Trans-Log - Star Date 2012, May 29: Transition Mission

It is ironic, and just slightly annoying that I struggle so greatly to hit a stride.  It was only a matter of weeks ago when I felt completely isolated and stagnant, like my world and all the progress I had been enjoying had just suddenly stopped.  I felt that way largely because of the interruption in supporting activities (those things I need to do to complete my transition) caused by starting a new job, not to mention the stresses of the new job, of course.  The truth was many of the supporting activities had indeed stopped, including therapy and group sessions.

This was not by choice.  The combination of my newly limited schedule, the remote (to me) location of the therapy/group meetings, and the schedule limitations of the rest of the group drove a wedge that seems only to be resolved by my taking time off work.  I cannot do that for multiple reasons, most importantly because I need to conserve my time for a major milestone later this year… but I will get to that.  The irony I began to discuss is that while I so recently bemoaned my stagnation; I am now in it up to my eyeballs… so much so, that I am “stealing time” to make this update! (shh… don’t tell!)  I just cannot seem to do things in moderation.

So, what is new?  Since my last update, I have started an aggressive electrolysis campaign with the goal of being mostly complete by September, I have finally seen a doctor to get my hormones in check, I have reenrolled in college (again) to finish my degree, and I am still working an 8 to 5 schedule every Monday through Friday.  I have also managed to squeeze in a couple of counseling sessions, though not without major calendar upheaval.  There is bigger news… and a major consideration for my future.  Would you like me to fill you in?

Of course you would, why else would you be reading all this crap?!  You will recall that among my many laments is the fact that I started my new job as a boy – a fruity and fabulous boy, a boy with long hair, painted nails, and boobs – but a boy none the less.  This means that I have yet another “big reveal” to navigate at some point in the future.  With each passing week of employment, though, my confidence in the company’s position on such things has diminished.  Also, with each passing week, the imminence of that information forcibly coming out grows… I will explain that soon (getting anxious?). 

I had intentions of opening up.  I planned the conversation multiple times, but fate and ever-changing calendars prevented those conversations from occurring. I am not always one to ignore the cosmos, so after much consideration, I took the hint and made the decision not to divulge my situation until it was absolutely necessary.  Right or wrong, I need the income to continue on this path.  If that means continuing to get into costume every day until the milestones are complete, then so be it.  In the grand scheme, the price is small – especially in a state that does not value diversity, in an industry that is still largely white-male dominated, and in a position that is very much expendable. 

One important truth and (I think) a critical consideration is that I enjoy a distinct advantage on this journey – the advantage of affluence.  I did not start out this way.  As a young adult, I barely made enough to survive.  I cannot tell you how many months I had to choose between rent and food, how many times I walked to work until I could pay to fix my car, or how often the only reason I had dinner was the kindness of one of my good friends.  I worked hard for many years.  I scratched and clawed my way to this position.  I fought.  I sacrificed.  I put so many parts of my life on hold to accomplish what I have – family, friends, education… transition.  I would not suggest it is the right thing to do or that it is the right path for anyone else; but what I did has put me in a somewhat unique position to actually afford transition.  If that entire fight, all those years of climbing ends only in my ability to finally make a permanent transition, then it is worth it.  My view right now is that I need to “keep my eye on the prize,” no matter what that means for today.  And the “prize” may be just around the corner.

Yes, friends, I have made almost all of the necessary arrangements.  The only boxes still to check are an updated passport photo and plane tickets.  On September 7, 2012, (drum roll please) I will be undergoing about three quarters of the surgeries necessary to complete my transition – FFS, breast augmentation, and orchiectomy.  The only remaining operation will be vaginoplasty, which I will save for some future date.  With the help of my awesome and amazing partner, I have also started the wheels turning on the final legal name and gender change to be tackled immediately following surgery.  By the end of 2012, I will be able to clean the closet one last time, and I will never again have to pretend to be a boy.  Knowing that makes everything I hate about the present seem inconsequential.

The one remaining question is what will happen at work.  In a lot of ways, I am in a 2011 eddy.  I am still trying to answer the question whether I will transition in place, or abandon my position once the change is complete.  I do not yet know the answer to that question.  The decision would be easier if I loved what I do, but I do not love it.  I do not even particularly like it if we are being honest.  So that complicates matters on one hand, but simplifies things in other ways.  My only consideration is financial, so really the question will be whether I can affect the final transition and still maintain a happy lifestyle, regardless what I am doing to achieve that. 

The mystery continues, my friends.  The mystery continues.


Peace and love, my friends.
Kate

Being Found By Love (Happy Valentine's Day)

Relationships are seldom easy for a trans person. They are not easy for any person who truly invests herself in the relationship; but they bring a whole special set of challenges for trans people. Being in a committed relationship implies having no secrets, but so often, we feel we have no choice but to break that most basic covenant. Whether for our own safety, or from some misguided hope that keeping our nature secret will allow the relationship to grow, we attempt to hide our personal reality from the one person who should know us most deeply. How can we hope to preserve and grow that most special bond, when we do not give all of ourselves to our partners?

Keeping a secret like this creates so many problems. The most fundamental are that from the beginning we withhold information; by default we do not fully invest ourselves in our partners, and we demonstrate a lack of trust in our partners. I would never presume to judge, and I would never suggest a trans woman is wrong for keeping the secret; but I think we at least have to understand how it can lead to significant issues in a relationship. Sadly, the issues often become less about the acceptance of an alternative personality and more about the shaky foundations of the relationship itself. I have to wonder how often a partner's inability or unwillingness to accept his or her partner's true self is not because he or she cannot accept transsexualism, but simply because of the sense of betrayal that partner feels upon learning the new information.

I have been in very few relationships. Just three serious ones in my entire life. I dated more people than that, but I have seldom taken that full dive. In all three instances, my partner knew at least part of the truth about me early in the relationship. The first two lasted for a time, largely in spite of who I was – never a good recipe for a sustainable situation. It is the last relationship I want to discuss. I say “last” rather than “most recent,” because I want to be clear that I truly believe this is the last relationship I will ever enter. I am so fortunate to have actually found “the one,” that I sometimes have to pinch myself to be sure it is real. I have not discussed our relationship in any great detail here, but being Valentine's Day, it seems like a good time to finally share at least part of our story with you.

My partner and I met at a work function. She is beautiful, and I felt an immediate attraction. But I was in a really bad place in my life at that time. I had recently decided to “put away” my past. I had not only packed up and stored all of my girl stuff, but I had even put away most of my musical instruments. However poorly thought out, I had decided that I needed to separate from all of the things I associated with my “female side.” I was not even thinking of the woman in me as “me;” I had relegated her to just a part of my psyche that needed to be rooted out and fixed. In short, I was a mess, so when this beautiful creature actually sought me out following the class, I was both taken aback, and instantly forced to realize I was in no condition to have a relationship.

She would not be ignored though, and within a few short weeks, we met on a personal level for the first time. She came to my home for a small party with some of my friends. She was wonderful. I was a mess. One of the most significant things I remember about that first night, and something I have never shared before now, is somehow in her presence; I actually felt my falseness. I thought until that moment that I had been doing a pretty good job of “being a man,” but something about her made me aware of the thinness of that veil. It was the beginning of a whole new problem. I was so very attracted to her, but I was so freaked out at how inept I felt in her presence.  In reality, I was inept whether or not I was in her presence; I just did not realize it at the time. I decided that I could not allow her to get any closer. And so the game began.

In so many ways, the early parts of our relationship seem so typical, when you dismiss which of us was born in which body. She pursued me. I resisted, but my resistance was weak. Finally, I decided I had to drop the bomb that would no doubt bring an end to the madness. One night over dinner and drinks with a couple of our friends (there was a little collateral damage there... only one of them knew the truth about me before that night), I put it all out on the table. I told her that I was actually a woman, that I had always felt the need to correct my body to be able to live as my true self. I did not say it in those words, exactly, I cannot remember it exactly – I had gotten myself a little drunk in order to find the courage to say it. What I do remember was her unflinching response, which was in essence, “and?”.

We left the bar with me convinced that I would never see her again, and her convinced that she would never let me go. Still it was not until our next meeting that my resistance finally melted. I still believed that she would arise from the shock the next day and realize just how lucky she was to be able to get out before things went too far. That is not at all what happened, and the next time we met ended with an hours long conversation about just how perfect we were for each other. I was hooked, and I knew then that I had to admit to myself that I loved her.

[NOTE: There are so many great stories to share about what is no longer my journey, but now our journey.  It is more than I can fit in this one blog post.  I will save those for the book.  Read on:]

We were married less than a year later. Since that first night, so much has happened, and so many things have changed. We have had all the same fights that most couples have (plus a few probably... I am very picky about my kitchen [sheepish grin]). We have faced difficulties. We have shared so many laughs and more tears than some probably share in a lifetime. It has been almost three years since we met, and every day that has passed since that first one has brought us closer together. Sometimes that is her moving closer to me, and sometimes it is me moving closer to her, but always we are moving toward each other. I cannot imagine a life without her. She is my champion – in many, many ways.

I know I am one of the most fortunate women alive. I have found the one person who loves me for who I really am, and who's love I feel more every single day. More accurately, love has found me. I once would have said that I never deserved to be so happy, but today, I believe I do deserve it. I deserve to share my life with the most wonderful woman on the planet. She deserves to have all of my love and devotion for as long as we both live. We both deserve each other, and you know what? You deserve exactly the same thing.

And when you can finally let yourself be seen, and allow someone to really know you; it will be there for you too. I believe that with all of my heart. We all deserve love.

I love you, Jamie. You are my hero.

And Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

Love,
Kate

P.S. Are you happy now? I have made myself cry... happy tears, but still.

The Biology of a Trans Woman

My beautiful partner, and Derrick, and I were lying in bed last Friday night with the trusty Mac catching up on our Hulu queue. Why are you looking at me that way? It is a pretty normal Friday night for us, and no we are not old… just tired. Oh, you want to know about Derrick. It is not what you think.

Derrick sleeps with us, and he is just the cutest little thing. Relax, he is a stuffed animal. He was a valentine’s gift from my wife to me... we call him our love child.  It amuses us. We know he is a boy, because his name is Derrick, and he is incorrigible. He was named after the character from “Criminal Minds,” (I know, right?). He is not quite as buff as Derrick Morgan, but he has the same steamy gaze and is every bit as gorgeous. His girlfriend, Penelope, hangs out on the night stand. Yes, he is straight; sorry boys.

So, we were all lying in bed last Friday night watching the latest episode of Glee. One thing to know about me – you may already – is that I cry a lot, and it usually takes very little to inspire tears. It is not a happiness thing, or a sadness thing; it just is. I cry when things make me sad, I cry when things make me happy, I cry when I am angry, I cry when I stub my toe, and I often cry watching TV or movies. Glee almost always makes me cry. I hate that. This particular episode was no exception, technically. Like clockwork, I began crying mid-way through the show; but I was not crying because of the show. This is where it gets weird, so grab some popcorn and read on. As we were lying there, I realized something; I had been holding Derrick just like I would hold a newborn child – cradling him.

When I looked down at him and noticed what I had been doing, I was overwhelmed by one simple thought: “I want to have a baby.” And it was powerful. I instantly began to weep. My next thought, of course, was “where the hell did that come from?” I am almost forrrr... (ahem, ahem) years old. I do not want any more children. We already have four of them, and not one requires nursing, burping, or changing, and besides; we will be lucky if the four we already have do not put us in the poor house. I should be looking forward to Grandchildren now, not thinking about having babies! Never mind that I cannot physically do that anyway! Why on earth would a thought like that materialize, and why would it make me so emotional?

Thinking about it even now brings tears, and it is not just remembering the emotion. There are so many parts of being a woman that I will never experience, that I will never feel. I know that many genetic women complain about their bodies and the various biological functions and idiosyncrasies that occur within them. I think it is the thing that most commonly perplexes genetic women about trans women – why anyone would actually want to endure the “trials of womanhood.” I know it is one of the most frequent queries I hear from other women. But when your mind and your emotions are geared toward those parts of life, toward menstrual cycles, and toward child-rearing, whether logical or not; the absence of those experiences hurts.

Sometimes it hurts a lot.  Knowing that I will always be absent some of the most fundamental building blocks of who I am as a woman can be a devastating realization.  I realize that the p.c. sorts may take offense, but I have to imagine it is very similar to what a genetic woman feels when she learns she cannot have children, or to the hollowness experienced by a runner who loses her leg. One might suggest that the situations are different, because in mine there was no trauma associated with the condition. But I would offer that for anyone to think there is no trauma associated with living as a trans woman – or as any trans person for that matter – shows just how little that person really knows about trans issues. Every single path I had to walk to get to this place in my life was traumatic.

And the trauma is not over. There are still many hardships and painful moments to face. There are more trials, confrontations, treatments, procedures, and hopefully one day soon, surgeries. But I am so fortunate to have the opportunity to pursue all of those, and to know that I will not be facing them alone. I may never, technically be a complete woman. The best I may ever hope for is to physically emulate the female body, absent the biological processes and quirks. But there is no mimicry in my heart or in my mind. If the best my body can do is emulate womanhood, then at least it will depict the reality of what is in my soul. I can live with that, and I believe I can do it happily.

Okay, so there is no need to freak out. I do not really want to have a baby, but the experience has really made me think. I do not know from where my mind conjured the image, nor do I fully understand what was really behind it. I am sure it is not nearly as simple as actually wanting to have a baby. That is okay though. It is just one more sign that life is right.

Take care, my friends.

Kate

Life in Transition – An Update

It occurs to me that while I have begun to settle back into a somewhat regular writing schedule, I have not stayed true to the premise of this journal lately. Well, as the journal is intended to share stories from my experiences through transition, I am on track in as much as I am sharing stories and events from my life; but I have not spent much time discussing my actual transition. So today, dear readers, I will humbly attempt to update you on my progress.

I think one of the reasons my focus has shifted in recent months is that transition has been primarily background noise. In many ways, life – outside of work, anyway – has settled into a very normal feeling pattern. Kate lives. Kate cooks, Kate cleans, Kate goes to the grocery store, and runs errands. Kate goes to parties, Kate goes to bars, Kate goes to restaurants, and even uses public restrooms (sparingly). Kate attends sporting events, goes to recitals, and school functions. Kate has even entered a church building and did not burst into flames!

Okay, all of these third person references to myself are starting to freak me out. You get the idea.

In almost every way, my existence has taken on a feeling of ordinary life. I do not freak out at the idea of leaving the house. When the doorbell rings (usually because I skipped cooking for a night and just ordered pizza), I feel no apprehension about answering. I make eye contact with passers-by and smile, no matter their demeanor – they usually return the smile... or fail to notice. I do not always wear makeup, nor do I always wear the nicest outfit. In fact, it is quite normal to see me strolling the mall or the grocery store in jeans and a t-shirt or casual knit top (I usually wear makeup to the mall... I guess I am funny that way). I am more likely to throw in a headband or clip my bangs out of my eyes with a barrette, than I am to spend hours in front of the mirror doing my hair (my arms get tired). Yet, everywhere I go and in virtually every interaction, I am addressed appropriately, and there is no sense of awkwardness in any way or from any person. For the most part, I have arrived.

The one and only gap is work, which is becoming a problem. I mentioned recently that the tide has truly turned. My life now is close to being a single path, and opposite from a year ago, switching to be a boy – even for just a few hours, much less all week – is a monumental effort both physically and emotionally. I thought when I started on this path that, one, I would be able to handle an “in place” transition, and two, I would be able to manage that split in my life until after FFS. It is becoming increasingly clear that neither idea is still true. Of course, several things have changed since I started this adventure about a year ago. There have been a number of material changes surrounding my work life, but those are irrelevant.

I think the most significant change, and the one thing driving my discomfort (ironically) has been the change inside of me. A year ago, I did not believe I could live happily as Kate until after surgical intervention. I believed no one would perceive me as female until I corrected the features that erode that image. I was also extremely uncomfortable in public settings. I was afraid to leave my house as Kate. Those attitudes have drastically changed. I am not suggesting things are perfect; for example, I know that I still “get read” occasionally. My experience has been, though, that in those situations, at least half the time; it makes no difference to my interaction with the person. More importantly, the fact that someone reads me as genetically male just does not matter to me, as long as the reader does not make an issue of it. 

I know that I am a woman, and I am comfortable in my skin. I still have a few “to dos” to check off the list, certainly; but I am happy with who I am inside. One day very soon, I hope also to be happy with my external life. I do not mean post-surgery life; I mean post- “still pretending to be a boy sometimes” life. I am still planning to engage the same surgical options I planned a year ago; in fact, I have even made the decision that I do want to go all the way. That is something I had not worked out until just recently. I am also still very excited to bring all of that to fruition, and even more excited to finally have all of those milestones behind me. The difference is that I am not waiting for any of those events to kick-start my life.

While I await the final milestones, I am comfortable, and I am happy. I am not in a hurry to get things done, I do not rush until life is no fun. All I really have to do is live and die, but I am not in a hurry, and I know why (Sorry, that was a terrible play on song. I am still a huge dork – that will never change!)...

The life I have always wanted is the life I already have. It looks a little different from how I first imagined it, but if anything, it is even better than what I first imagined. It is funny how that can happen sometimes.

Ciao for now!

Kate

Never Quite Good Enough

[Author’s note:  Sorry… it’s going up without revision, which means you get to read all the bile that came out on paper.  I did remove some names that I originally included, because I at first wanted those who hurt me to know that I remember them.  I later decided it would be better not to give them that satisfaction.  But I do remember every one of you who were involved in the incidents detailed below.  Be warned.]

I am so angry.  I have been angry for most of my life.  I have felt hurt, and rejection, and anger, and betrayal… betrayal by my family, by my friends, by my own body.  Think about it.  How would you feel if as a Kindergartner, you felt something that you instinctively knew would make people hate you?  What would it be like to know from your earliest memory that if you didn’t stifle the feelings that were inside you and instead color inside the lines that others defined for you, that you would never belong anywhere?  How would it feel to know that you had fiercely protected a secret, making yourself miserable and sick inside, only to be reviled, ridiculed, and hated anyway?  What would it be like to know that the lie you had to tell was just as much the reason you spent your childhood running, hiding, and being afraid, as was the truth that would have bred the same?

Imagine that life.  Imagine feeling so starved for that one sympathetic heart, that you would call your tormentors friends, that you would laugh with them as they mocked you, that you would walk the halls of a school feigning collusion with your classmates – the perpetrators of your misery – all the while dying inside; because the people who tormented you didn’t even have the right story.  But oh, they told stories.  They wrote them down.  They read them to me over the phone.  When that didn’t cause enough pain, they read them to whoever would answer the phone at my house.  They spread them.  They shared them in classes in front of everyone.  They laughed.  They writhed with pleasure in my pain.  I remember them.  I remember the worst of them… the stories about a girl named Tiffany.

I don’t know which was worse – that they wrote filthy rancid sexually charged stories about my fixation with a girl named Tiffany, or that they didn’t even write them about the correct girl named Tiffany.  But I remember the stories, and I remember the readings.  And I remember the revulsion on the face of the wrong Tiffany, the unfortunate pawn in a terrible game, and on the faces of her friends.  I remember the laughter as the football playing double bassist read the stories aloud for Tiffany and an entire room full of musicians – the one group of people among whom I thought I might be safe.  I remember the pain as if the quill still protruded from my back.

I hope it felt good.  I hope you all [names removed] enjoyed the laugh.  I hope the phone calls, and the locker inserts, and the handouts were all worth it.  You succeeded in making an already broken and miserable person hate her existence even more.  You made me want to die.  Oh, and my “loving” family… thank you for all the support.  Thank you for putting the blame for it all where it really belonged… on me.  After all, wasn’t it my idea to be born in the wrong damn body?  And wasn’t it my responsibility to keep such an embarrassing truth from being known?  And wasn’t it my idea to take all the cobbled and disjointed justifications for the lie I was living, and turn them into weapons for my own humiliation?

You know the worst part?  None of you even got the story right.  You took I lie I told to cover a lie (a lie that was supposed to protect me from the shame of being a freak), and turned it into a work of pornographic art.  Here’s the truth.  I was Tiffany.  The girl on whom I fixated was the person who was trapped inside me.  I called her Tiffany – I called myself Tiffany, because I remembered once being told that it was the name my dad wanted for me.  I guess I thought… I hoped that if I took the name my dad wanted for me, maybe he wouldn’t hate who I was quite so much.  I called myself Tiffany.  I wrote my name in my notebooks, so that I could see it, so that it would be more real.  I used the hope that seeing my name inspired to convince myself not to use the bullet that I carried with me.

You wonder why I am angry?  I hurt.  I was broken.  I needed help.  I needed someone to recognize me for who I really was (who I am) and love me for it.  Instead, you wrote stories about a perverted little violinist who loved a girl named Tiffany – a girl whose primary misfortune was sharing my first name.  That is, until you included the perversion of her in your twisted stories about me.

You know what though?  I survived.  Every day I live is a statement.  Every word I breathe is the product of all I had to overcome – all that you put upon me.  Your torture was the fertilizer in which I grew into a beautiful, strong, talented, and intelligent woman.  I am proud of who I am.  I am proud of the life I live.  No one else has to love me.  I love me.  And yes, I forgive the rest.  I forgive it, but I will NEVER forget it, and I hope that you won’t either.  I hope you remember whom you almost killed.  I hope you remember that the problem does not lie with those of us who fall outside the boundaries.  The problem lies with those of you who are building those boundaries in the first place.

I am a woman.  I am gay.  And I am proud of whom I am and of everyone else who finds the strength to stand up for who they are.

I love you all, and that doesn’t make me gay… just happy.

Peace,

Kate

Strength Through Peace of Mind

When I was a child, I was freakishly shy.  I was also unreasonably afraid of being a disappointment.  I had a deep and unhealthy need for validation and approval.  I remember a particular winter afternoon from my childhood on the farm, when my one-two punch of personality disorders led to an outcome I have repeated often in my life.  I failed to live.

My parents (a.k.a. Santa Claus) gave my sister and I snow skis for Christmas.  They were actually more like steel snow shoes, wide and stubby – made more as children’s toys than sports gear.  My sister was anxious to “hit the slopes,” so my parents bundled us up, took us out into our hilly back yard, and set us upon our skis.  The slope of the hill was gentle, the snow soft.  I fell almost immediately – I giggled. 

What looked like joy was in fact a defense mechanism.  I did not know how to ski, and I was deathly afraid that my inability would disappoint my parents, or worse that they and my sister would laugh at me for falling.  So, I giggled.  I sat on that gentle slope, half buried in the soft snow, giggling.  My sister also began to giggle, and then she fell.  Before long everyone was laughing uncontrollably.  We never actually made it down the hill.  There are pictures of the brief moment when my sister and I were successfully standing on our skis.  We appeared to be laughing.  I was terrified and embarrassed.  I never again put on those skis.

I am not sure how, but I recognized early how limited by my fears I could be, and I knew that I had to fix that.  I approached the problem in the only way I could conceive.  I began forcing myself to do things that scared me.  Early in my school career, I entered a string program learning the violin, which forced me to appear in front of people.  When I mastered that (appearing in front of people… not the violin), I began competing in solo competitions, exposing myself even further.  Later on in school, I joined the choir and then a show choir (oh yeah… I was a stud), and eventually began performing both in string ensembles and singing groups at events outside of school. 

When I entered high school, I was a seasoned performer, but my fear of speaking to people was still overwhelming.  Theater was out of the question due to my commitment to music (the practices overlapped), so I joined Junior Achievement and Toastmasters.  I took public speaking classes.  I did door to door sales.  I once volunteered to act as a raffle ticket “hawker” at an art fair dinner, which forced me to aggressively sell to dinner attendees.  No one ever told me to do these things.  I simply knew that I had to prove I could.  I repeatedly and almost compulsively forced myself into situations of which I was terrified, pushed myself to do uncomfortable things, and made myself excel in every one.

What I am beginning to realize is that I solved only part of my problem.  I made myself successful, but I never learned to take satisfaction from my accomplishments.  I never learned to recognize my own self-worth, but instead continued to use my accomplishments as a way to seek other people’s approval and praise.  My fears diminished, but my unhealthy need for validation and approval never healed.

I am now trying to change my life for the better.  For the first time, I am trying to embrace the parts of me that I have always hidden for fear of the rejection they might breed.  I am learning to like who I really am, but I am also learning that old habits die hard.  I have approached transition the same way I approached my childhood fears, and I am getting the same result.  I keep pushing myself into uncomfortable situations whether or not I feel ready to deal with the ramifications.  I keep telling myself that I need to deal with all of this sooner rather than later, that I cannot wait until I have achieved a comfort level… that I cannot achieve a comfort level until I have faced down the demons of fear and discomfort.  I am behaving like “a man on a mission” rather than a woman loving herself.  This is exactly how I formed the false person who ruled the first four decades of my life, and I have been feeling the same sense of frustration over my lack of “results.”

Finally, though, I think I am realizing that I cannot build a better house the same way I built the faulty one.  Maybe I need to stop pushing myself into the world and looking to the world for the acceptance and validation that I have not given myself.  Maybe I need to stop forcing myself into transition time lines, and start letting myself flow toward my own womanhood.  I have to find the peace inside of me and let that flow out.  The fact is I am already a woman.  I have always been a woman.  The outer manifestation of that will come in its own time, and when that time comes, the transition will flow naturally.  Until then, I need to let it be (thank you John, Paul, George, and Ringo).

Above all, I need to remember that I do not need to prove anything to anyone, including myself.

I hope you all have a wonderful weekend!

Take care,

Kate

The Making of a Trans Woman – Episode 4, Part 1: Introduction

It occurs to me that I seldom discuss my past on this blog.  Many of you have learned bits and pieces from family references in my posts, but I have never really shared any of my back-story in detail.  I am and work very diligently to remain a forward-looking person, but I recognize the value in reflection.  After all, those who forget history are destined to repeat it.

I am always fascinated by the similarities in experiences I encounter throughout the trans community.  It almost hints at a sort of cosmic consciousness that is shared by people like us.  There is certainly no absolute, and I have also read a number of stories that do not correspond to my experience.  Still, I think the frequency with which our similarities arise is notable, and I believe it points to something more than we may often consider.  I believe these similar patterns further solidify the case that transsexuality is a genetic condition. 

When one considers the whole of our experience, it is impossible to disregard the patterns.  For anyone to honestly suggest that such patterns could arise from environment and social conditioning, when those factors are infinitely diverse is ludicrous.  How without some underlying contributor could countless households, cultures, religions, and social structures produce the same result?  It does not happen.  To yield the similarities in experience, it would seem to this humble observer that a similar condition must exist.  It takes very little to see that environment cannot possibly be that link just considering the geographical diversity alone; that leaves little other than genetics to blame.

I have done exactly zero scholarly research to back up my assertions.  Everything I suggest here is based purely on the reading and informal research into transsexuality that I have done over the past twenty or so years.  I am not a scientist, nor do I play one on TV.  I once completed a science fair project in which I attempted to heat water using solar power.  I discovered that black Krylon paint, plastic tubing, and beer cans were a poor substitute for solar panels.  You should be impressed.  While I may not have done my homework on this subject, I know that a lot of other people have, and whether they agree with me or I agree with them; the premise remains the same.

In the interest of contributing to the body of evidence for those who actually would like to do the homework, I will occasionally add autobiographical perspective to my posts going forward.  This will also give me something to write about on slow news days.  Given the rather long-winded introduction, I will save the actual back-story for future posts.  You are welcome.  And remember, my prolific prose is one of my endearing traits… any other writer may simply have introduced her autobiography with “And now for something completely different.”

Cheers to you all, and enjoy this long Independence Day weekend.  Remember, a lot of brave men and women have died to insure that some people enjoy more freedom than others.  Still, we have more freedom than some, and for that we should be grateful.

Take care,

Kate