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

Watch “The Danish Girl Official Trailer #1 (2015) – Eddie Redmayne, Alicia Vikander Drama HD” on YouTube

I am not going to talk about A male actor playing a transgender lead role.  This is a highly fictionalized story inspired by the true life of Lili Elbe.  What did notice in the trailer are moments.

Within a transgender person’s life are moments that play like the individual snap shots of a Polaroid camera.

The younger years can appear somewhat innocuous; trying on the costume, the appearance is light hearted to those around us.

As we grow older things start to take a serious shape. Gone is the innocence of light heartedly wearing a costume. The clothing becomes our being. A drug we don’t want to quit, but don’t want to use.

In the trailer, Eddie Redmayne does an amazing job displaying revulsion, caution, and submission all in the same scene; at the same time.  When he dresses as Lili the very first time.  When he slides on the stocking, and puts the heeled pumps on his feet.

I can relate. I can remember when it all came back.  When I was 15; I made a promise to myself I was going to be normal.  No more girls clothes.  No more pretending to be a girl.  This was going to be buried.  This was the promise of a naive and confused teenager.

I spent so many years making sure that person stayed dead.

There were a couple of Halloweens that I was almost dressed as a girl at my brides suggestion.  One I was even going to wear my sister-in-law’s LBD.  Hey, I filled it out better than she did.  Each time,  I decided not to dress.  My bride saw this as “chickening out”.  I was more than happy to be the chicken;  far better than the truth. 

A couple of years later,  I was persuaded to dress for a charity function.  I worked in a industry full of alpha males. Out of all the alpha males, I was the least alpha. I told myself it would be OK.  As I slid on the hose;  put on the shoes, and donned the trailer trash frock,  I started to worry.  Once I saw myself in the mirror; in a wig, with the amazing makeup job my wife applied, something clicked.  Even though I was a caricature of my feminine self, it was me looking back through the mirror.

That scene kept replaying in my dreams.  Over and over.  I dressed  For the same occasion the next year, with the same results.

I thought I had made a mistake.  I thought that I had awaken something inside.  What I know now is that there was really nothing I could have done. 

I wonder if Einer Weneger, who later became Lili Elbe, really felt that way.  Did she feel that sting. The twisting of our soul.  Do we all feel that same slide of our masculinity? -Brenda

Therapy Tomorrow

     So much has happened since my last therapy session.  I started as a MTF transgender person.  Since that therapy session;  my wife has been diagnosed with end stage renal failure, and we are currently experiencing financial trauma.  

If you were me;  you would think that the whole gender issue thing would take a back seat.  You would also be completely fucking wrong.  So what happens is I have a whole ball of soul killing blackness and despair reigning down on me like shrapnel.  The next person who tells me God never gives us more than we can handle is going to get a hollow point 9mm slug to the base of their skull.  

    The thing is this;  I have what matters the most in my life.  She has been my light for 24 years.  I pursued her for two years before that.  She is my strength.  She is the strong one.  She is my dragon slayer.  If she doesn’t get a transplant;  she could be gone.

     Why is that not enough?  Why does my gender issue have to permeate everything in my life.  

      So,  tomorrow I have to go to therapy.  Will it help?  Why am I going?  Does it even matter anymore.

I don’t know.

The Girl in My Attic

     Me and my bride were watching Anne Frank on Netflix.  I have both read her diary,  and viewed several movie adaptations as well.  I have always had an interest in history;  especially world war II and the Holocaust.  I honestly don’t know what the draw is.  I suppose that I am still trying to understand how the worlds most developed culture could give over so easily to such depravity.  The Nazi’s destroyed a thriving GLBT culture,  and set back acceptance and research over forty years.  The first MTF gender reassignment surgery was performed in Berlin,  1931.  I don’t think that the world will ever be able to understand.

Getting back to Anne Frank.  As we watched the movie I found it hard to accept that I would behave like Ms.  Frank and her family.  Not being able to go downstairs.  Living in total silence 10 hours a day;  five days a week.  Afraid that any heard noise;  or glance from an open window could betray your hiding,  letting the wrong person know could ultimately lead to death. I said that I would eventually lose my sanity;  make the Nazi’s kill me, and take a few of them with me.  My son put it all in perspective stating that I would be inclined to do what ever my parents did.  That was true.  For all of our ideas of rebellion;  we don’t always act.

Lets take a look at how so many of us live. Out online only.  Out to a spouse.  The only time we don makeup and feminine attire is in our safe places with our safe friends.  Going out in public afraid that our voices will betray us.  Afraid of being recognized and read.  Rightfully so.  Nine murders this year so far of MTF transgender girls.

There are many among us that live as our true selves,  but they are far from safe.  We know how ugly it can be.  Even in death we are misgendered;  have our professions questioned,  dressed as our physical born gender in the coffin-just to assuage the living.

We are hated,  not respected.  Left to fear.  We live in our own attics.  Its the way we are conditioned.  Its the way our parents taught us to live.  Don’t be different.  Fit in.  Don’t rock the boat.  Give in to what society wants.  Its what they want.  Its what society wants.  Its what the government wants.  Its what god wants.  Its what our parents want.

Think about how out of all the positive transgender influences we have,  we only are only relegated to minor headlines and footnotes.  I became a fan of the Switched on Bach when I was a sophomore in high school.  Only a couple of years ago did I learn that Wendy Carlos used to be Walter Carlos.

I don’t know what the future holds.  I ditched my first therapist appointment this morning.  I had a bad feeling.  The therapist made it a point to call yesterday;  and tell my wife,  who answered the phone,  that I had a therapy appointment this morning.  My Lilith already knew.  She knows about me.  She knows Brenda.  She is my Eowyn.  She has my back.  She mentioned that I should probably be concerned about my prospective therapist’s lack of concern for HIPPA protocol.  She was right.  I will contact my work EAP to find another therapist.  Back a little deeper into the attic I go.

Pandora’s Box

This is Brenda. If you are transgender you understand. Opening Pandora’s Box. That was one of the reasons I was dreading therapy. Questions I don’t want to answer: Are you going to transition? What is your timeline for transition? What does your transition entail? Transition transition transition. I guess we each have our own path. Some people show up in the living room in a dress when their wife walks in from work. A year later, they are alone in a hospital bed; in Thailand with their boy junk in the nearest rubbish bin . That’s not me. I am not happily skipping down the pink brick road. It’s more like I have jumped off a cliff; and I am hopping for a safe landing, or a pink parachute to slow my descent. There is no judgement. I can understand how some of us once the realization hits, we want resolution ASAP. All of my life I have dove in. I joined the army quickly. Many people tried to talk me out of it; and there was my bride saying she would love and support me no matter what, though I could see WTF in her eyes. Not this time. We are both very cautious. Right now everything is a big question mark. If, when, what, how far? It’s not easily answered. When you have the love and support of someone so wonderful it makes for many variables, and all I have is time. I just have to put these nightmares to bed. I just know the bitch is out of the box and I know she is not going back in, no matter how hard I push.