Of Pickles and Puberties

A few weeks after I started hormone replacement therapy, I developed a strong craving for dill pickles.  I found this both amusing and a little alarming.  What other unexpected changes were in store for me?  Was this just a phase?

A phase it may be, but months later, I still crave pickles; I go through about a jar a week currently.  A friend's daughter, in learning about my pickle craze, asked her mother, "Is Miss Wendy pregnant?"  That tickled me.  Though I'm not pregnant, I am hormonal, and as it turns out, it's not an uncommon craving.

I think back to another time when I craved pickles; I was hormonal then, too.  When I was in my early teens, I seemed to be ravenously hungry all the time.  Both my parents worked, so when my brother and I came home from school, we were on our own for an hour or so.  Almost first thing, I would head to the refrigerator, and get some pickles.  If there was any excess, I would pour the juice into a glass and drink it.  I would further fortify myself with dry-roasted peanuts and hope that I could make it until supper.

At the time, just at the beginning of puberty, I was very confused.  I was very clearly attracted to girls, yet I both wanted to date them and to be one of them.  Was I gay?  No, I liked girls and not boys.  But why did I want to dress and act like a girl?

At school my male and female classmates began to pair up.  Alas, I didn't appear to be much of a catch to the girls.  I was very small for my age; I didn't really catch up until I was around 16. I wore glasses and was known as being--gasp!--smart.  I had a less than movie-star-perfect smile.  And I was ashamed because of my secret crossdressing.  I began to fervently wish that puberty would hurry up and get to work on me, so that I could become a man.  I realized and regretted that I wouldn't look so nice in dresses any more, but the anticipation that women would begin to notice me seemed to make up for it.  And maybe I wouldn't even want to dress up anymore.  "When I was a child, I behaved as a girl, but when I became a man, I put away girlish things."  Or something like that.  It did not ever even cross my mind that some women might be attracted to me as a woman.

Well, as it turned out, it took more than testosterone to entice women to flock to my side.  I had to like and have confidence in myself, and that was a tall order.  By the time I got myself together enough to start dating seriously, I was beginning to have second thoughts about what puberty had done to me.

Now I'm much older, but pubescent again.  Some of what the first adolescence did to my body is not changeable, but I feel like I'm moving--albeit slowly--in the right direction.  I certainly don't expect women to flock to my side once I become a "grown-up woman"; as a widow still in mourning, I wouldn't even want them to.  But maybe, just maybe, when I'm ready, lightning will strike a second time.  If not, that's OK, too.

Meanwhile, where are those pickles?

Memoria

I recently finished reading She's Not There: A Life in Two Genders by Jennifer Finney Boylan.  It's a wonderful book, and I highly recommend it; it's very well-written, poignant and funny by turns. I was struck both by the similarities and vast differences in the experiences of each transgender person.  And reading the book reminded me of a time in which I was briefly in physical proximity to Ms. Boylan.

It was 2007, at the Southern Comfort Conference in Atlanta.  SCC is one of the largest and longest-running transgender conferences in the world.  It was two weeks before my wedding; for my wife-to-be and I, it was our fourth straight year at SCC.  It was a strange, scary, and wonderful time; we were excited about our upcoming nuptials but worried about her health.  She had a lump in her neck that was growing rapidly; it had, in the space of a couple of months, gone from being about the size of a quarter to the size of my fist; large enough that it was about to cross her collar bone.  In about another month we would learn that she had small-cell lung cancer; the lump was a swollen lymph node, filling with cancerous cells.

This particular SCC, despite the worries, had been the most enjoyable for me so far.  I had had the opportunity to finally meet in person several online friends that I had made in the past year or so.  Also, for the first time, I was spending the whole extended weekend as a woman, from the time we left the house until we returned.  I was in love with my soulmate, a woman who loved me just as I was.

This particular morning we were sitting in the large hotel atrium, next to a Starbucks stand; my fiancée was having her morning coffee.  She had befriended the elderly barista, with whom she seemed to form an instant connection.  The barista seemed very gentle and very wise; she had had cancer, and seemed to see in my fiancée a reflection of herself.  She went so far as to give my dear a Starbucks travel mug, gratis.


A couple of tables over, an attractive woman in jeans, with long, blond hair, sat with her feet propped up on a chair, engrossed in a book.  I recognized her as Jennifer Finney Boylan; even though I had missed her presentation the conference and had not even read any of her books yet, she was (and is) a celebrity.  I was struck by how comfortable and unselfconscious she seemed; just an ordinary woman enjoying her book and coffee.  I longed to be so centered; I had spent nearly ten years oscillating between two identities, one male, one female.  Paradoxically, this kept me sane; though it could be egregious at times, I was able to be a woman at least part of the time, which I needed, and to maintain the semblance of a normal male life, which I was holding on to.  I wished that I could think of something to say to her, but really, what could I have said?  I left her in peace to her book and coffee.

The morning drew on, and all of us sitting next to the Starbucks stand went our separate ways.

A year later, my wife and I were at the same hotel for SCC 2008, our fifth and final year.  She was emaciated and bald from the radiation, but had been pronounced cancer-free.  Though we didn't quite understand it yet, she was also exhibiting some early signs of dementia; her brain was cloudy much of the time.  Leaning on my arm for support, she made her way to the Starbucks stand, only to find a different barista working there.  She asked this new person where her friend was.  "She died of cancer earlier this year", was the sad reply.  My wife, who had only known this woman for a couple of days a year before, put her head on my shoulder and cried.

Nearly eight years later, she is dead, too.  In the intervening period, we both suffered much as her health declined.  I also realized, and grudgingly accepted, that I needed to stop the oscillation between genders and become, at last, a woman solely.  I read Jennifer Finney Boylan's books and wonder why I didn't read them before.  I think it's because I was afraid that, in reading her story, I would see too much of the dream of myself I was trying not to see.  I think that my wife saw herself, and the future she dreaded, in the barista.

And so the world goes; we intersect, sometimes we travel in the same direction for a while, and then we diverge, each pulled along her own path.

A Day in the Life

Monday morning.  Fresh from a shower, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, surveying my face.  I pluck stray eyebrow hairs and then look critically at my eyes.  I make sure that all traces of mascara, eyeliner, and eyeshadow are completely removed; there are usually little particles that linger.

To shave or not to shave my face?  The amount of beard is dwindling, but still significant.  Usually I will not shave today, to give my irritated face and neck  a rest after several days of very close shaving.  If I’m having electrolysis in the next day or so, I have to refrain from shaving until then, anyway.  If I’m having laser hair removal, though, I have to make sure to shave closely again.  Am I going anywhere after work?  Do I look too scruffy?  I make the complex calculations and decide to skip shaving.

I get dressed in some of the remaining men’s clothing I have.  Fortunately, I did the laundry this weekend, because I only have enough work clothes to make it through the five-day week.  I put on a tight undershirt with a loose polo shirt over it, to help conceal my breasts.  I slip into my battered old work shoes.  I can’t bring myself to buy any more men’s shoes, so I’m hoping this pair, which I bought 18 years ago, will survive a little while longer.

Now to my hair.  I pull it back and secure it with a rubber band, then, armed with maximum hold hairspray, comb and spray it into submission, finally ending up with a  reasonable facsimile of a man’s haircut.  It looks a little messy, but presentable.

As I walk into my workplace, I settle into the old familiar habits of a lifetime.  My walk, my gestures, and voice become more masculine.  I learned by mimicry long ago to camouflage myself, to blend in with the men like I was “supposed to”.  But I can’t help but notice that my mannerisms have lately become a little more feminine and fluid.  That would have bothered me in times past, but I really don’t care now.  I have even caught myself answering the phone in my more feminine voice.

I go through my day totally focused on work and trying not to think of anything else.  It’s a good day if I don’t hear some bigoted, hateful remark from particular coworkers.  They believe I am “one of them”—i.e., a white, Christian, heterosexual cisgender male—and so don’t bother to censor their remarks.  I want to speak up and call them out, but I feel surrounded and afraid. I stew in silence, chastising myself for my lack of courage.

At times my thoughts drift toward transitioning at work—how would it be if I was myself here?  Some people, I think, may be able to make the adjustment, some, I think, will be at least covertly hostile.  Will they let me use the women’s room?  Will anyone even talk to me?  Will management be actively working to get rid of me?  Will some unhinged person decide enough is enough and bring a gun to work with them (many of my coworkers are proud of their concealed-carry permits)?  Or would someone wait for me outside to physically express their displeasure with my “lifestyle”?

I stop by the grocery store on my way home.  I’m hoping I don’t run into anyone I know; it’s become somewhat embarrassing for me to be seen in “male mode” by people who know me as I really am—kind of like walking around half-naked. I hurry home and put on my “outside clothes” to work in the garden.  I’m generally still afraid of my neighbors’ reaction to my transition, so I am still presenting as a male even here in my own yard.  Soon it’s time to wind down for the day; I put on my PJs and robe, curl up in front of the TV with my cat, and wonder how much longer it will be until I’m able to be totally me.

If They Only Knew

I'm now somewhere in the middle of my transition.  Though I'm mentally ready, and indeed, impatient, there remain some things that I want to have in place before beginning to live completely as a woman.  In the meantime; I am troubled and rather in a quandary regarding when to come out to some of my oldest friends.

Recently I have been getting some invitations to cookouts, parties, game nights, etc. from friends who don't yet know what is happening with me.  Though I still care about them and want to see them, they expect to see me in my male guise, and it is becoming difficult for me to bring myself to "dress in drag" for their sake.  So I make excuses, and the bonds of friendship grow ever weaker.

Why don't I just bite the bullet and tell them, you might ask.  There are two main reasons.  The first is that I fear losing their friendship.  I haven't told these people because I doubt that they will be able to accept me as I really am.  Yes, intellectually I know that if they can't accept me, they weren't really my friends.  The person they have known all these years has been a shadow of my full self, and in a way they really don't know me at all.  Still, the bonds of friendship are old and deep, and I am loath to risk severing them.

The second reason revolves around my job.  I feel it is necessary that my employer and coworkers do not find out about my transition until I am ready to tell them.  Now, I have two main circles of old friends.  In each circle, there is at least one person that has some connection with my employer and/or my coworkers.  If I tell one person in either circle, I think the entire circle will know.  So there is a real risk, especially if they don't react well to my revelation, that word would get out prematurely, and possibly dim my prospects for a successful transition at work.

You see my dilemma.  While I'm in this in-between state, there seems no good solution.  However, it is getting emotionally harder to continue going to work as a male, and my impatience to get on with it is growing.  It may be that I will come to the point that I need to proceed before I have all the desired ducks in a row.  I know difficult times are still ahead, and I look forward to a time when all this is well behind me.

I Want To Break Free

How much longer can I do this? 

It didn't seem like it would be a big deal at first.  Since I'd been living as a man my entire life, with sporadic time spent as a woman, I thought I could keep doing it indefinitely.  But a line was crossed at some point, and I can't seem to go back.  It used to be relatively easy to cross the gender line, to switch back and forth, but it's becoming harder and harder.

Every Monday morning, after a weekend of existing as a woman, I put on men's clothing, slick back my hair, find that deeper voice, crawl back into that emotional shell, and try to pretend that it's OK.  It's not hard to act masculine after all these years of practice, but I'm aware of the artifice now.  I'm know that I'm not presenting my true face to the world, that I'm to some extent lying to everyone.  And I feel as if it's slowly killing me.

Imagine you've had this old pair of shoes forever.  At first they seemed to fit, if not comfortably, then not painfully.  But now you find that every step you take hurts your feet more and more.  You have found a really comfortable new pair of shoes, but you can only wear them occasionally, and the rest of the time you have to wear your old shoes.  That's where I am.

There are plenty of good, practical reasons for me not to transition to full-time womanhood right now.  Physically, I still have quite a bit of facial hair removal to get through, to say nothing of the other bodily changes.  Legally, I haven't even started any of the things needed to change my gender and name in the eyes of the government.  My employment situation is the trickiest piece, and really what is standing in my way at this point.  I don't feel as if the way will be clear until at least the end of the year. But can I hold out that long?

My soul is crying for release.  These old shoes are hurting me.  I want to be who I am, proclaim it to the world, and get on with my life.  God knows, god knows I want to break free.

A Love Letter

I’m thinking of you today, my precious.  I think of you every day, of course; one might think that, nearly ten months after you left this world, time might have begun to dull my grief and loss.  Instead, it only seems to get stronger.  I hear your voice and remember your warm body next to mine.  I am haunted by the sound of your last breaths and the coldness of your skin when I last kissed you goodbye.  I chuckle at your wit and your silliness, and weep at the memories of the suffering and struggle of your last years.  Our house is filled with the artifacts and souvenirs of our life together, both full of your presence and empty without it.

I remember the first time I gave you a Valentine’s Day card.  We were best friends at that point, teetering on the edge of something even deeper.  I wanted to let you know how much you mean to me, but was afraid of letting too much show, afraid of the love in my heart.  You kept that card, pasted it in your journal.  A year after that, I wrote a song called “Side By Side”.  Really my first love song.  You helped me finish the words and we sang it together.  I denied that I wrote it for you, and I truly did not—on a conscious level.  My heart was speaking words that my head didn’t yet understand.  “And I never saw it coming, never knew that love was greater than a child’s dream.”  I couldn’t resist forever; at length, I gave myself to love.

Valentine’s Days of bliss followed.  We bought each other candy and flowers, laughed and loved, really lived.  It was an all-too-brief, warmly glowing time.  We got engaged and looked forward to more years of happiness. 

 

What a strange, wonderful, terrible time.  The bliss of newlyweds, the terror of cancer.  From honeymoon to chemo.  We held each other close and smiled.  I cried silently while you were sleeping.  Looking for a house to move into, planning for the future we were not at all sure would come.

My memory is that it was around Valentine’s Day when they told you that the cancer appeared to be completely gone.  What a gift!  We had our future back!  We were afraid to believe it, to get our hopes up, but it turned out to be true.  The cancer never came back.  But what followed was worse.

I remember well Valentine’s Day, four years ago.  You had been diagnosed with dementia and were doing inpatient physical therapy.  You were living in that place with an annoying roommate, a bit confused and wanting desperately to come home.  I was there with you as much as I could, every day after work and every weekend.  That day, I had a big vase full of roses delivered to your room, and soon followed with candy and a card.  You looked at me with tears of joy in your eyes, grateful to love and be loved in that place where so many sad and lonely people lived.  I squeezed into that tiny bed beside you and we were in heaven, eating chocolates and watching TV, a couple in love.

Now I find myself alone and missing you.  Once you said, flippantly, that after you died you wanted me to go out and find myself a nice young woman to marry.  At the time, I was indignant at this; now I smile and roll my eyes at your self-deprecation.  Did you really think I could forget my love for you so easily?  Now you are really gone, but there is still no room in my heart for anyone but you.   

All my love, my sweet.