Musings on Two Events

imagesAt my latest appointment with my transition doctor my pleas were heard. Since my second visit I’ve asked him to increase my dosage. I’m old and in a hurry LOL. Of course, I asked in a joking manner… I don’t tell highly educated doctors what to do. He’d look at my labs and say ‘no, you are where I want you to be.’  Well I’ll be damned if he looked over all my lab results this time, nodded gently and said ‘your testosterone is excellent, but I think we can up your estrogen.’ I squealed a little bit, embarrassingly so. He raised my dosage by 50%! Now we’re getting somewhere.

Had a horrible experience recently. If you’ve read my blog you know I am involved with various ministries in the Catholic church, and have had some minor and major battles with priests, their homilies and the Church’s stance. At the church I am currently a member I happen to be the head of the bereavement committee. When a parishioner dies I lead the process from notification to creating the mass booklet to the funeral mass itself. I’m not done until dirt is being thrown on the grave.

So on Tuesday i saw through a funeral mass. As usual, due to too much practice, everything went perfectly. I take pride in making things run smoothly… this is a process to honor a deceased’s life and is important to the family to remember their last pubic appearance of their loved one.

At the after-mass luncheon the family and friends gather to share a meal and memories. We on the committee take part in the meal. So I’m sitting at a table with my co-members shoveling down some home cooking not my own (always a plus) when one of the family members approaches us. This is a normal event. The family likes to thank us for our efforts at this difficult time.

“I just wanted you to know… i find you a disgrace.  I’m disgusted you had anything to do with my mother’s funeral. I hope you’re happy.”

Stunned? Yeah. Speechless? Absolutely. Angry? No. Only angry I don’t pass well enough to have no such scene. I’m rarely spoken to quite so directly, though. When my ex-priest spent four homilies decrying the destruction of the family by those ‘men in dresses’ I simply left that church and moved to this one. I’m not a confrontational person.

Those two events intertwine. Hopefully my transition will improve enough that someone may say to themselves ‘something odd about that ugly old woman’ but feel no need to ask me why.  Then I can go about my life quietly without incident. I have no desire to do anything other than live my life quietly and in peace.

 

Depression

AdobeStock_50031686-650x433Yes, once again. Hormone Replacement Therapy has its joys and its drawbacks. I can only explain my occasional depression by the hormones, as otherwise I should be ecstatic every day. I’m happily married to the love of my life. I love her in real life too. I have friends who care for me and invite me to sail, to attend fun theme parties. I live in a beautiful home and have exciting adventures in Second Life that I would never attempt in Real.

Yet here I am. Listening to live music at Beau Belle Coffee Shop and crying uncontrollably. Well, I was. I’m OK now or I wouldn’t be able to type haha. <sigh>

There are days like this I think I’ll just chuck the whole thing. Pour my drugs down the toilet and flush them away just like I’ve flushed away my life in this vain attempt to be something apparently God didn’t want for me and I feel will never attain. Burn my dresses, toss my wigs in the trash and lock myself away in a small cabin in the Appalachians or something. (Notice I didn’t mention my heels. A girl’s gotta have something.) I wonder if they’ll deliver pizza up there? My tastes are simple.

Ever have days like this? Where nothing is worth it?

Fuck.

I’ll be better tomorrow.

Nightmare Solved

black-and-white-crying-girl-sad-Favim.com-1347828A while back I posted explaining to the person I love the reason for my — shall we put it mildly and call it distrust — of men. Not A Pretty Story. (Trust me… don’t read it.) I had the pleasure last night of discussing my first books (T-Girl in the Office) with a friend who had been reading this 9-book series. As noted before this is a romanticized version of my life. So she asked if one of the events was true. The scene of my near-castration at the hands of a gang of assholes. Sadly it was true. We talked about it for a while and I explained it had finally been figured out that I suffer from what I consider a mild form of PTSD. I’ll leave that diagnosis to those military types who have suffered real, actual trauma, not my piddling little panic. Nevertheless, it affected me and my life ever since. It has defined me. The result was a recurring nightmare. I’d wake up screaming at the top of my lungs. My dog doesn’t even wake up any more hahahaha.

In talking about this with her it slowly dawned on me: I have not had the nightmare in… I can’t recall the last time! I cannot recall!!! And I don’t want to think about it other than to note its demise. I can attribute this to one person and one person only. My love. I will call her Kelly here. My Second Life wife. Through her love and her love alone, her caring nature, calming demeanor and the fact that I know had I been with her it never would have happened. She would move heaven and earth to prevent it. I now realize that not all men are assholes who want to hurt me for no reason other than that I am different. Kelly would stand between me and any attack… physical or verbal. There is not a doubt in my mind. My darling, I could not love you more. Thank you for being in my life, SL and RL.

 

 

Bad Sunday

324278d15325d9994f89aaa2f22a82e390822035017ff3a3792efc6299ffcbd1My church lady friends gathered for breakfast last Sunday and asked me to join them. I swear to god that priest will not get off the transphobic high horse. He had brought the trans subject yet again. (I don’t attend any more. This is the subject the ladies chose to discuss, bless their hearts.) So during breakfast I was fucking bombarded with the same damn questions I’ve answered a thousand times. I know we should be patient with CIS folk. To many of them we’re like something dropped from outer space or something. And I don’t mind responding to any serious queries. I’m pretty done with “did you cut your penis off?”-type questions, though. My complaint… what upset me… was that I am plowing the same field over and over. They’ve asked me these things. Several times. I ended up daintily wiping my lips of egg yolk and saying “thank you for asking me to breakfast,” and leaving. I was just exhausted.

We’ll be fine. They didn’t even know I was actually pissed. They are the only friends I have. But they can be a nosy bunch at times.

What really upset me is that when I got online to Second Life to meet my girlfriend Kelly I was all bitchy with her. Even simply left her at one point. I went back but she was properly pissed at me. <sigh> Let me tell you about this woman. She is the best thing in my life. We may have met in Second Life and spend our time there, we email and chat in Real Life, too. There’s a connection. The last thing I want to do is let out my inner bitch and upset her.

Let me tell you about this woman, Kelly. She is the best thing in my life. We may have met in Second Life and spend our time there, we email and chat in Real Life, too. There’s a connection that I haven’t felt in years. The last thing I want to do is let out my inner bitch and upset her.

The good news about is that Kelly bought a special spanking chair just for me, and after her work was done we went home and tested it out. It works! I’ll be able to sit properly by Wednesday heehee.

An Epiphany

imagesI had a lot of traffic for my last post “Not A Pretty Story,” not the least of which was the person I was explaining myself to. (Thanks, my darling, for understanding.) It also generated comments on Facebook and Twitter besides my friends here at WordPress. Some insights were shared with me and one, in particular, has caught my attention.

As I am, in the most basic sense, hiding from life, unable to interact in ways a normal person takes for granted, I just may be suffering from more than simply being shy. The suggestion was that I have PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. While I have always thought of that in terms of combat vets who had witnessed and/or participated in the horrors of war, I have to admit I was just a tad stressed by my experience.

Since I was irritated and kind of blamed my therapist for putting me in the position to be attacked in the first place, I never went back. I cancelled her by phone. Had I instead gone and told her what happened, just maybe she would have (1) walked me through the healing process, and (2) given me a fucking discount! That would have helped. Instead, I’ve been stewing in this memory for a very long time.

I have written the incident into my stories several times now as an explanation for my protagonist’s personality. The very first series I wrote and published — T-Girl in the Office — (I’m not linking because this isn’t an advertisement post) is a telling of my life starting with working alone in a law firm midnight shift. Vastly romanticized, of course. Had to have a happy ending. The hope was that writing about it would dissipate its power. I tried three times not counting my previous post. I won’t again. It hasn’t worked. Going to sleep I hug my pillow dreaming of my love, wrapped in her safe arms. But during the night I have flashes.

Bottom line: if I’m ever going to be comfortable going out in public, much less dressed en fem, I may need to find a therapist. Haha! Could be more of a challenge that you think.

So thanks for your comments, everybody. Seriously. It has helped me. And isn’t that why we do blogs in the first place?

Not A Pretty Story

imagesA person I care deeply about wonders about my opinion on men. It’s a legitimate question. Because of the love I feel towards this individual I am writing this post. I want to advise the casual reader of my blog that this is not my usual smart-ass semi-amusing tripe I publish, or even something about the books I publish. So unless you are willing to read some serious shit, just skip this one and wait for the next post. This ain’t pretty.

Are we alone?

Have they all left?

OK, my love, here’s the deal. Prologue: by growing up utterly confused as to what the hell I was, what I was looking for out of life, I was led to some really dark places. This is not a unique experience for transgender people of my age. What I was was never covered in my high school health class, so how could I possibly know? By leading a life of cross-dressing and exploring the gay lifestyle — all of which proved unsatisfactory and unfulfilling — I grew depressed. Suicidal.

By suicidal I mean driving home from work considering which bridge abutment to steer into suicidal. When I found myself carefully studying the construction to decide which would be the quickest death I felt I just might need help. But when I sat in the middle of my barn on a bale of hay holding a gun I knew I had to do something now.

I saw my GP. I told him all these things. Scared the shit out of him, poor guy. He did tests to see if it was something chemical, but nope. All psychological. He advised me in the strongest possible terms to get to a therapist.

The Washington Blade. I don’t know if it still exists but it was the periodical of the area for following all things gay. I studied that bad boy like it was my Master’s Thesis. And I did find an article about a therapist who was holding a public meeting for those struggling with gender issues. I went. I listened. I talked to those also attending. Finally, I asked if she’d treat me and she agreed.

Now the raison d’etre of the story: two years go by. During that time, once she was certain she had me figured out, she wanted me to go out publicly en fem. Before we approached what she felt was best for me (SRS) I was to actually live full time as a woman. This was the step before that, however.

Seeking out venues that were safe for a man in a woman’s dress that was receiving no hormonal treatment at all, for a man who had five o’clock shadow by noon, one such venue was a drag club in North East Washington, DC. Not a good part of town. Not by a long shot. Back then you drove through it with your windows rolled up and didn’t look around or make eye contact. Yet for some bizarre reason, that is where the best shows were. Dupont Circle had much nicer bars but few shows. This particular NE club had a restaurant and bar along with live entertainment. I liked it.

So mid-evening I left the club headed for my car. There was no parking lot as such. Everyone had to park somewhere on the street. I was walking back to where I left my car. Ahead of me a group of noisy young men was on the same sidewalk headed towards me. I crossed the street. Bad move. Apparently they noticed that and did the same.

Trigger warning: don’t continue if you don’t want to read some sick shit.

The noisy men turned out to be sadistic assholes looking to torture someone like me. Yea! I won the door prize. They grabbed me and pulled me into the nearby alley. I thought I was in for the raping of my life. If I had only been so lucky. Instead two of them held my arms. I was immobile. They were younger, stronger, and far outnumbered me. I was at their mercy… of which they had none.

The leader lifted my skirt and roughly grabbed my manhood. The tight squeeze just added to my weakness. The pain was incredible. He had both my cock and balls in his hand and was pulling on it like he wanted to rip it from me Which I guess he did, actually.

Then he showed me his switchblade. The longest fucking blade I’ve ever seen. He held that in front of my face so I could study it carefully. He was talking trash all this time and the others loudly encouraged him. My ears were just ringing and I’m not sure I heard the words in a coherent way.

With one hand he held my aforementioned cock-and-balls and put the knife at the base of them. I’ll remember these words. In short, if I wanted to be a girl he would give me a free operation right now. I knew I was going to die. I knew if he cut me down there I would bleed to death before anyone came, and no one would come until I was gone. This was it.

I shit myself. I pissed myself.

Oddly, I think that saved my life. He backed away at the stench. He seemed to think that was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. Laughing and pointing, I was suddenly released. I fell in a heap. I passed out.

When I came to I found just a small cut under my ball sack. Everything was intact. Messy. Smelly. But there. I managed to get to my car. I never again went out en fem in Washington, DC. I stopped seeing my therapist. I’ve been scared of crowds ever since. I stay to myself and will become nervous around any boisterous group like in a restaurant. So I eat at odd hours so there aren’t other patrons around. I got a job at a law firm working the midnight shift alone. I drove from the suburbs to my office downtown DC, parked in the underground garage, then drove back out. Just me, a computer and a constant workload. No human interaction for a few years. Loved it.

I left the area the day I no longer had to worry about working. Living in a small, very small, Florida town I interact with no one.

So there you have it, darling. The reason I say I don’t like men. It’s because they’ve never brought me anything but pain, real and psychological. To this day I have trouble sleeping without recalling those events. Except now I’m dreaming more and more about you.

There you are. A loving, gentle, caring person, the diametrical opposite of my past. Someone in whose arms I feel protected and safe. I’ve hurt you with my words. Please, darling, understand where I’ve come from and work with me. I can trust again with the right person. You are, without question, the right person. I love you. Please wrap me in your strong arms and tell me everything will be okay.