each step and sensation of an everyday feminine experience.
As I did so, I immediately noticed my left arm was bent, my hand tilted back at the wrist: unconsciously, my demeanour had become slightly more effeminate, as my hands were always traditionally kept in my pockets as I tried to adopt an unassuming manner. As I pulled back my duvet, I even got into bed in a more girly fashion, smoothing out the skirt by running my hand over my bottom before sitting on the bed and swinging my legs around together under the duvet. As I settled in to read, I felt a tear of happiness in my eye but one blink and it was gone.
I can’t profess to know what cross dressers or transvestites feel when they dress en femme, but I can only say how happy I felt to feel even the tiniest bit feminine. This wasn’t a rush because I was wearing a skirt per se, it was because wearing the skirt relieved a painfully suppressed inner identity that made me feel true to myself for the first time.
I slept in the skirt that night and did so for a few nights after until an episode with my father made me stop. I was up at the same time every day but one morning my dad awoke in a foul mood and stormed into my room while I was still asleep. He was telling me to get up and put out the garbage or clean the kitchen, some menial task anyway, and began pulling at my duvet to get me out of bed. A shot of panic-induced adrenalin shot through as I desperately clutched my duvet.
“C’mon, get up!”, my dad was bellowing.
“I will, I will!”, I said, “But my bottoms came off in the night so I’m naked underneath!” Of course it was a lie designed to stop him from ripping off my duvet and seeing me in a skirt, but it was a plausible one. I habitually tossed and turned in bed like a man rolling downhill in a barrel and my pyjama bottoms were lying by my bedside. Luckily, my dad believed me and I whipped the skirt off, later despairing as I put it in a bin on the walk to school…I loved the skirt but couldn’t risk another morning like that.
After that experience though, I was always thinking about how I could get hold of some female clothing so I could spend even a tiny time experiencing a modicum of my preferred gender role. A few months later, my mom bought a pair of knee-length boots that I really liked and after a few weeks, I gave in to temptation and tried them on while my mom was out for a few hours. They were a tight fit but I managed to get them on…and nearly broke my neck when I took my first steps in high heels! I won’t go into details, but after picking myself up off the floor, I spent a few minutes slowly walking about in the boots before taking them off as they were becoming uncomfortable. I tried on some pantyhose (not an interesting black, navy, grey or white pair but boring tan) but they kept falling down...it would be about two years before I realised you have to scrunch them down and roll them from your toes over your legs instead of pulling them on like trousers!
Still...dressing in them gave me the idea to rummage through my mom’s clothes. I’d never considered trying any of her clothes as they weren’t to my taste but I was eager to notch up some feminine time again. I went straight for her skirts but couldn’t get the zips or buttons done up so managed to squeeze into a black dress. I put on a bra but soon whipped it off as it made me quite depressed…I had nothing of my own to fill it out and stuffing it seemed pointless. I wanted a genuine experience of wearing a bra and I wasn’t attempting to emulate a look. However, I did go one step further and try on some makeup, which turned out to be a total disaster. I was surprised by how soft and easy to smudge things like lipstick and eye makeup were, never mind how awkward it was applying them in the mirror. Because I had no idea how to apply or style makeup, I looked in the mirror to see a more colourful Ronald McDonald looking back at me. That was it: I scrubbed off the make up and took off the dress as the whole frustrating trial had gone terribly.
This saddened me and I abandoned any further attempt to dress. The nearest I would get to girls’ clothes would be the fashion magazines and catalogues I inherited after my mom or Kirsten finished with theirs. I managed to do this by saying they were for reference for my drawings…I like drawing fantasy creatures (fairytale, Dark Crystal-type things), celebrity faces and real people so it was another plausible lie. I used to get a lot of playful comments about the plethora of women I’d draw, “You like your women, don’t you?”, that sort of comment. If only they knew I was really drawing my ideal self-image, trying to capture the woman I wanted to be...
A few weeks later, I caught a talk show that really threw me into turmoil. “My wife’s really a MAN!!” was the episode’s title and it was enough to stop me flicking to another channel as I usually would. Intrigued, I watched as the host talked to a guy on stage, learning he had got married but that his wife was really a man. Then they called out the wife, who was quite obviously a guy but living as a woman. A few more brides came out, some more feminine than others but all obviously genetically male. Body shapes, muscle masses and facial features gave them away but it stirred my mind with all kinds of possibilities.
On the one hand, I LOVED these brides…they had done what I always wanted to do, to live as a girl. They were happy and they were proud, but their tales of rejection and hatred broke my heart. We live in a world where people kill strangers for selfish ideologies, where children are spawning children, half the world is starving and dying of disease while the other half live off their suffering, where prisons are full of petty criminals but murderers go free…and people are still offended by sexuality and gender? It made no sense to me…but it did scare the hell out of me.
I would have loved to follow the examples of those brides (although I have to say, none of them were really positive role models as they were all mouthy bitches really) but the rejection they endure would have killed me. I was a loner pretty much by nature, which was largely (but not solely) a result of my gender issues but the absolute rejection of pretty much everybody they knew would have killed me. If Kirsten or my grandmother told me they hated me, that I was an embarrassment, that they wished I would die, I don’t know what I would have done…actually I was very sensitive (though I hid it well) so I do know what I would have done, and it would have ended in me pushing up daisies.
While it was wrong of me, I was also concerned by how the brides looked. If everybody I knew rejected me but I could function in society like the woman I felt I was, , I would have been able to deal with transitioning but not if I still carried my masculinity with me, looking like just a labourer in a dress or something. Now I was young so not at all fully-developed but I knew that puberty would bring all sorts of body horrors to me that would put constant pressure on my mind like dripping water torture. All these conflicting fears and desires were spinning around my head around the time my dad was embarking on an affair with a girl from his job.
It was probably guilt over this that made him shell out for a PC for me at the time. A week after it was installed, I was off school with a virus and sat in front of the TV while I recovered, as I was unable to concentrate on reading or drawing. Another daytime talk show came on, this time a clip show looking back over favourite clips from the past. One segment introduced a model and former Bond girl and my jaw dropped when I heard that the beautiful, stunning Caroline Cossey had been born a male. I bolted upright, glued to the TV with my heart racing. Here was a stunning women who proved you CAN fully transition, that people can be completely passable. This was when I first heard about being “in stealth” and while not all transwomen were knockouts, many were not instantly recognisable as former males and that was enough for me.
The show finished and I sat in wonder. So much information had come my way, mainly new links to online transgendered websites and resources. I was home alone with both parents out for hours so I booted up the PC, plugged in my modem and went online to find out more. That was one of the most significant days of my young life.
I had to trawl through numerous porn-related sites to get to the real trans help, but even the porn was eye opening. Many of the models were clearly born male but many were perfectly passable, and some were stunning. The resources showed a similar range of people, from everyday workers to doctors, engineers, scientists and captains of industry, all happy in their chosen gender roles. I can’t tell you the admiration and affinity I had for these wonderful women. The site testimonies also showed the range of experiences: long-married fathers finally giving in to their inner nature and transitioning, young adults switching genders once able to be independent and drag queens going that extra mile (I also have to admit to not understanding drag performances…I just don’t get the joke and don’t find badly choreographed mime routines entertaining).
What really got my attention was the relatively small amount of children who identified as trans and their early gender reversals. With supportive parents, the children were able to live as they felt and the early administration of hormones seemed to be a key in their more natural looks. I saw male bodybuilders that I couldn’t believe were born female, just as I saw a number of models born male. I wanted to savour the stories I found online, the images and the forums but I was scared of discovery so satisfied myself with keeping a few favourite images, articles and biographies on three floppy disks I kept hidden in my artbox.
I desperately wanted to start transitioning myself but the thought of rejection and hostility if I was obviously male still stifled me. I was becoming so despondent not because I realised I was transgendered but because I couldn’t LIVE a transgendered and fulfilled life.
And so, things progressed as usual for a while. Whenever I could, I surfed online for trans info while evading the increasingly rare shadow of my father. He was around more when my grandmother died but Kirsten and I hang out as much has we could during that period to help each other deal with the loss, the first both of us had ever rally had to deal with. My grandmother wasn’t exactly rich but she was well off and put money in trust funds for my cousins and I each week and when she died, the proceeds of the sale of her house was split three ways. A third each went to my mom and aunt, with the remaining third split between the three of us cousins. After legal fees and everything, we each had enough to buy two modest cars or a brand new nicer model but as minors, our parents handled the accounts. Other than a family vacation to Disneyland to honour my grandmother, the pennies were kept on a seriously tight leash.
Following his eventual abandonment of both of us and the ensuing divorce, my dad refused to pay childcare as he said I had more in the bank than he did but my mom threatened court until he eventually capitulated. She still had to work her butt off to get by every month but she was determined to keep that money was for my future. I loved her for that but couldn’t say so…I kept all of my emotions bottled pretty well so couldn’t really express myself. I pretended to laugh at sad movies while sneaking out for a discreet cry, had to stifle the urge to say “aahh”! when I saw a cute animal or squeal with glee when the latest clothes catalogue arrived. As a result, all those emotions were felt keenly as I had to hide them away and the building pressure of my true nature created a giant head of steam, hence my storming out of the house into the night and the eventual appointment with the doctors.
3. Step Two
Before we got off the couch and went to bed after all the above was revealed (well, except for trying on my mom’s clothes, that was probably too much information at that time!), my mom looked at me sadly.
“I’m sorry”, I said guiltily but she only put her hand on my shoulder.
“No, I’m sorry”, she replied. “I never knew you felt that way, I never even suspected---“
“You couldn’t have, I made sure that nobody knew, especially when dad was here.”
As we stood up, she did something I never remembered her doing before: she hugged me. She was always fairly aloof, possibly another reason I was also emotionally reserved, but I hugged her back.
“Can you not say anything to anybody about this yet?”, I asked. “Especially aunt Sarah and Kirsten…”
I was still nervous about the whole thing and the next few weeks until the specialist appointment would be agonisingly long, an unknowing limbo period that both my mom and I would have to endure. I was expecting a hellish wait but actually I look back at it as the start of what I call my caterpillar stage.
See, I love animals and wildlife, devouring all kinds of nature shows. As a result, I view my life as kind of an allegory for a caterpillar. I know, not the prettiest, fluffiest or most exciting of creatures but stay with me, ok? My time as a boy was my egg stage: a rigid outer shell not really a true depiction of what lies within. Now I was embarking on the caterpillar period (technically this should be the larval stage, but that sounds yuckier!) as I slowly emerged from the confines of my shell and experience things for the first time.
Over the days and weeks leading up to my appointment, I was a lot happier now that some of that pressure had been released. To the outside world, I seemed the same: only Kirsten noticed I was happier in general. At home though, I was able to be myself for the first time. With my mom aware of my issues, I slowly began to feel comfortable around the house and relaxed for pretty much the first time, naturally shifting my mannerisms in subtle ways without even realising it. I began spending more time with my mom…I’d still have my nose stuck in a book but I’d sit curled up on the sofa next to her instead of festering alone in my room. I was happier in general so I loosened up physically, becoming more expressive with my hands and body language. Some of the tension alleviated, I began to speak softer and more calmy. I wasn’t afraid to cry (or laugh) at movies and felt a lot better adjusted within the house. Outside, the same pressure to hide away heaped on but that was nothing compared to the pressure I felt from the gender specialist.
I had the morning off school to attend the first meeting with the specialist with my mom, as the clinic was an hour’s drive away. I was already extremely nervous but I became more anxious because of the abrasive doctor I was lumbered with, a man in his mid-fifties called Harper. He began by reading my notes sent over by Dr Langkowski before asking me for more info and after maybe ten minutes of fairly uninvolved conversation, he became not sympathetic or impartial but outright confrontational.
“You say you feel like a girl”, he began as he leaned back in his black leather office chair, “Tell me how that feels…”
I was a bit thrown by that and he picked up on that immediately. “You can’t explain it? I see all kinds of people in here and I have to say that you don’t show any feminine traits to me so tell me why you think you’re a girl? Perhaps you feel unhappy with your life and think escaping to a fantasy life will help you feel at peace…it won’t. That comes from within. Maybe you’re just going through a phase, puberty can be a very confusing time. Maybe you just have strong cross dressing tendencies or are confused about your sexuality…”
“I am NOT gay!” I retorted. Harper leaned forward and narrowed his eyes as his gaze met mine. “Do you like boys?”, he asked, which flustered me. I noticed boys but because I liked girls, I thought he’d have a reason to deny my feelings, probably calling me a cross dresser again or something, if I told him so.
“It’s okay to be homosexual”, he said and that made me see red. Now, I was emotional and less able to express myself than now so this is paraphrasing what I said, but the emotional content remains true.
“How DARE you, “ I said, “How dare you sit there and cast aspersions on me? You may be an expert but you have NO idea of my emotional state! When you ask me what it feels like to be a girl, you tell me what it feels like to be MAN! There are girly girls, momsy girls and butch girls! Straight girls, bi-girls and lesbians! Rock chicks, goth girls, slobby girls, elegant girls, bitches, mothers, whores, carers, idiots, doctors, THOUSANDS of different women, there is not ANY template for what a woman is! Which type do you want me to be, which model should I follow? You can point biologically at physical features but women, PEOPLE are too diverse to pigeonhole that way and I am TELLING you that as far back as I can remember, I have felt a despair that eats at me constantly because I am not the person I feel myself to be…I want help, not accusations!”
Harper said nothing for a few seconds but as he opened his mouth to speak, my mom interrupted him.
“Doctor, my son has been shy, withdrawn and sullen ever since he was small. Since our last appointment, he has opened up and is happier than I’ve ever seen him. Outside of the house, he’s as quiet as ever but he is happier now he’s got all this off his chest…”
“So he’s been acting like a girl at home?”
“No, just happier…doctor, this is hard for me. This is my son, I wanted to see him grow up, find a nice girl and raise a family of his own but what I want isn’t the point. It’s not what he feels, or needs…I can’t process this all…”
She blinked twice and cleared her throat as he fought back her tears. Instinctively, I held her hand.
“I can see my son slipping away in front of me and I don’t know how to deal with this…but I hate seeing him miserable and he needs help and he needs it now…”
“I agree”, responded the doctor, “And that’s what we’re hear to do. If I come across as aggressive, I don’t apologise. We need to determine the true problem your son is struggling with and once that is determined, we can discuss options. This is a delicate process and we need to be as sure as we can that we are travelling down the right path or your son could end up even more depressed than he is now.”
From there, the mood in the room seemed to change as we underwent a battery of psychological tests that would have to be analysed and assessed before we could reconvene in a few weeks to discuss a course of action. In the parking lot, my mom asked me how I felt. I said okay and hugged her. She hugged me back and then we set off on our drive home.
The next few weeks continued much the same as the preceding ones but I began to feel sick as we eventually pulled back into the same parking lot to see what the psychological tests revealed. My mom saw that I was anxious and asked if I was okay before we got out of the car. I nodded quietly and followed her into the clinic to see Harper again.
The mood was a lot more relaxed than our first session but even so, my throat was as dry as a sand dune. We sat down and my mom looked back at me as she listened to Harper continue after the initial greetings.
“Well, I won’t beat about the bush”, he said while glancing over the notes, “After speaking to your son and assessing his responses and personal history...”
He probably didn’t even pause, but he seemed to and it seemed to drag out for as long as TV talent show elimination round…
“Our opinion is that your son has a psychological profile consistent with patients suffering from Gender Identity Disorder.”
I coughed and held my mouth, holding back tears of joy and relief at the diagnosis. Through teary eyes, I looked at my mom, who also had her hand at her mouth and was visibly upset but trying not to show it. My relief was her pain and that guilt bit into me, cutting off my tears as I quickly regained my composure.
“So what does that mean?” my mom asked, “What happens now?”
“Well, because of the young age of your son, we still need to proceed cautiously. We’re going to initiate a number of counselling sessions for you both as we prepare him for hormone therapy. As he starts these sessions, we will provide as much support as possible for his eventual transition into living in a female role.”
My mom looked at me and I could read numerous emotions shooting across her face. She tried to hide it, but I could see concern and sadness, mixed with a little confusion. Even so, I remained outwardly composed but inside was screaming and dancing like a cheerleader.
“We’re going to prescribe a course of female hormones that will affect your son’s physical development. Because of his young age, the early administration of these hormones will arrest the masculine development of his body and promote the natural growth of breasts, as well as redistributing his body fat to places like his hips, thighs and buttocks. This will result in a far more natural body than transitioning at a later stage, which may require more drastic cosmetic surgery in adult life. All of these will be monitored and supported by the counselling sessions to help you both cope with these changes and to ensure this is the right course of action.”
My mind raced at the thought of the life ahead of me. The upcoming months would be hard and honestly filled me with fear…but only of the outside world. This was my life and hopefully, this would see me emerging with the one I wanted to live and that filled me with more excitement than the tinge of fear.
“Let me make this clear”, Harper continued. “This will not be an easy process. As well as negative and difficult reactions from society, this process is not guaranteed to bring a greater sense of happiness for your son. I cannot stress enough the need for counselling throughout this process. For an adult, we usually require the patient to live in their chosen gender role for at least a year before even considering full sexual reassignment surgery. Although usually physically more convincing, the downside of transitioning early for the patient is dealing with such a major change while not still fully mature emotionally and intellectually. As a result, we are going to tread slowly…the administration of the hormone therapy can start immediately as the effects will take time to kick in. During this time, your son will slowly assume the lifestyle he feels comfortable in.”
This was Step Two of my journey, recognition of my real being and the start of my subsequent transformation into the woman I am today.
4. Not A Chrysalis
With a new prescription and therapy set up, we drove home and began talking about the upcoming weeks. I was still scared but only of other people’s reactions…I was giddy with excitement on the way home, literally skipping in to the house and twirling around in joy. After earlier talking with the doctor, we had formulated a rough game plan. I wouldn’t immediately jump into a feminine role but would instead start ease into my new gender, acting naturally instead of hiding burying the truth away. We needed to notify the school authorities of the situation, which would be another hurdle to jump through, as well as “come out” to friends and family in preparation for my change.
The first person my mom spoke to wasn’t my dad but my aunt Sarah, who she invited around for dinner along with Kirsten. Once again, I felt nauseous with nerves. I now thought I could handle outside hostility, but this would be the first of untold times I’d have to go through this situation.
They arrived about half an hour before dinner, clutching a tub of Haagen Daaz and a bottle of white wine. I was still upstairs and I heard Kirsten start up the stairs to come to my room as she usually did before my mom called her back to talk to her. While I really should have gone down to talk about this, I hid away, sitting by my pillows with my music playing low but loud enough to drown out any snippets of conversation wafting up from downstairs.
My door was always ajar but about ten minutes later, there was a knock as it opened fully.
“Hello”, smiled Kirsten.
“Hi”, I replied and swung my feet back around on to the floor. Kirsten just looked at me. “Did my mom tell you then?”
“Yeah…”
I looked at her nervously and put my fingers to my mouth. “What do you think?”
“C’mere, “ she said and threw her arms around me for a big hug, sitting next to me as she broke the hold. “Omigod, this is HUGE! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t tell anyone, I was trying to be a normal boy…”
“Hon, you were never a normal boy…”
“What do you mean?”, I asked slightly offended. Okay, I didn’t want to be a boy but I thought I gave a pretty convincing cover act!
“Look, you’re more than just shy or introverted. You’re considerate, gentle and sensitive. Now I don’t know if you’ve looked at the apes at school and around here, but those aren’t qualities you find in your average male…”
“No”, I smiled, “They’re pretty much a grubby species…”
Kirsten put her hand on my shoulder before saying “It kind of makes sense, actually…mom always thought you were gay.”
“What?!”
“It’s okay, I always told her you weren’t but she wouldn’t have it. She said boys were only ever after one thing from a girl and if you weren’t trying it on with the girls, then you must be one of the girls…”
Although she was only half-joking, aunt Sarah was actually spot on…
“What did she say when she heard?”, I asked.
“Well, she was surprised obviously…but not surprised too, if you know what I mean. She’s worried about you, but we’re not going to turn away from you. We love you.”
I looked at Kirsten warmly then looked down. I wasn’t used to being emotionally unguarded and was still finding my way around my feelings but I didn’t back down from them.
“I love you too”, I said and hugged my cousin again. She could see I was touched so lightened the mood.
“Of course, this means I’ve got to send you birthday present back and get you a Bratz instead.”
“Very funny”, I smiled then added. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind as they’ve got some nice outfits” before we both ended up laughing. Then her jaw dropped.
“What’s wrong?”, I asked.
“Nothing, “ she said excitedly. “You’ve GOT to let me take you clothes shopping! Omigod, you’ll need a whole new wardrobe, oh this is going to be so much fun!”
By the time we were called down for dinner, Kirsten had already started drawing up a list of things every young girl needed. Clothes, makeup, hairstyling products, handbags, accessories, shoes, clothes, everything.
“You need at least three handbags, “ she said.
“Yeah, I know,” I giggled as I counted on my fingers. “One for everyday, one for going out and one for going OUT out. I’ll need your help with makeup though as I’m terrible with it.”
Kirsten beamed and held up her hands. “Oh, you are going to have SUCH an education, young lady.”
Young lady, she had called me. She only had this bombshell dropped in her laps minutes before and already she was treating me like a girl. The love I felt for her then made my cheeks flush. My aunt was as supportive, giving me a quick one-armed hung as she kissed the top of my head while the dinner table was being set.
As we talked throughout the meal, I brought up Kirsten’s list and asked my mom if I could use some of my inheritance money to fund a shopping spree.
“We’ll have to see, “ she said flatly. I knew enough not to pursue the matter. A quick glance at Kirsten and we both stored the notion in our heads for now. The rest of the meal went okay and it tuned out that Kirsten’s dad and brother would both be fine about my transition too…although Sam called me Aerosmith once when I backed Kirsten in an argument she was having with him (but I didn’t get the reference at the time until he apologised a few minutes later!)
My dad was not to be so understanding. My mom called him to say that we needed to see him to discuss the matter, he refused to agree until he knew exactly what it was about as he had now moved out of state so wanted to know that it was important enough for him to give up his time to drive over. Reluctantly, my mom told him and he hit the roof, swearing and threatening to hit sense into me AND her.
I had stood anxiously listening to my mom on the phone but when I heard her say “You will not DARE touch EITHER of us”, I ran upstairs and picked up the other phone.
“You can beat me all you want, dad” I shouted down the phone, “But don’t ever think of touching mom, okay?” I’ll never forget his response.
“Oh, you’re a big man now? I thought you were going to cut it off.”
“Yeah, so you can use it to fuck yourself”, I screamed and slammed the phone down. My mom scolded me from downstairs, shouting that he was still my father and I shouldn’t talk to him like that. I responded as I walked back down the stairs.
“Mom, respect is earned not given and all he does is give abuse and think about himself. He obviously wants nothing to do with us so why should we care? I don’t want to see him again, mom. If it wasn’t for him, I probably could have been more open and had a better adjusted life. He dismissed us all the time so let him go. I want nothing to do with him anymore.”
And that was the last time I spoke or saw my father. His child support continued until I left education but I don’t even know where he lives now. As emotional as I was during that period, I never shed a tear over him.
I shed plenty of tears two weeks later, but in a good way. It was my 15th birthday and I was going out for a movie and pizza with Kirsten and the girls. Amazingly, none of the girls had rejected me (I would discover that it was usually adults who had a problem with my transition) and I was really looking forward to the night. It was a Saturday and Kirsten and our friend Emma were coming around late afternoon to hang out before heading out later, which gave me the day to myself. Mom was out shopping when I woke up but she left me a birthday card on the coffee table.
When she returned, I had cleaned the living room and kitchen and was curled on the sofa drinking a soda and watching the music channels. After she put the shopping away, my mom sat next to me and put a gift-wrapped box on the table in front of me.
“Happy birthday, “ she said. “Open it then…”
I put the soda down, slowly ripped open the wrapping and removed the lid of the plain white box inside. I peeled back the white tissue within and then looked up at my mom. I fought back tears as my fingers covered my mouth but I pulled out the contents of the box: a black dress. Underneath were two white blouses and a pink one together with a grey pencil skirt and a tartan kilt skirt, just like the one I’d worn a few years before. Stunned, I just looked at the clothes in silence, holding out the black dress in front of me.
“Do you like them?” asked my mom.
“I love them, “ I blubbed and hugged her fiercely. We hugged for ages as I cried and cried. I think this was a moment of release for me as all (well, most) of the bitterness, guilt, self-hate came gushing out of me. “Thank you, mom,” I sniffled, “I love you, I love you…” Eventually I sat back down, took a sip of soda then examined the clothes again.
“These are just the type of clothes I like”, I said. “How did you know what to get me?”
“Kirsten. I gave her the money and told her to get you what you’d like…I know you’ve always talked about fashion with her, so she’d be the best one to know.”
She got up and made herself a juice, then sat back down with a sigh.
“I know you can’t live fully as a girl yet, you still look like a boy and your hair hasn’t grown out and everything…but when you asked for some money to buy clothes, I reacted badly. I didn’t want to give you that money as I wasn’t ready to let go of my son yet. That was selfish and I’m sorry…I’m sorry because you’ve been so happy the past few weeks, literally like another person and that’s when I realised that by denying you so I could grasp on to something that really wasn’t there…well, it was just selfish of me and just wrong for you.”
“Your grandmother loved you and I think she’d much rather you spent some of that money on being happy than just wasting it so I think it’s a great idea to buy some clothes that you can wear around the house and for later on. I think it’ll be too much in one go though so I’d suggest going through the mail order catalogue to get the bulk of it then spend a weekend or a few Saturdays with Kirsten to get the rest.” She paused for a second then really smiled for the first time in a while. “Y’know, so you can get the real girly shopping experience…”
We both giggled before she continued. “I know this is all a big deal for you…but I wanted to buy you your first clothes, it was important to me...”
“Mom, you don’t have to explain”, I said as I held her hand. “I love them and I’m really grateful”. And I was...I wore that black dress constantly and when I eventually outgrew it, I had it framed and it now hangs on my bedroom wall as a symbol of my journey.
When my mom asked if I was going to put some of the clothes on and I said not until tomorrow, she wondered why.
“Two reason: the first is that I need to shave my legs!”, I laughed, as did she. “I’ve never thought about that before! That’s something I’ll have to get used to…and I want to go to the store now and get some hose to go with them because I don’t have the nicest of legs yet AND I like hosiery anyway! Secondly, once I’m dressed, I won’t want to change back before going out tonight! I’ll get up tomorrow, have a shower as normal and come down as…oh, god…”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know who I’ll be when I’m a girl! I haven’t thought of a name!”
“Honey, I think that’s the least of your problems right now”, she retorted. After I finished my soda, I walked to the store, perused the tights and stockings and selected two pairs of black pantyhose, a pair of grey and a pair of black patterned tights, joined by a pair of black hold-up stockings. I was a bit nervous about going to the checkout with them and the razors and shaving cream I picked up, expecting some curious looks but it wan an uneventful transaction and when I got home, my mom had said that she’d called one of her friends, who had just had a baby a few weeks before. She still had a book of baby names and would drop it in that afternoon.
When she arrived, my mom’s friend wondered why we wanted the book and again, the negative reaction I expected when we explained failed to materialise as she became fascinated instead and stayed for nearly an hour with us just having a general chat really. After she left, I sat down with the book to draw up a list of potential new names for myself. I knew I liked girly names but had to avoid the tarty-sounding names like Brandy, Tiffany or Brittany and knew that I hated old-fashioned or bland names like Alice, Sheila, Gertrude or Florence. I was going to have an interesting afternoon!
Kirsten and Emma dropped by later on and we all had a soda and a chat before heading out to the cinema to meet the others. After the film, we headed for pizza and pasta at an Italian restaurant, where the girls surprised me with birthday gifts. I was over the moon as they had all bought me my first makeup: lipsticks, lip-gloss, mascara (I loved the blue one!), eye shadow, eyeliner, blusher, nail varnish, the works. Kirsten was different, buying me my first perfume and jewellery, some bangles and a lovely gold necklace.
As we began our starters, the questions that they had all been dying to ask started to come out.
“When are you going to transition?” Well, that was a process that was only starting.
“Do you like boys?” No…I noticed when boys were good-looking but had no real attraction for them.
“Are you going to be a lesbian then?” Relationships for transgendered people can be hard to find and sustain but yes, I would like a girlfriend.
“So…are you going to go in for the chop?”
Hmmm. I always felt like a girl and ached when I looked in the mirror and saw a boy looking back at me. I couldn’t wait for my hair to grow out, my breasts to develop and my hips to fill out but I never really gave any thought to what was between my legs. It didn’t offend me, it was just something that wasn’t anything girls have. The doctors explained that the hormone therapy would eventually affect the functionality but that they can use the nerve endings there to enable pleasure if I did have that final operation. That was something to think about in the future, for now I wanted to live as free and happy as I had for the past weeks.
The next morning, I lay the clothes I received for my birthday out on my bed and chose which ones to wear. I took my shower and shaved my legs for the first time, carefully paring off the down without any cuts (something I’d rarely achieve until I soon switched to a Ladyshave electric razor!). When I closed my bedroom door behind me, I took a deep breath and sat on my bed for a moment. This was a big day for me and I didn’t want to just rush into getting dressed as I normally would. For the first few weeks of getting dressed in my gender role, I went slowly to savour the experience. Not in any fetishist pleasurable way but because I had always wanted to live openly as a girl and now I was. My deepest dream was now coming true and I wanted to enjoy the experience rather than just throw my clothes on.
Eventually I took the tartan skirt off its hanger and slipped the pink blouse out of its cellophane. I carefully removed a pair of black pantyhose from their pack and puffed myself with the perfume Kirsten had bought me before putting on the necklace she had also bought me. I shifted to the edge of my bed and gathered a leg of the hose up and slipped my foot in, rolling the nylon back up over my leg before repeating the process with the other leg and pulling the pantyhose all the way up. I wore no underpants as I suddenly realised I hadn’t got any knickers yet and made a mental note to rectify that ASAP: I wouldn’t buy any bras until I started developing the need for them but quickly got hold of some strappy vests. I buttoned on the blouse and fastened up the skirt, finally slipping on the bangles from Kirsten.
Nervously, I looked in the mirror. I looked like a boy in a skirt but I felt deeply content, wishing I had the courage to be honest years before. I slowly walked down the stairs and hugged my mom.
“Thanks, “ I said. “I love you, mom.” She smiled and asked if I felt better. I did and from that moment on, I lived as Kiera in the house. Three months later, the hassle of a double life seemed pointless to me and I left the house for the first time as a girl (taking the therapist’s advice to go out with a group of girls initially to disguise myself slightly and build my confidence). I threw out all of my male clothing and from then on, I lived full time as myself.
