Fire and Rain

Fire and rain

I am in my mid forties.  A large part of my musical taste comes from what my mom played when I was a child.  My mom had varied musical tastes.  Johnny Cash, The Doors, Janis Joplin, The Beatles: they all reverberated through my home on Sunday mornings.  Scratchy vinyl played through humongous home stereo speakers. 

One song has always stood out, one verse in particular.

James Taylor wrote Fire and Rain about several experiences.  The death of a child hood friend, battling depression and addiction, also his suçcess of being a solo artist coupled with the implosion of his band.

“Won’t you look down upon me Jesus, you gotta help me make a stand. My body’s aching and my time is at hand; and I won’t make it any other way.”
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When I was about eleven; and would dress, that verse would play over and over in my head.  My body would ache; and I would agonize over the whole thing   I would physically hurt, until I got changed.  All of a sudden everything would subside.  There was the dichotomy: how could something so wrong for me, something so forbidden, my one way ticket on the highway to Hell feel so right.  Those two hours would heal my broken spirit that had been beaten over the course of the day.  For two hours, everything was right.  No anxiety, no depression, no fear.  The only time that day I would feel relief.  Sorry to disappoint all of those ignorant bigots;  I did such sexually explicit activities as homework, house cleaning, and watching TV. 

Once time was ending;  I would shower, remove the clothing, and makeup  Tears in my eyes; being crushed by guilt,  I would beg Jesus to deliver me from this so called sin.  Each day when I could;  I would repeat, fail, and repeat.  Only outgrowing the clothes stopped me.  I was able to grow out my hair, wear eyeliner, earrings, tight pants boots with 2 inch heels. Androgynous sexually ambiguous clothing.  Hey, it was the eighties.  The relief was minor.  Those demons were still there.  The only respite came from Jim Bean and Cocaine.  How I escaped addiction is beyond me.  Looking back,  I have wonder if a parent would think the odds are worth it; satiating demons with chemicals instead of getting proper treatment for gender dysphoria.  I buried those thoughts closet deep. 

I am not here to have a discussion about religion.  If at the end of this; you feel the need to pray for me and my wife, that’s great, we need all help we can get.  I am personally tired of getting beat up by the American Jesus.

Those transgender feelings are still here. My body still aches.  Relief hasn’t been felt in years.  I no longer ask Jesus for help.  I won’t make it any other way.  I don’t know what to do. -Brenda