Remembering "Transgender Exodus:" The Remnants of Faith

When I first began blogging as a transgender woman, my theme was trans Christianity.  I titled my blog Transgender Exodus, an allusion to my faith walk as a trans woman.  Like my faith, that blog was destroyed years ago.  I deleted it in a heated rage and destroyed all the files and downloads associated with it.  I regret that.  By the time I did it, the name had changed, as the subjects I covered wandered far and wide, seldom discussing faith or Christianity.  In fact, I used the space more for movie reviews than any other topic – some really good ones too, if you do not mind my bragging just a little.

Despite its rambling nature, at the heart of that blog was a deep (or so I believed) and well informed faith.  I did not study the bible – a possible downfall as a christian; but faith takes many forms, and I never found deep meaning or affirmation from that particular exercise.  I read volumes of literature about the bible, and even more about faith in general.  I was most interested in what it meant to be faithful in an era of pharmacologically induced emotion, in an age of information bombardment, and in an age of twenty four hour a day living.  The world is a very different place than when the books of the bible were written; it is interesting though that people, their hearts, are still much the same – one of the most frequent of the many doubts that constantly nibbled at my heart.

Something happened when I moved to Texas.  I changed.  It did not help matters that I was a burnt out wreck.  In the year or so leading up to my move, I had separated from my spouse, come out to my friends, and was trying to find a path forward.  At the same time, I was enmeshed in a full time career and investing twenty to thirty additional hours a week to a church service as the “house band’s” worship leader and faux-music director.  In the last few months before the move, resulting from the shocking changes in my life, I experienced the “harlot effect” – being the subject of rumors and controversy within the walls of a church I had served devotedly.  I heard the murmurs of people I thought were friends.  I felt the sting of retribution from people who suddenly felt they had the moral superiority to pass judgment over what I was going through.  I felt the hollow isolation of being the subject of gossip rather than a welcome family member.

Moving to Texas was an effective escape from all of it.  When I got here, I made virtually no effort to find a new church.  My practicing faith became a sideline faith.  During the first couple years here, my lack of devotion gradually evolved into skepticism, and eventually into an outright denial of my faith.  As I often claimed, my problems were not with god, but with his followers. And there is truth in that.  I am regularly astounded by the depth of many christians’ hate for people like me.  The utter devotion to marginalizing, if not eradicating us is practically obsessive.  But there was more involved in my fall from faith.  As I reflect, I suspect that the bigger problem was with neither god nor his followers – but with me.

I was – still am – a mess.  My life was careening toward what could only have been a catastrophic end.  Everything from my physical health to my financial security was eroding due to my deep and utter depression and the destructive behaviors I employed to numb the despair.  Over the last year and a half or so, I have been on a path away from that darkness.  I have fixed many things.  I am now officially in transition, I found counseling and treatment, I changed jobs, and am making plans for surgery.  I have worked toward a better future for myself; but the scars run deep, and my progress walks a fine line.  My journey is not so much on a path these days as on a tightrope.

Something is missing.  I do not have it right, not yet.  It is not that the journey should be easy; it is that I know the journey is far less difficult than it feels.  The heaviness in my heart is about something other than the challenges of transition.  My journey is a cakewalk compared to most, and yet somehow I fail to see it that way.  I have been completely unable to embrace the blessings in my life.  I know I am fortunate.  I know I have it “easy,” yet the message never seems to make it to my heart.

A song crept up recently as background to something I was watching.  While I could not immediately identify it, I recognized the tune.  After listening more intently, I realized the song was one I used to sing in worship services.  I have heard snippets of many of these songs over the last few years, so that is not surprising; but something happened this time.  I began to cry softly as I remembered the lyrics.  In the days since, I have experienced other little nibbles.  I have felt nudges, and my reactions have been surprising.  The bitterness that usually swells up inside me at the mention of faith is more often a sense of wonder, or sadness, or yearning.  I find myself in conversations with people I do not know about things like god.  I cry.  Not unusual, but I cry because I feel like something is trying to get in, and I do not seem to know how to let it.

Please hold onto your collection plates and your conclusions.  I have not been converted; at least, I do not think I have been converted.   I do feel like there is something I need to recognize; I feel like I am on the verge of something.  I do not yet know what that something is.  I continue to prove to myself that I can make this journey – that I can paint a new picture for myself that actually makes sense.  But I am also feeling the effects of making the journey alone.  I have to wonder, when the painting is done, what will be on the canvas.  Might the picture be more beautiful – more complete – if I relinquish control of the brushstrokes?  And if I give over control of the composition, will the result still be me?


Good night, friends.
Kate

The Painful Price of Vanity

I had a whitening appointment today.  It was supposed to be a really great thing.  It ruined my entire day and has really made me think about transition.  Some might suggest today’s experience was simply karmic retribution for enjoying far too many pleasant days in a row – we will discount the fact that I have been sick for the last week, as even sick, I have to admit my days have been pleasant.  I am not so sure; I suspect it was a lesson in personal vanity.

The morning started with a rush to prepare and multiple decisions about whether to dress for the day or for the dentist.  I was supposed to have my long awaited initial appointment with my HRT doctor this afternoon and was unsure whether time would permit my returning home to prepare for that.  Given that the procedure was to last about two and a half hours, I should have had plenty of time; but I know how medical offices are.  I dressed somewhere in between and crossed my fingers that I would have time to stop home and fix up a little prior to my afternoon appointment.

I arrived at the dental office a solid fifteen minutes early, ready to fill out paperwork in preparation for my appointment… or so I thought.  I immediately received a clipboard containing something resembling the constitution and was told to return the completed paperwork to the receptionist... an awful lot of prep for a teeth-whitening appointment, I thought.  Of course, I had only about half of the information I needed.  As generally seems to be the case with these kinds of adventures – the ones where I am supposed to just “show up” and everything will be ready – the chasm between the information I had and the information these people needed was wide.  When we finally established that all I was there to do was have my teeth whitened and that I did not intend to ask anyone else to pay for it, things really got going; and I sat for a solid forty five minutes while the wheels of modern dentistry turned.

When the mysterious door did open, I was escorted not to the whitening chair, but to an X-ray room.  This launched a series of poking and prodding and zapping and frothing that ate up another solid hour.  Finally, ready to perform a whitening procedure (after yet another assurance that I did, in fact, intend to pay for the session), I made my way to the chair.  I asked, of course, how much longer this will require, calculating that I had already been in the office for two of the two and a half hours this should have taken, and the chipper little assistant informed me that they would need no more than - you guessed it - two and a half hours.  Checking the time, I admonished that if it was going to be any longer than that I would miss my afternoon appointment (one that I set over four months ago), so to please be realistic.  She assured me I would be on my way, and we were off… to wait another fifteen minutes.

What followed this was easily the most uncomfortable two hours I have ever experienced.  What followed that was pain.  When the lead dental assistant finally completed the process, she unveiled a set of beautifully white teeth… which began to ache almost the moment the guards, and gauze, and glue, and mortar, and whatever the hell else was jammed in my mouth was removed.  In her glorious Indian dialect, she carefully explained what I should expect and what I needed to do for the next couple days – I understood the “okay?” and “very pretty smile.”  Looking at the clock, I realized that I had roughly 3 minutes to get out of that office and on the highway if I had any hope of making it to my HRT appointment; so with a steadily increasing pain index, and an only slight hemorrhage at the final sticker price, I tossed a well worn debit card to the chipper young assistant and was on my way.  I made it to the doctor’s office with about fifteen minutes to spare.  So what is wrong?

My smile – well, the whiteness of my teeth – is beautiful.  To achieve that style point, I spent almost five hours trudging around a massive dental factory, listening to every new dentist, dental assistant, and pit-crew member to enter my presence continually pepper me with male pronouns.  Short of wearing a dress and heels, I could not have appeared less masculine today.  I spent the entire morning feeling completely lost and unprepared; having no idea how to answer the twenty questions any of the forty times they were asked.  I shelled out several hundred dollars for a treatment that will last only if I continue to torture myself with chemicals indefinitely, which is explained in great detail AFTER the treatment is complete.  I am in so much pain, even several hours later, that at times I cannot help screaming at the spasmodic knife jabs that keep exploding in my mouth.  I literally curled up in a ball on my bedroom floor and cried myself to sleep when I finally made it home.  I woke up screaming – imagine every nerve ending in your mouth being simultaneously exposed to a burst of frigid air.  That would hurt almost as much.  But the worst part of all:

After all of the hurdles of the morning, and finally arriving at my long awaited (did I mention I scheduled the appointment over four months ago?) HRT appointment, I was informed that the appointment was incorrectly booked and that I would not get to begin that part of my journey today.  Priceless.

About the only highlight of the day was the enjoyment I got from the flummoxed expressions of the staff that had been belligerently calling me “sir” all morning, when they kindly showed me to the restrooms… and I walked unabashedly into the ladies’.  Fuck them.

So what does this have to do with transition?  Just this: after the pain I am suffering for the sake of a whiter smile, I really have to wonder if I am vain enough to endure the pain of FFS.  I certainly would not repeat the teeth-whitening experience.

Much for young Katgirl to consider, this is.

Peace and love, friends.

Kate

Facing Unspoken Rejection

One of my big challenges in this transition so far has been weighing the very elusive balance between giving support to those who are working through this change with me, and fulfilling my own need for support.  It is a very complicated situation.  I know that my loved ones have struggles too.  I am not the only one changing, and I am not the only one for whom my changes carry hardships.  I recognize that, and I know that I need to allow space for those around me to adjust and figure things out.  It is a process, and it takes time.  But what do we do about those around us who seem not to be progressing?  What do we do when someone’s resistance to change begins to look more like rejection?

I know that different people will set a different pace in the course of processing new information and adjusting to change, but absolute lack of movement is not a pace, and it is not progress.  In fact, when that lack of movement happens amid waves of progress on the very same issue, that lack of movement begins to look very much like – and may truly be – opposition.  Okay, I know what you are thinking, “enough with this jibber jabber… what the hell is she talking about?”  So here is the situation.

I have two wonderful daughters.  They along with my partner’s other son converge on our home every other weekend.  Three of our four children have made great strides in embracing and accepting our evolving situation.  My daughters, in fact, are nearly pronoun perfect in their references to me… even when I am not around.  One of the four, however, has steadfastly clung to male pronouns and my old name.  This is most notable, because these references continue in an environment where everyone else is using correct language.  So the question then, is can I continue to buy the notion that this is just a part of his process, or is it, as I am coming to believe, really opposition to the change and/or to me?

I have faced a lot of rejection in the last few months.  It has come in many forms – professional, personal, societal, maternal.  Some has come kindly, some hatefully, and still more has come in some intermediate form – not quite hate, but not quite a quiet dismissal.  This is a type I have not encountered elsewhere (though I am sure there is more of it out there); this clinging to notions of the world that are no longer true does not make sense to me, especially in this situation.  One thing is for certain; I cannot continue to try to ignore the situation.

The fact is that I am on already fragile ground.  I struggle every day to keep my head above water - fighting to just keep fighting – walking a tightrope between tears and psychotic screams.  In this world, I have only one sanctuary – my home.  How do I keep it?  How do I maintain my one safe place, the one place where I do not have to be confronted with negative views of me... of reminders of my former self?  I would appreciate hearing how others of you have dealt with similar situations.

Thanks in advance, and peace!

Kate

An Emotional Woman

I have always been an emotional person, but lately my feelings are getting the better of me.  I can deal with tears for no apparent reason, but I am bothered by the sense of irrationality that accompanies – or maybe drives – my recent emotional roller coaster.  I do not like feeling irrational.

Last night was an excellent example of one of these silly upheavals.  I was supposed to accompany my wife to a work function.  It was not the kind of event that I enjoy, and worse, because it was a work function that carried potential crossover to my own company; I was going to have to attend as a boy and play the role of good husband.  I cannot say I was excited about any of that.  Regardless, I made the necessary arrangements, got my workout in an hour early so I had time to get ready, and even pressed a shirt for the occasion.  I spent the whole day psyching myself up for this event.

This whole thing would probably have been insignificant if not for the fact that I was (and am) still upset with myself for chickening out of a similar event a couple weeks ago.  My wife was working with the fire department at the local Independence Day celebration and had wanted me to join her.  I did not, because I was completely freaked out by the idea of meeting people she worked with and by the assumptions they might make about me.  I ended up sitting at home while she went to the event and watched the fireworks without me.  I felt terribly, and I promised myself that I would not let those fears get the better of me again.

Everything went according to plan, and I finished getting ready a full hour ahead of schedule.  I had just started to work on putting a light dinner together when I received a text message from my wife.  The event started an hour earlier than she thought, and she was struggling to leave work in time to stick to our plan.  She asked me what I wanted to do.  She suggested that she could stay at work and go straight to the gathering on her way home, meaning I would not have to attend; or she offered to pick me up anyway and arrive fashionably late.  I told her that it did not matter to me.  I was crying.

My immediate assumption was that she did not want me to go, because she would be embarrassed to be seen with me in the presence of her work colleagues.  I knew this was irrational, but my mind was busy piecing together all the evidence that supported my conclusion anyway.  I felt rejected and unworthy: no longer a boy, but not yet a girl – just a thing that was unfit for human consumption.  Worse, knowing fully that I was being completely irrational and that I had no reason to doubt what she said (she always struggles to leave work), I still could not dissuade the heart break I was feeling.  In truth, I am still trying to get over it.  How terrible is that?

When she arrived home, I had stopped crying, but I was still visibly upset.  We discussed the whole thing while sharing a bath, I cried a little more, and she consoled and reassured me.  I know my fears were unfounded, and I know that I had no reason to be upset.  It was not a party I wanted to go to in the first place; I should have been happy that things worked out the way they did.  And I certainly should not still feel hurt by what is nothing more than my own overactive imagination.

So I must quote Avril Lavigne… “What the hell?”  Why did I react so badly?

Take care and much love,
Kate

A Few Dollars More

Sometimes I question whether I really have the strength to see this transition through to full time; although, it may be the energy I lack more than the strength.  There are so many steps involved!  The name change alone involves multiple government organizations, piles of forms, and goodness knows how many dollars.  I have seen business start-ups that required less paperwork!  It makes me wish I could hire a “transition agent” to handle all the details.  Would that not be cool?

Of course, having the money to afford something like that would alone resolve most of the concerns that keep me awake at night.  Being able to rest at night rather than worry about transition would in turn give me the energy to deal with the BS that is ahead of me, so I guess that means the root of my problems is money.  That is a big surprise… hardly at all.  This is expensive!

I am currently seeing my counselor twice per month; though I could probably stand to see her weekly (the drive is painful enough, though).  Those visits plus the upcoming start of group sessions will cost me roughly $270 per month.  I am spending about $150 per month on laser, which I will soon supplement with electrolysis on my face.  That will probably add an additional couple hundred dollars per week.  Just those three items drive my cost to over $1,200 per month, which does not include fuel cost to make all the trips involved.  This also does not include hormones and other doctor visits, and it does not include saving for the big events – facial feminization and boobs.

If I stop paying my mortgage, take a second job, and exchange sleep for turning tricks at a truck stop, I may have the money for all of this by some time in late 2034.  Oh, and that is on the condition that I travel to Somalia for my surgeries AND bring my own instruments.  Tell me ladies, how in the world do we make this work, and secondly, would anyone like to buy a set of gently used testicles?  They are single owner and only driven to church on Sundays.

Seriously, I would love to read your thoughts on how we manage the fiscal nightmare of transition.  Please share.

Much love,

Kate

Insecurity and Silliness

Some days are just hard.  I’ve had a lot of those days lately, but I can handle bad days.  I have love, friendship, and an amazing support network.  Bad days are no match for the blessings in my life.  Still, even on good days; there are some things that really have a way of bringing me down.  Pronouns, in particular, can be real pests.

As I consider all the reasons that I haven’t yet taken the step of presenting publicly as female, one reason stands above the rest.  I am afraid that even once I go all the way, someone somewhere is going to call me “sir” and shatter my bubble.  Most of the time, I am wearing primarily women’s clothing.  I carry a purse and wear makeup.  I wear bracelets and earrings.  My hair is still short, and I usually have on a t-shirt rather than a blouse.  Still, I am dressed no differently from the majority of the women around me.  I even have (small but) noticeable boobs for crying out loud!  I am addressed as “sir” without exception.

Yesterday, dressed as I normally do, I introduced myself as Kate (no, I hadn’t put on makeup... the morning got away from me, and I knew that I was going to end up oily anyway… we were having a massage).  I even filled out forms using Kate as my name, and still the people in the spa used male pronouns to address and / or refer to me.  I’ve seen so many women who are significantly more “butch” than I have ever been who are not mistaken for men.  What the hell is the secret?  I just don’t get it.

The ironic thing is that I have no issue being out and about looking the way I do, I really give very little thought to the notion of walking into a store or a restaurant carrying my purse, for example.  I don’t care that people see me as an effeminate male, but I’m really afraid of being seen as anything other than a woman when I actually give it my full effort.  I know, I know – get over it, right?  I will.  I hope.

Much love,

Kate

Things That Scare Me

Things have been going quite well, and for the first time in my life, I actually believe that I will accomplish my lifelong goal of living full time in my correct gender.  That is exciting, but I know I have a long road ahead.  I know that I am likely to face some real challenges (am already facing a few), and that scares me.  Here are some of the fears I have been thinking about lately:

My work life:  I have taken the first steps in communicating my intentions at work.  Theoretically, I work for an “evolved organization” that embraces diversity and makes a very big deal of its work with the LGBT community… in Europe.  The fact is a company’s non-discrimination and equal opportunity policies are only as good as the people who enforce them.  I worry about those people, and about all the other creative ways they might choose to “resolve” the situation I create.  And of course assuming I keep my job, there’s the reality of dealing with old colleagues as a (perceived) new person.

My family:  I have never had a close relationship with my family.  Still the idea that they may shun me forever is scary, and it hurts.  I don’t know why.  I have all the love and support I could ever dream of, and yet, I really want my family to accept me.

Public Life:  It’s more of an annoyance than a fear, but it really bothers me that I can be out and about wearing makeup and carrying a purse, and am never “mistaken” for a woman.  It’s somewhat fascinating, if entirely maddening, what combination of signals and non-verbal queues it requires to cause someone to assume your gender.  I’m afraid I haven’t yet figured that out.

And the biggie… Restrooms: Other than in gay bars, I haven’t yet had to navigate this particularly delicate situation, but I am only a couple weeks away from being there.  I’ve been in normal society before, but not long enough that I couldn’t “hold it” till I got home.  At the end of June, I will be spending the better part of the day away form home (and in “normal” society). I am attending my first group session in the morning and have a regular session following.  Both are in the same place and far enough from home that I won’t have an out.  I am going to have to deal with the restroom situation, and that frightens me more than about anything else I have faced.  I could really use some advice on this one.

So, what are your fears?  If you have dealt with it, how have you handled this whole restroom thing?  I’d love to read your thoughts.

Take care,

Kate