These stories on this page talk about being transgender.
It's the 'T' in 'LGBT.' Transgender people usually describe feeling trapped in the wrong body, fighting to be seen on the outside as they feel on the inside. The journey often begins with coming out to family.
By Danie D. Taylor
My mom was never a "girly" mom - which was great because I was never a "girly" girl. She didn't wear make up. I didn't want to wear make up. She didn't carry a purse. I didn't want to carry a purse. My mom worked a blue collar job that required her to wear pants, practical shoes and carry a backpack. I went to private school, where I wore knee high socks and plaid skirts - with mens boxers hidden underneath, because that's just what we did. Both of my parents insisted I become a lady, but that was never associated with being "girly." I was free to grow up exactly as I wanted.
It would be years before I fully appreciated the importance of that freedom.
This is a story about sacrifice.
My mom sacrificed herself on the altar of propriety. Born a girl, wishing to have been a boy. My mom ignored how she felt, got married and had two kids. That's a simple sentence that gives you an idea. But it doesn't help you understand. It can't - not unless you've lived it. I haven't, which means I don't have the words. I don't know what it's like not to have the outside match the inside. Yes, I sometimes feel there's a svelte supermodel hiding deep, deep within me - but, well, it's just not the same.
I've heard how my mom tells the story of how she became a he. I remember it differently. I remember my mom hanging out with a lot of women after my dad moved out of the house. They were always friendly and never in my way, so I played with their kids and went about my (very important) high school business. I remember my dad saying "Oh boy, Danie. You really don't know?! Your mother's a les-bi-an!" I think partly through the "l" word he began to debate the merits of outing your ex to your child. But my dad's nothing if not committed.
I imagine he was expecting some dramatic reaction. But I was in high school. I knew things about gay people, just like I knew things about my dad - the occasional victim who had "lost his family" through no fault of his own. I asked him how he knew and he listed his evidence - including "She got her eyebrow pierced Danie. It's what they do so they can find each other." I remember saying "oohhhh," as if a secret code had been unlocked for me. I told my brother. He didn't care. And since I didn't either. We never asked her about it.
My mom did what she was told she was supposed to do. I was born. My brother was born. If she wanted to celebrate our young adulthood by shacking up with women, that was cool with us. My brother and I knew we were important. And based on the way the women kissed up to us, they knew it too.
This is a story about support.
I went away to college. I became an RA. I learned more things about the LGBT community. When I was 18, I learned about the other letters. I went to a conference, where I heard a transgender person speak for the first time. Things clicked. My mom was not a lesbian. My mom was transgender. I called home to report my findings.
I remember explaining the difference between sex and gender. I remember saying things like "well you wear men's clothes..." and whatever other definitive evidence I had documented after attending my (only) one session. My mom promised to look into it. I remember being mighty pleased with myself. I was a fool in the way that only brand new adults can be. I had no idea what I was saying. Yes, I can now say I pointed my mom in the right direction. But in terms of sexuality and gender awareness I had no idea what was happening. I thought my mom would be proud and so I was happy.
I left college, made friends in a new city, and occasionally told people about my lesbian mother. See? I honestly didn't know the difference. I thought I did, but I didn't. My mom was a lady, dressed as a guy, dating ladies. So (duh) she was a butch lesbian. My brother and I were cool. My dad had accepted her and they had become buddies. My family was strange but not that strange. Life was good.
One day my mom called me, left me a cryptic voicemail and overdosed on prescriptions pills.
I. Was. Furious. I got the call from my godmother. The rest of my family was kind of a mess about it. But I am not one to give in to hysterics. I'm practical. As soon as my mother was conscious and coherent, I laid into her. I called her selfish. I told her I did not appreciate cowards. I told her it was rude and that she could cry for help with a phone call or an e mail like an adult would. I promised her if I ever felt an inkling - if there was even a whisper on the breeze - that she would try that again, I'd kill myself first so she would know what it felt like to lose her best friend. I made my point.
This is a story about silliness.
I don't remember when my mom told me she would be transitioning. I don't remember who I told or what they said. I remember she and I talked about the psych evaluations and the testimonies before medical panels. We talked about my feelings - which I only remember as neutral. We like to say: "if you like it, I love it." We support each other unless there is physical harm involved. In those instances, we (read: I) can turn vicious.
Don't get me wrong - my mom's transition was not a walk in the park. My brother saw it differently. He has his own story to tell. I mean what happens to a mama's boy when his mama becomes a man?
There were also times when we would have family disagreements (even spread across the country we do EVERYTHING as a unit), and my dad, brother and I would essentially say, "Get over yourself. This has nothing to do with your transition. You're not being persecuted, you're just wrong." That does not always have the calming effect necessary for constructive dialogue. Still, being trans is one part of my parent's personality. We all make it a point to remember that. No one in our family gets a pass.
My brother has two kids now - another story for another time.
I still call my mom, "mommy." I only get one you know. I introduce her as male to my friends and they all use masculine pronouns. I'm highly protective of my parent. I want the world to see my mom as a big, tough man. But I see someone else. I see someone who had to struggle to get where he is. I see someone scared of being outed. I see someone too squeamish to pull a kid's tooth or pick up a dead mouse left in offering from the neighborhood's stray cat. I see the person who used to sit in the dark and cry silently, who watches the same cartoons I do and who loves over and over again, despite getting hurt.
I'm blessed to have two parents. My mom can't be my dad, we talk about mother daughter stuff. Besides, what would that make my dad? I think being a mother takes a lot, and my mom earned her stripes. She might have taken off her uniform, but the same person is in there.
By Leslie Lagerstrom
“When did you know for sure?”
Everyone we meet wants to know the answer to that question when they hear we have a transgender child. Perhaps some ask to calm unspoken fears that their own tomboy daughter or feminine son could be transgender. Most others are genuinely interested in a subject that is still unfamiliar to most people and misunderstood by society, especially in regards to children.
I remember Sam always gravitating to traditional male activities…male friends…male play. From Match Box cars and CAT bulldozers to baseball jerseys and Bob the Builder reruns…Sam was all boy, even if he was a girl.
I will never forget the photo sent home by a well-meaning preschool teacher when Sam was just three years old. The teacher was just as pleased to share what fun our child was having at school as Sam was to hand deliver a picture that was sure to make the refrigerator hall-of-fame.
As I studied the photo of three young children playing ‘House,’ a sick feeling in my stomach began to grow. In front of me were two girls engaged in traditional gender role-play, happily assuming the coveted roles of mother and child, and then there was Sam, complete with a fake beard, bow tie, sport coat, top hat and a grin from ear-to-ear.
When I asked Sam what role she was playing, her tone, more than the answer, caught me off guard. With a confident, don’t-you-get-it mom inflection in her voice, Sam proclaimed, “I’m the DAD!” And when I asked why that role was chosen, the tone became even more incredulous as Sam explained, “…because that is who I am!” At that point I was hoping the answer would have been, “…because they made me.” I would have much rather dealt with a child not standing up for her rights, than with a child who was starting to tell us, in the only way she knew how, that there was a disconnect between her mind and biology.
The early years were filled with more of these anecdotes than I care to remember, each one providing varying degrees of uneasiness for my husband and me, as we struggled to understand this young child who consistently and persistently insisted she was really a boy. But it was the revelation Sam came home with in 3rd grade that provided me with my proverbial ah-ha moment.
In 3rd grade students at our public elementary school get their first lesson on the subject of chromosomes. Nothing too complex mind you, just the basic information on XY sex-determination. Well as it turned out, that proved to be a monumental day for Sam who jumped off the bus in the afternoon eager to share something important.
“I know what is wrong with me!” Sam exclaimed, grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil with an eraser before the back door was even closed.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” I replied, scared of where this conversation was going.
“Look mom…” Sam said, as she wrote in large letters XX followed by XY. “Girls have XX chromosomes and boys have XY.”
Okay, I thought. So far I can deal with this.
Sam continued, “something happened to my Y – it was supposed to be a Y but it turned into an X (erasing the bottom stem of a sloppily drown Y), and that is why I am a girl when I was really suppose to be a boy.”
All I could feel at that moment was an excruciating pain in my heart thinking about the magnitude of the internal struggle this child must be enduring for her to come away with this self-diagnosis from a simple 3rd grade lesson on chromosomes.
I did not try to deny Sam’s feelings any longer. Instead I picked up the phone and called my husband at work and shared Sam’s revelation. It was that afternoon that we both knew we were facing something bigger than we had once thought – not a phase or a choice as we had wishfully hoped. While difficult, we will always reflect positively on that day, for it marked the start of our journey down a new path – one that would help our child be who he really was meant to be.
By Kris Beck
Your "First Life" is the life the creator gives you.
My name is Chris Beck; later in life I changed my name to Kristin Beck. Much of my life was as a Navy SEAL running around the world doing my best to be a "sheepdog," keeping the world safe.
I grew up in the 70’s, played football, fished and rode bikes. On the outside I was a full up rough and tumble boy. On the inside I wished I was my sister, I wished for a different life.
I still remember the first time I dressed up, with the help of my sister, around age 8. It was a purple ballerina outfit; I had fun jumping on the bed and spinning around to make the skirt flare. It was great fun until my dad came in and yelled at me. I didn't even know it was wrong until I got a backhand. My dressing up went on from there, but in private, hidden from view.
When I was growing up I would try to have a bedroom in the attic or basement. In one house I dressed up in an old tool shed out back, fixing it up into a livable room. These spaces afforded me privacy, which was otherwise unattainable in a family of seven. These “Private Idahos” became my safe girl havens with hiding spots for clothes and such. I could dress in relative peace and have enough warning to cover up if anyone came near. I learned about Radio Shack electronic sensors and mirrors at an early age. I would go up to my room to do "homework" and go to bed early nearly every night. It was a way to be alone and be dressed. I would do the homework of course, but also listen to the radio and write poetry. Most importantly, I was able to do it all en femme.
I would also stay home "sick" from school throughout junior high and high school and dress all day in my sister’s clothes. I became very careful and precise, returning everything in neat order. I slowly collected my own panties, hosiery, skirt, shoes and other assorted items.
After college I ended up with a few full outfits, but periodically purged my closet and tried not to dress.
The purge, oh the purge. So painful, but necessary to fight off the urge and be normal in the eyes of society or yourself. Purging is a time of getting rid of everything of your alter gender identity, of throwing it all in the dumpster and trying to be what they want - to live up to the expectations of parents, of yourself, of society, of everyone.
Even with the purges, the thoughts never left my mind, and I would end up going back to Victoria’s Secret and the thrift stores to slowly rebuild my wardrobe. The purges were expensive and didn't help at all – they just made the void bigger. Or they would make me more resolute to be myself, my real self. The purges - the dang purges! I will always remember this one pair of strappy wedges. They had very nice Asian flowers around the heel. They were so nice. I wish I still had that pair of shoes. I still, to this day, almost 30 years later keep my eye out for a replacement.
I remember in high school and college how I envied how “normal” guys thought and acted. When I see a woman, I see her shoes and outfit and envy how beautiful she is. Wishing I was her, wishing I had her shape, wishing I had her face, soft and pretty. Normal Guy sees a great ass he wants to sleep with… I felt that I got a bad hand in life and that I had a problem.
I lamented all the thoughts and energy that I put into wishing or trying to be a girl; it was not right and wasted time. I imagined how great it would be not to think this way, to be “normal.” I couldn't stop the way I thought or what I wanted to be. I kept dressing up, guilt ridden and full of angst. It was a deep-seated need from somewhere.
The "Second Life" is the one you make yourself, building experiences and knowledge based upon your “First Life.” Your first and second lives are very tightly woven, most of the time.
My “Second Life” started when I joined the military. I was sent into combat many times; I have seen the elephant and returned. I lived the military life for 20 years.
I joined the Navy SEALs in 1990. Went to SEAL Team One and deployed on tours over and over…kind of on a death wish or something. I don’t know. The SEALs offered me an escape into hyper-masculinity and a way maybe to cure myself of feminine thoughts. I did forget and pushed my feminine identity deep, very deep into the depths of my mind and soul. It was like a 20 year purge with only a few relapses. I was very happy in the SEALs. It was great work, I was a super sheepdog, fighting the wolves.
I went on to other SEAL Teams and finally ended up in the top SEAL team in the US Military, the team that did the Bin Laden and the Somali pirates missions. I still dressed up in private, but rarely while I was working in the SEALs; it just looked and felt funny with a huge beard wearing a dress and heels, but it always made me feel better inside.
My rather unorthodox "Third Life" is my dream and something I need to do if I am going to survive. I also hope to make a positive difference in a few lives along the way.
This “Third Life” I am now living has been a part of me since childhood, bottled up due to societal pressure, the military, family pressures and worst of all religion.
My "Third Life" is to live as a woman and speak out on behalf of the LGBTQ community, bringing equality and peace to EVERY person. We need to get past race, color, religion, gender, age, nation of origin, sexual preference and all of the things that are on the surface.
In the past 20 years, times have changed and people are coming to grips with the transgender world. I missed growing up as a teenage girl, slumber parties, shopping and small talk; maybe I am catching up. It must be pretty cool to be a kid growing up now, with much more acceptance than we had in the 70s. I envy them, but then again, the youth today have a myriad of other stresses on them. One of my hopes is to be an example for some of them to look up to. We can all be anything and do anything, you just have to believe and work hard. It is all possible, just don’t ever give up.
I retired from the military after 20 years in February of 2011. In 2010, two days before Halloween, I bought a full set of makeup from MAC and a nice wig. I went to a gay bar and had the scariest time of my life "coming out" for the first time en femme. It was scarier than firefights in Afghanistan or jumping from ship to ship in the Arabian Gulf against pirates. I almost didn’t go in to the bar.
I went out almost every night after Halloween, my courage was at a max and I had to do it. I met a drag queen who gave me some pointers and did my makeup for New Year’s Eve. It was awesome (thank you Cherry). That night was the best ever, and really gave me the full realization that I could do this. I looked good, and I felt great.
The make-up quickly came a long way, thanks to the help from my friendly neighborhood drag queens. Fashion on the other hand has come at a very slow rate. I started out with sky-high heels and hooker outfits or worse - I dressed like a teenager. A forty-year-old Hanna Montana is not a pretty sight. I have received some sage advice from my sisters and have gotten quite a few hand-me-downs from them in the past years.
The internet is the best thing to happen to our group, which turns out not to be individuals on islands in quiet desperation, but a vast network of people just trying to be happy. The Internet has brought the little islands of cross-dressers and transgender people together. It is a wonderful thing for us. Facebook and other sites have afforded us a way to not be alone or isolated in our dysfunction. It has been a blessing to meet people from all over the world on the Internet, trade ideas and share experiences and even learn a few things. Sometimes these internet societies make for a real life meeting between people, which turns into a friendship that otherwise would have been impossible.
I enjoy life more as Kristin, laugh more and have great friends as this person. There is so much more to life than I ever expected when I was that lonely isolated kid wearing my sister’s outfits.
By Tony Ferraiolo
When I realized I was transgender, I didn’t do cartwheels. I didn’t know anyone else like me. I remember going to the beach and crying, wondering if I wanted to live. Wondering, if my life was so unbearable now, how would it be if I came out as transgender? I thought, ‘who would love me?’ Would I lose all my friends? Would I lose my family? Would I lose my job?’
I felt so hopeless and then something happened. I realized that I had the power to create myself into the person I always wanted to be. I knew I needed to accept myself in order for others to accept me. So I closed my eyes and visualized what “Tony” would be like. I remember first seeing the physical Tony. He was healthy looking, had a goatee and was tattooed. He looked like a very artsy guy. He looked at peace. Tony would be surrounded by people who loved him and accepted him.
Then I went a little deeper in thought. What would he be like emotionally? This was a bit harder because I had to feel it in order to see it. It took me awhile but I was able to feel this sense of calmness, happiness and I wasn't angry. That was the best part for me, no anger. I remember thinking “Wow, I can really be that person, it is all up to me”.
My next thought was, what do I need to do to become that person? I came up with this list...
1. Let go of the anger
2. Forgive everyone who has abused me, including myself
3. Accept myself
4. Believe in myself
5. Surround myself with ONLY those who loved and supported me
6. And as my good friend Jean Dolan said “just be”
So that’s what I did, I took baby steps into creating Tony. Everything I needed to change emotionally was checked off the list. Next it was time to take care of what I needed physically. I needed gender confirming chest surgery. The healthier I was getting, the more intensely horrified I was when I took off my shirt. I hated them; I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. I knew what needed to be done, so I did it, I scheduled my surgery. I was fortunate enough to have the money to do this, most people in my community don’t.
I had my surgery on March 9, 2005, a day that I now celebrate as my trans birthday. I’ll never forget the day the doctor took my bandages off and I looked in the mirror at myself. For the first time in my life - my mind and my body matched! It was a life changing moment for me and it truly changed the course of my life’s path.
The celebration of my new body was tainted with sadness when I thought about all my transgender brothers and sisters that would never feel that sense of wholeness just because they don’t have the ability to pay for it. I had a vision of a foundation that would fund gender confirming surgeries based on financial need. It was overwhelming to me to start up a non-profit alone. On a daily basis for over two years, this idea of a foundation would pop in my head. I knew this type of foundation was needed.
In February 2007 I went to a panel discussion at Yale University. Sitting on the panel was Dru Levassuer, a young attorney whose passion and compassion for the transgender community matched mine. I remember sitting back in my chair and feeling a weight lifted, as I thought, “I found my co-founder.” I reached out to Dru and several months later the Jim Collins Foundation was born! Since then, with a lot of hard work from an all-volunteer Board of Directors, we have funded five surgeries. You can visit the foundation’s website to read more about the work we do www.jimcollinsfoundation.org.
In addition to raising funds for life-saving gender confirming surgeries, I also felt the need to reach out to the transgender youth of my community. In 2008, I founded several transgender youth and families support groups in New Haven, Connecticut. Translation, a support group for trans teenagers; Create Yourself, an art group for transgender and gender nonconforming children under the age of twelve; TransPACT, a support group for parents of trans and gender nonconforming children; and The Sibling Group, for siblings of trans and gender nonconforming children. The groups meet concurrently providing a complete support system for families of transgender and gender nonconforming children, drawing families from New York and throughout New England. Over the last five years these groups have served over 125 youth and over 130 parents and/or grandparents.
When most of the kids first come to the group they are beaten down by depression, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, and even suicide attempts. This is not because they are transgender but rather because everyone around them is telling them “NO YOU’RE NOT!”
When they first reach out to me the first thing I tell them is “I believe you.” The next thing I tell them is “You are not alone in this anymore, I’m here for you.” I say these things because I mean them. When these kids know someone believes in them, they start believing in themselves. Like anyone else, when you believe in yourself you are unstoppable! It is such an amazing feeling to see them go from hopelessness to hopefulness, just because someone is acknowledging who they are. A lot of people including parents, health providers, and metal health providers say that transgender youth have gender identity issues. I don’t think this is true. I think it is everyone around them that has an issue with their gender identity - these kids know exactly who they are.
The bottom line is… everyone has the power to create themselves. They also have the right to live life as their authentic selves. When you feel like you are alone, reach out to the people who love and honor you. And remember… “Just be.”
By Amelia Gapin
This past weekend, my wife and I finally got around to seeing Frozen, which has instantly become my favorite non-Pixar Disney movie! Seriously, it’s that good! Unfortunately, as amazing as Frozen is, it was also incredibly triggering of feelings I haven’t had in a while. My old pal Dysphoria decided it was time to visit town.
Gender Dysphoria and I go way back, in fact, I can’t remember a time in my life when she wasn’t around. As far back into my childhood as I can remember, she was there pretending to be my best friend. It wasn’t so long ago that simply seeing or interacting with another woman, whether in person, on TV, or in a movie, would mean it was time for another date with Dysphoria. Sometimes our dates would include dinner at The Jealousy Factory, other times it would be mini golf at Self-Loathing Putt Putt or a long walk along Severe Depression and Anxiety Beach. These weren’t fun dates. They were more like being in my own personal hell, but it was all I knew.
These days, our relationship is much more distant. I don’t see her like I used to and that’s how I prefer it. Transitioning has truly strained things between us and limited the time we spend together. I cheated on her with happiness, but she isn’t the kind of ex that completely disappears. No, she’s the kind of ex that hangs around and reads into things, constantly trying to find some reason why we should still be together.
Fittingly, she’s stuck in the past, just like her place in my life. She knows my present and future are promising and that I’m happy with where I am and where I’m going. She knows when I look at myself in the mirror, I see the mask I used to wear less and less and am increasingly able to see myself as I feel I should. I have a long way to go, but I know I can get there and every day brings me one step closer. I’ve come to terms with much of what I’ll never be able to change. Dysphoria knows this and she knows she won’t get too far.
When Dysphoria comes to visit me, she loves to rehash the past. She brings up all the “great” times we had together. She reminds me how I watched life pass by me as I was living a life I shouldn’t have been living. I watched the girls I grew up with grow into women and I was left behind with nothing more than a wish to be the same as them. I spent each and every day of college longing for a different life. As each phase of life passed by, it left behind the realization that I’d never get to experience that part of my life as I should have. As the depression piled on, Dysphoria was there. This was her specialty, telling me that while I should have transitioned years ago, it was too late now.
I can’t get my teens or twenties back and I’ll never get to live them as a woman. I’ll never get to grow up as a girl. I now know that I was a girl through middle school and high school. And I was a woman in college and my twenties. I just hadn’t quite realized it at the time because I was too busy believing everyone who told me I was a boy.
For me, this is the hardest part of being transgender. I can’t get those missed experiences back. There’s so much I wish I could have experienced the proper way…prom, puberty (I know, I know), my bachelorette party, wedding, girls’ nights…the list goes on and on. What saves me from this is remembering all the awesome experiences I did get to have. My prom may have been completely terrible, but I had an AMAZING wedding day! Still, feelings tend to be irrational and you can’t always reason with them. I don’t think anything would make me give up the life I did have, but that’s not always enough to console me when I’m hanging out with Dysphoria.
As I sat in the theater, eyes glued to the giant screen in front of me, Dysphoria made her move. She cuddled up to me and reminded me of the childhood I didn’t have. Watching Anna and Elsa grow up, I was brought back more than twenty years to when I first saw The Little Mermaid. I was six years old and I sat in the theater wishing to no end to be Ariel. I wanted to be just like her. I never shook that, she was always my Disney princess, the one I wanted to be. Frozen‘s Anna resonated with me in the same way and brought back everything I felt almost twenty-five years ago. If Frozen had come out when I was a child, Anna would be my princess. She’d be who I wished to grow up as.
At one point, I nearly had to get up and leave the theater. The feelings of a lost life were almost too much for me. For close to two hours, I was a child again with a whole life ahead of me. I would grow up to be a beautiful princess in the way so many girls wished for. At times, I was almost able to lose myself in the wonder of that, but Dysphoria was there to ruin it. She was there to remind me I’m 30 and that’s not the life I had. I may have wished and wished to be a totally awesome, can-take-care-of-herself-and-kick-ass princess, but I never got to tell anyone. It was always my secret. I didn’t get to be a princess for Halloween. I didn’t get to grow up into a beautiful woman.
This is what transition can’t fix. Dysphoria will always be the ex that never goes away. She is the reason why sometimes I can’t enjoy nice things.
By Ariel Evan
She snuck into class late, and the only seat left was down in the front row, next to me. I always had to sit in the front row so that the potential embarrassment of falling asleep would keep me awake. She had to make her way around the edge of the room and sidle most of the way down the row until she could finally fold herself neatly into the tiny chair with a half-smile, half-grimace in my general direction. The professor glared at her and shook his head as if to shame her but she ignored him. I pretended to be riveted to the lecture but there was something about her presence that made it very hard for me to concentrate.
I was still figuring out a lot of things back then, and so was she. When I first met her she had hair down to her shoulders, and wore a beanie all the time. She had a ring through her lip that always seemed to be where my eyes landed and stayed, watching her play with it, flicking it back and forth. She was lean and lanky and quiet, and I liked the way she stared at me, even though I had no clue why I wanted her to keep looking at me like that. She didn’t talk much, but a few times when we were hanging out after class she told me about a party, or somewhere she was going, and casually dropped in something like “you should come along.” Whatever the hell I thought I had to do, I wish I’d blown it off and gone with her.
Slowly she became more and more fascinating. She cut off all her hair, wore it tight against her head and got a nose ring to match the lip ring. She lost the beanie (at least some of the time), and started wearing guy’s shirts and jeans. She wasn’t so skinny anymore, she was working out and I had finally come to a point where I could admit to myself that those carved calves and forearms were really, really hot. But it wasn’t until I saw her walk into the theatre one night with her girlfriend that I realized how badly I was crushing on her. Her girlfriend was gorgeous too, but simple feminine beauty has never really done it for me. I loved the way she wore her masculinity, the way she strode through all the stares with confidence she’d never had back when she looked more like a girl.
Throughout college we were often at the same events, same parties, and always talked as casual friends, and that stare of hers was still utterly captivating. She broke up with one pretty, feminine girl after another, and that undercurrent of intensity that had always drawn me to her started to come out. She got really, really good at rugby--otherwise known as mowing down everyone on the field. She started talking about T and using a version of her name that was androgynous, and all of a sudden I didn’t know how to refer to ‘her’ anymore.
At first I did not understand. I could not imagine giving up my female body to become male, and I had just finally figured out how much I liked women for being women, so I was confused and disappointed to watch my friend and long-time crush changing in ways that I couldn’t relate to. It was only a few months after we graduated, and I saw them again, with their girlfriend (who I’d gone on one date with, back in ancient history) that I started to remember the way we had all changed over the years, and I started to discover the beauty in that evolution.
Seeing them again, seeing that space they had carved for themselves--that wide, fluid, floating space between masculine and feminine--that finally helped me realize that what I’d loved about ‘her’ all along was that unique identity that I’d sensed inside. I remembered something that I had been saying for years, but never really examined: “I love the person, not their gender.” When I look at my old friend now, I still feel that same pull, still find them fascinating and sexy and so incredibly brave. They have become exactly who they always were.
By Zak
Three years ago, I started taking testosterone as part of my transition from female to male. I currently live and interact with society as male, rarely discussing anything related to my gender identity or experiences with the people around me. However, this doesn’t mean that I have completely buried my past.
I went home recently and had the interesting experience of going through my old clothes in my parents’ basement. I found some of the feminine stuff that my ex-girlfriend pressured me to buy in late high school because she wanted me to look more like a fashionably androgynous lesbian and less like a twelve year-old boy. I tried one of my old, clingy v-neck shirts on to amuse my wife and mom, demonstrating with my broad shoulders and abundant chest hair that more than just my gender expression has changed since I last wore that shirt. I have to say it was a bit odd to pass some of those clothes on to my wife, particularly since she never knew me as someone who would’ve worn anything even remotely similar to the stuff we unpacked. How many women can say the nice new clothes they got over break were hand-me-downs from their husband? It’s just a little bizarre, even though at this point I should be used to reconciling my past with my present.
I’m only really realizing how much my past influences my current perspectives, primarily because my transgender status isn’t something that is taken for granted (or even known) among the people I’m in contact with day to day now. Just as it’s strange for me to look back at myself as having once worn feminine clothing, it’s strange to interact with the world without that being common knowledge. I’m in a class where we are expected to write about our unique perspectives and unpack how our personal experiences impact the way we view the world. This makes being stealth (not open about being transgender) difficult, because I feel like it is inauthentic not to share how being trans has influenced me because it is one of the number one things that defines my perspective (directly and indirectly). I look at gender, sexuality, privilege, oppression, and a million other things differently because of my life experiences being raised a woman, out as a lesbian for most of my teenage/young adult life, transitioning, and now living as male. I can’t even begin to write anything without touching that. I’m queer, but I’m not living a visibly queer life. I don’t even know how to share that with others and still remain stealth and honest. In many ways, my perspective is being erased, even though I’m stealth of my own free will (mostly). I considered taking my professor aside and explaining to her my situation in regard to the class, but I just don’t know her well enough to feel comfortable doing that. Besides, it isn’t terribly pressing and I know I can get by.
Someone online recently asked me if I think that transition ends or if we are constantly transitioning our entire lives. I really think I’ve hit a point in my transition where I have most of the body stuff sorted out, although I still have dysphoria and things aren’t perfect. I don’t really track my changes much and taking testosterone has become a chore. I’m in this stage, though, where I really feel like I’m emotionally transitioning. I’m exploring and sorting out my place in the world and generally just dealing with the aftermath of physical transition. Things move so quickly and single-mindedly with testosterone and top surgery and everything else that its now time for me to just slowly reintroduce myself into the world. Suddenly, noticing new facial hair and researching how to change my legal documents doesn’t dominate my life, so now what? I think this, even more than when I was pre-T and figuring out my gender identity, is the time for me to step back and really think about who I am as a person and sort out where I’ve been, where I am, and where I’m going.
By Parker Marie Molloy
I was tired. No, not just tired, but exhausted, depleted, run down, broken. I was existing, but I couldn't quite say I was alive. The longer time went on, the worse it got. Life felt as though it was going by too quickly, with every passing day taking a toll on me greater than what others experienced.
I felt old.
My body ached and my knees cracked. My shoulders throbbed with pain. My bones wore and my eyes strained. This was me, age 26, feeling decades older.
As days went on, I did my best to get by, but I felt more like I was running down the clock than playing the game. Life wasn't supposed to be so much a chore, but that's all it was.
I couldn't tell you about the "good days," because there weren't any. Grade school, high school, college, none of these experiences held much positivity in my memory. Ask me who my friends were, and I could tell you: no one.
My mind worked against me, throwing insults and discouraging remarks at my consciousness. "You're a failure. You're weak. Give up."
This was my dysphoria, my depression, and I lived with it. In a lot of ways, it was my best friend. Nothing was as constant in my life as my depression, so I embraced it.
I could smile, and I could pose for the family photographs, but I was never alone. If you look closely at any of the pictures from the first quarter century of my life, you'll see a deadness in my eyes. I wouldn't say it's a vacant look, but it's more a hopeless emptiness, sign of a waning will to live.
Hello, dysphoria. Hello, friend.
We'd go on walks together, staring jealously into the world. My dysphoria and I didn't belong here. My dysphoria and I felt like visitors in society.
"Dysphoria?" I'd ask.
"What?" It would respond.
"Why do you follow me around? Surely there are others you'd rather be tormenting."
Silence.
My dysphoria, the jealous friend, worked to undermine my existence. Relationships, friendships, work -- none of it could exist in peace. Dysphoria was always there, ready to interject.
"Why do you hate me?" I asked. "Why won't you go away?"
"I don't hate you," Dysphoria responded. "I am you."
"Why must you ruin everything? Why can't there be anything in my life untouched by your darkness?"
"Because you're not meant to be here. You're a mistake, and I'm here to remind you of this fact."
I wish I could disagree, but I knew it was right.
"What do we do?" I asked.
"We go away," it replied.
As time went on, I began to consider the suggestions put upon me by my dysphoria. I began to wonder whether the world would be better off without me. So internally tormented, I needed a course correction.
The decision really came down to two options: take my life or eradicate my dysphoria. Ridding myself of dysphoria would require me to take steps I wasn't sure I could follow. Taking my life, however, didn't seem to be a pleasant option, either, as I did fear death.
Months went by, and I continued to deteriorate as I battled my internal friend.
In May of 2012, I made the decision to take those steps that had scared me so much. I made the decision to fight back against dysphoria's nastiness.
It still stops by every so often, just to remind me that he exists, but he's finally letting me live, and for that, I'm very thankful.
By Charlie Miller
Being born in the 60’s into a Baptist family with a single mom and four other siblings, there was no way I could go to her and say “hey mom can you start calling me your son?” Besides, at that time there was no information available to me regarding my feeling that I was born in the wrong body.
“Hey little boy have you seen my friend?”
I replied with a “no.”
I was 8 years old, when another kid said that to me. That is the first validating memory of myself that I can remember. At that age, I remember looking and behaving as a little boy - making sure I kept my appearance from looking like a girl as much as possible, and as much as my mom would allow me to.
Growing up, all I can remember is that I knew that there was a man inside of me waiting to come out, as I told my friends. Years later, they all agreed. Being inside the wrong body is something that I can’t even imagine anyone else understanding.
My road has been met with both positive and negative feedback. I gained a few new friends along the way and didn’t lose any who started my journey with me. Those are the ones that will forever be in my life.
I will start with my friend that has been with me since the age of 12. That particular friend happens to be a lesbian and to my surprise, I didn’t think that our friendship would have made it. Her questions after questions really threw me for a loop. She was the main person who started questioning my relationship with God. She asked me if I thought God made a mistake with me. And why was I changing what God had created. Those questions about my relationship with God went on for at least the first year of my transitioning. I explained to her that my relationship with God is extremely close and that I am not worried about being judged by her or God. I have learned through life that if you’re happy with yourself, so is God. I don’t believe in going to hell or being punished by God because of the choice that I have made to be myself.
I took the time to answer all of the questions, but after the first year, I told her I had had enough. Either she knew and accepted me as her brother or our 30-year friendship was going to come to an end. Eventually she realized there was no stopping my transition. The thought of losing that friendship was heart aching. We grew up inseparable and went to the same high school and our parents knew each other. I only threatened her to have her understand the sincerity of my journey.
Other friends were much more supportive of my transition. Many said they weren’t surprised, because they had seen little changes over the years. So I didn’t lose anyone along the way and for that, I am grateful.
Now we get to family, which is a whole other very touchy subject. There were a lot tears and a lot of hurt. Coming out to my family was the most painful part that I had to endure. I cried many nights trusting that it would work itself.
Growing up, I did everything that I was expected to do. I got married and had two children who are now all grown up. They were 25 and 22 at the time I started my transitioning. This is why I took so long to live as my true self. I lived my life for others for so long. I wanted to make sure that I was pleasing so many others. I didn’t want to let my children down or my family. I often wondered, what they would think of me. And one day I realized that my children were well rounded and they were living their lives as they wanted to. I hoped my family would support me if they loved me unconditionally.
Let’s start with my son. That young man took me through it. He said some things to me that - even now, after years - still cause me such sadness. He called me a freak and said that I was an embarrassment. The biggest hurt for me was when he said to me that I would not see my grandchildren ever again. I cried so hard and didn’t even know how to feel. There was a sense of numbness that came over me. I isolated myself for a while. I cried with my wife, Vicki, on plenty of nights because I didn’t even know to begin the healing process with those words. Here is a young adult child of mine calling me names and yelling and being so disrespectful that I had to hang up on him because I couldn’t take the verbal abuse. I try not to think about it, but I wish he could take back his words. I am not even sure if he realized the pain he caused me when he said those words. And if he did realize it, would he have still said those things to me? It is that level of pain that I have always been afraid of feeling. I have told myself that I will not allow him to hurt me to that point again. I am not a crier.
His words made feel like the lowest of low on this earth. I don’t think there is anything left in this life that could hurt me so deeply. At least I hope not.
My son has two children and after my grandson was born, we had to decide what to call me. Since I was by then a grown man sporting a goatee, “grandma,” just didn’t fit. He wanted them to call me “yiayiá,” which sounds nice, but it is still “grandma,” just in Greek. I asked to be called “Pop.” I wanted to be called “Pop” because “Pop” is so cool and new age and I am so young looking that it fits my persona.
Well today both grandbabies call me “Pop,” and although my son tries to push “yiayiá,” they have made up their own minds on what to call me. I can’t imagine how I would feel if I didn’t see my grandchildren. As for my son, he has finally given up on trying to separate me from my grandbabies. I don’t know whether it’s because he needs me or because he knows how much I love them and they truly love me. My grandbabies are very important part of my life. I enjoy their energy and the fun they bring to me. I spoil them rotten. I shower them with love and affection, and they love me back with kisses and hugs. My older grandbaby, my grandson, knows I am his father’s mother and it doesn’t bother him at all to call me Pop.
When I speak about my daughter, I tend to get emotional because she and I have always had a very special type of relationship. We have shared secrets and stories, likes and dislikes about the way we have been treated by others. My daughter is my rock in my weakest moment. I told both of my young adults at the same time and was given two totally different responses.
Unlike my son, her response was surprisingly unique. I was told that she had to process the entire situation and that I shouldn’t call her, that I had to wait for her to call me. And of course I cried. Although I constantly tell myself that I am not a crier, I can remember vividly how badly I did cry during my first month of taking my testosterone treatment.
While I was waiting for her to call, I continued with my shots, which consists of 100ml of testosterone every two weeks injected intramuscularly, which is given to me by my wife.
When my daughter finally did call (which seemed like forever to me but in actuality, it was only two weeks later), her response was “as long as you’re happy that’s all that matters.” Now we still speak a few times a week. I come to visit her in San Francisco once a year and she comes home every Christmas and we spend the holiday together.
I am married to a wonderful woman and we have an 8-year-old daughter together who is my biological niece. She came into our lives when she was 6 weeks old and we were able to legally to adopt her when she was a year old. She calls me dad and does not know my story and I will tell her when she is 18 years old. The thought of telling her at this young age does not cross my mind and I am not ready emotionally to tell her because I have fears of her rejecting me and no longer wanting to call me dad.
We’ll see what the future brings.
By Amelia Gapin
This is Amelia's second story in the Transgender topic. In her first story (see previous post), she talked about constantly considering suicide. Here she shares a more positive outlook.
For 30 years, I’d look in the mirror many times every day, but I never saw a real person staring back at me. I’d see this thing that I’m pretty sure was supposed to be a person. I mean he looked liked a person and all that, there were eyes and a nose and a mouth and arms and legs, but I had no connection to him. He was just this empty shell with no purpose.
Things are different now. I look in the mirror and there is this real live person looking back at me. She’s beyond happy and confident to the extreme and totally awesome. I like this person and I like looking at her. I feel connected to her. And I should feel connected to her, she is me. She is the person I always knew I should be and the person I saw myself as inside. She’s the person I wanted to be.
I never expected I’d get to this point. Less than two years ago, I never even thought I’d ever transition. I had a thousand reasons why it would never happen and I wouldn’t do it. When I did start transition, I didn’t expect it to go well. I didn’t expect to actually be happy, I just figured, at best, I’d be not miserable. But this person I see in the mirror, whom I have staring contests with, is almost attractive, upbeat, and smiling all the time. She is a real-life manifestation of what happens when you decide not to give up on yourself and your happiness.
I love her.
And I love her more and more each day.
By Amelia Gapin
When I finally accepted transitioning as a something I needed and wanted, I had a lot of ideas regarding how my life would change and what it would do for me. Many of them have either turned out to be reality or will at some point in the near future. However, some have kind of faded away as things I actually don’t want or care about anymore. The thing is, there have also been a lot of changes to my life that I hadn’t thought about or expected. Pretty much every one of these unexpected changes are very positive, but there’s one thing that stands out the most and it’s become the absolute best part of transitioning. It’s not having one singular identity or just being able to be me and express who I am without living a lie or even the fact that my dysphoria is almost entirely gone. I mean, yeah, all that is amazing and is right under this on my list of awesome things about my transition, but there’s one specific thing I actually didn’t expect would happen and it’s been absolutely revolutionary for me.
I no longer live with a constant background noise of suicidal thoughts in my head.
I can’t tell you exactly when it went away, but it was recent, only in the last two or three months. I woke up one day and it just hit me that I don’t think about suicide anymore. I can’t remember the last time I did.
Before I go much further, I want to clarify that there have only been a few points in my life where I was ever actually suicidal. My suicidal thoughts didn’t usually mean I actually wanted to kill myself to a point where I was considering it, but I did have my moments here and there over the last 30 years. I would need more than both my hands to count the times where things started getting a little darker than I’d like to admit and the only thing that got me through was not wanting to be remembered as a man.
Anyway, I’m glad I’m still here.
I spent almost all of my life that I can remember always thinking in the back of my head “you could just kill yourself, you know? All this could be over real easy.” I never went a day without thinking some variation of this. It was just always there. At times, I knew it was because I was unhappy with my gender and how I was living my life, but usually I wasn’t thinking about anything gender-related at all. Sometimes it would be triggered by a bad day or a fight with someone I cared about. Sometimes it would just be from doing something stupid or embarrassing. It didn’t take much to send my mind down that road, but most of the time, it was just for no reason. It would just creep up…
“Suicide…think about it!”
“You’ll never be happy, what’s the point?”
“Come on, just do it already. Unbuckle your seatbelt, press the gas all the way down, and aim for that tree over there. Quick and painless.”
I hated this. I could never understand why my mind would always go there, but I eventually just grew to accept this as who I am. I am someone who thinks about suicide every single day. Suicidal thoughts were my 24/7 background noise in my head. There was no escape and no understanding of why. It just was.
But the reality is that I’m not someone who thinks about suicide all the time. Not anymore.
Sometime recently, this just…stopped. I don’t think about it anymore. At all. I’m just…happy. I kind of like this being alive thing. Now, when things are tough, it just doesn’t seem so bad because, no matter what else happens, at the end of the day, I get to be me. I don’t know how relatable this is for cis (not-trans) people, but when you’re trans, finally just being able to be you is just about the best thing ever.
As awesome as transition has made everything else and as much as it’s made me and my life better, this is the one thing I am most grateful for. I’m me and I like that. I’m alive and I don’t want that to change. Suicidal thoughts are not a part of me anymore.
