Unless you've been really, REALLY androgynous for most of your life, AND are happy with remaining as such after changing your label, correcting your gender or presentation is a surprisingly involved task. Let's step through a typical day in the life of Your Humble Narrator, circa August 2005.
10:00 AM. I wake up alone in bed in my Columbus, OH apartment. My roommate is at work. In my dream, I was still pretending to be male. I sit up and am reminded in several ways that I am already definitely on the bigger side of an A cup and am developing curves. Oh yeah, I'm a girl! Rock. I flip on the computer, take my hormones, check jobs, and head to my shower bath.
In the shower, as usual, I take great pains to shave my face very closely and carefully, as I can't afford electrolysis.
After drying off (and a bit of nude mirror gazing), I take 10 minutes or so to do my makeup. Concealer, foundation, mascara, lipstick. Natural colors. Shadow remains on my upper lip, even beneath my concealer. Shit.
12:00 AM. I head out the door to do a little job hunting and grocery shopping.
I wasn't passing very well yet. Even going grocery shopping seemed intimidating. Anyone who paid me any mind seemed nervous. People stared and took second glances. I just kept smiling gently and acting like a lady. (Though, I did flirt with the odd nervous male clerk. Cruel? Perhaps. But everyone needs comic relief.)
At first, this new attention seems amusing. Empowering, even. But it quickly began to wear on my psyche, and gave me a "unbelonging freak" complex. I never blended well. Familiar feelings, different reasons. At the checkout counter, everything always went wrong. But practice makes perfect. I was new at this.
Once again, we return to Augtember Umpteenth, 2005...
5:00 PM. After coming home and eating my cheap frozen pizza, I call the temp agency I applied at a week ago. I won't name names. One of the owners had given me a weird, nervous interview. They didn't contact me for a week afterward.
"Oh, hi, Milla! Sorry, right after you applied, several of us in the office went on vacation!"
Ahh, I see. Um, you know, evidently they never did come back from vacation.
I'm glad, too.
Other than job discrimination, perhaps the biggest issue the transgendered person faces, especially early on in his/her/hir transition, is confidence. It's a bit of a duality.
You feel so wonderful and free when being yourself in public, and it feels as though the hormones (if they've been started yet) are doing amazing things to one's appearance. Although they are, you probably have a ways to go before passing as your true gender in public, no matter how girly- or manly-looking you may feel.
On the other hand, if you feel like you're being "read"-- in that you're getting funny looks, uncomfortable stares and second glances-- one commonly begins to feel far less confident. As confidence is a huge factor in passing, this can tend to put you in a negative feedback loop. Especially under the scrutiny of the checkout counter.
A Note to Young Milla, Addressed Backwards Through Time.
Dear Milla,
I know you're thinking about zipping through electronics at DeVry after graduation. But it doesn't work. You drop out due to a crushing depression caused by your complete lack of self-esteem. It's rooted in your lifelong gender dysphoria. Go to a real university instead. In fact, make it OSU, because Columbus is where your soon-to-be gender therapist lives. Get a pharmacy degree; forget computers. Work.
That one guy you met a couple years ago? Ditch him nicely.
Fix your relationship with your sister now. You won't have to be jealous anymore.
Oh, one more thing: I know you're just about to graduate, and you're still figuring things out.
And I know the very idea terrifies you.
Let her out.
That's the real you. You're an intersexed girl, not a crazy pervert. Do it. Now.
If you have any questions, I'll be here in the future, beating my head against the desk.
People often say growing up transsexual sounds difficult. And it probably was; it's just hard to compare without some sort of common vantage point with non-trans people.
I was a happy enough kid, provided I had some sort of distraction.
Distractions let me forget I was really a girl for a while. Toys, video games, arcade games, computers (wayyy back to the early 80's TV ones), books, cartoons, even psychedelics a couple years ago. Actually, I kinda buried my head in the sands of Distraction Desert, and that continued until they just ceased to work. That wasn't very long ago.
A somewhat more effective method of coping was release. Release was more problematic (and scary for me), and not always even intentional.
Until the age of 6 or 7, I wasn't afraid. My earliest memory of trans-evident behavior was when I was about 4. At the YWCA daycare I was in, there were gendered bathrooms for us kids. I insisted for a short while on going with the other girls to the girls' room but was made to go to the other one. Not long after, I knew it was something to hide dearly.
Besides wanting to be the mommy when playing house, I also have memories of having red toenails in sandals (my aunt painted them for me at my request) at that center later on. ("That's for girls!" "No it's not!" Yesss.) And still later, my father and others telling me "Don't walk on your toes!" "Don't talk through your nose!" "Don't hold that hammer like that!"
For the longest time, I borrowed mom's bras and stuffed them with water balloons or folded up socks in private. My dad would find them just under my bed skirt and take them. On separate occasions, I accidentally left out a slip and a dress in my early teens. Oops.
In my late teens, I tried to grow my hair out several times. It's very, very thick and wavy. I dressed as androgynously as I could "get away with." I shaved my arms once with the excuse of running out of spots to put a nicotine patch. I often shaved my legs completely in winter and down to shorts level in summer. I got into the whole "goth" thing partly as an alibi to wear skirts, makeup, and nail polish. I shaped my eyebrows with a safety razor once. I "neglected" to trim my fingernails until Mom complained. Then I'd trim them and let them grow again.
The ballsiest thing I did was buying a nice pair of black leather high heels at a retail store as a "Christmas present for my girlfriend." Yes, I could bring them back after Christmas if they didn't fit her. Luckily, they fit just fine. The sales lady saw straight through me I'm sure, as I was shaky and stammering, but it was totally worth it.
My brother M, then about 18, found my shoes, worn, in a shoebox in my closet with hose and a slip (both worn). He asked me about it. Horrified and angry, I lied gruffly, "It's a present for my girlfriend," shooting a look that added, "and don't bring that box up again if you want to live to 20, motherfucker." I "purged" my shoebox and makeup months later, and hid from myself.
So, hmm, yeah. Growing up trans probably was a little bit rough. How it compares to being non-trans, I really can't say, but I imagine it's even less fun.
[Note: This entry was originally written on January 6th 2006, two days after I was released from my first, and hopefully only, stint in jail. It was posted to my StumbleUpon weblog. It is pasted here verbatim.]
I'm not proud of what happened. But the bit I'd been dreading since July is over with. Hopefully.
I wasn't going to share this publicly, but fuck it: I spent the first holiday season I didn't hate (12/5/05 - 1/04/06) in a solitary cell at the luxurious Dodge County Detention Facility in Juneau, WI! Don't believe me?
Before beginning my full-time transition (and for a short while afterward), I was pretty irresponsible. Barely squeaking by, ignoring problems that shouldn't have been ignored, and generally trying to make things as easy, fun, and painless as possible. To hell with tomorrow. After I went full-time I hadn't quite completely straightened out yet (although I planned to after finding work in Columbus). It finally bit me back at the worst possible time.
On my way home from Appleton, WI to my new digs in Columbus, OH (I moved in with another trans girl, very pretty), I struck another car, running a stop sign because I was busy desperately looking for a gas station. It was kind of sudden and unannounced anyway. The other car was a 30s model, on the way home from a car show. I had *just* gone full time. And, having been so irresponsible before my transition, had no liability insurance.
You know, I never had panic attacks often. But I have, and that one was quite a mother.
Before I really knew what happened, I fled. It was over in seconds. And I got caught looking for gas in the next town up the road, in a sort of daze. It turned out I'd left my front plastic bumper cover behind. My car, a '99 Dodge Stratus, was otherwise unharmed, as the other driver turned out to be, thankfully.
Yep! Female driving! Oh ho!
I was charged with felony hit and run (which was later reduced to a misdemeanor). I spent a long, scary ~24 hours at the same jail in solitary before I bailed out.
Later on, I got a plea bargain.. a fine, suspended license, four months in county, and two years probation. Yeesh! But I took it. No contest, y'all. I was guilty as sin, and they knew it as well as I did.
The judge, seeing my squeaky clean driving AND criminal records, withheld sentencing and reduced the four months of jail to thirty days. Thank God. If my probation is violated at any time over the next two years, however, I'll be finishing those remaining three months up. That's right, if I get a dog and they find out it barks too much.. back to the slammer.
The thirty days, like I said, weren't fun, but didn't kill me. As expected (and hoped), they put me in solitary to help protect my sissy behind, and therefore their pocketbooks.
The guards were (mostly) pretty respectful and nice. I wasn't allowed female pronouns, but they started referred to me using my last name, and not "sir" or "Mr. [so-and-so]." I also finally managed to get the proper laundry out of them.
The most amusing thing about the whole ordeal? I'd gotten work release privileges (huber). I don't think they'd ever housed a tranny, and they weren't sure *who* to have strip-search me on returning from job interviews or work. One solution they considered was having a female guard check my top half.
It turns out the probation can't be transferred out-of-state so I'm going to live and work here in Appleton with my babygirl for the two years. I hope she goes back to Columbus with me!
So there you have it. Now I'm going to be the bestest behaved little girl in the class. For a little while! Hee!
[Epilogue: Still don't have work, but I'm waiting on the judge's word on community service instead of the fine. Once the fine/work are completed, my probation will very likely end.]
Once upon a time, when I was but a wee little tranny tot, in the first grade wayyyy back in 1981, I had some friends. Not a huge lot of friends, but the friends I did have were close ones. One of them-- let's call him Kelly, not his real name-- was every bit the sissy I was, if I may.
We kind of latched on to each other. We had an affinity for small, cute things. We sucked at sports and liked it that way. We hated loud music and never went shirtless. We giggled and acted prissy to others for our own entertainment.
And yes, we even sang girls' hand-clapping rhymes:
Ask me no more questions,
Tell me no more lies,
The boys are in the bathroom,
Zipping up their-
Flies are in the city...
Etcetera.
Even back then, some of the other kids around his neighborhood (the less sheltered ones) thought we were boyfriends. "YER GAAAAY! Huh huh huh."
But what they were missing out on was that we weren't boyfriends, we were just close girlfriends. I say this not out of assumption on my part, but because Kelly admitted to me that "he" felt like a girl, and took me into his neighbor's garage several times one summer, where he'd briefly put on a sundress lying on one of the boxes in there.
He urged me to wear the dress once or twice, but I was too chickenshit at the time. I hadn't even done that in private yet, never mind right in front of someone. He told me not to worry, that he did it all the time. I was afraid to even be in there for fear of being caught. But I actually did want to try it on, soooo baaaad.
I never did wear it. Oh well.
Eventually, sometime before our journeys into hell (read: male puberty), we slowly parted ways. He moved away without so much as a goodbye. And wow, this was a parting of ways to be reckoned with.
Back to modern day. It's really early, and I can't sleep. I'm trying once more to lookup-and-hookup old friends, admittedly doing a little cyberstalking in an attempt to find Kelly.
I feel dirty, in a bad way. But find him, I did!
I hate to bring politics to Transgurl. I try actively to avoid it. But I'll do it just this once, because it's the point of this entry, and is trans-related here:
He's now a professional politico, and quite the activist. He's even hung out with Ronald Reagan (pre-Alzheimer's). I read his article about how great Reagan was.
Most perplexing and disappointing, he's against queer rights.
I'm not really surprised, overall, but I am a bit disappointed and saddened. I'm obviously not going to say that all people who lean far conservative are suppressing sides of themselves they're not entirely comfortable with, because that would be outright false and stupid. But it seems that, sadly, that is what has happened with Kelly.
I have his email address right in front of me. I'm fighting off the terrible urge to contact him, to tell him I came out, to try and catch up on old times, but I have a strong hunch that it wouldn't go so well, and I don't think he's interested in clapping hands anymore.
Maybe he really was lucky enough to find peace in denial. Maybe I'm doing him a favor by not writing him.
While things have been for the most part pretty okay-- relative to how most of my transition has gone so far, at least-- I've not been, well, doing well, which makes it pretty hard to get the things done that need done. Like, say, posting on Transgurl more than once in two months!
Being a Fucked-up Bipolar Chick™ means there are both highs and lows, but Type II bipolar disorder (which I've been diagnosed with in the past) is hypomanic. This means that when I feel "high," it's not as severe or long-lasting, relative to Type I bipolar.
The rest of the time is usually kind of a low-grade depression that sits just below baseline, and reacts to situations a little too strongly. Type II is also faster. It tends to turn your life into a roller coaster. And being hormonally female, especially via easily forgotten oral medications, does not help the matter. Seriously.
In a few moments, I'll be back on Prozac (generic). I've not taken it since right before going full time, but I probably should have been on it all along. It's not for everyone, but I've used it for four different periods, and it has always ended up making me much happier, more focused, and admittedly, better functioning. The change it induces in me is marked enough to draw happy, surprised comments. I've been on various other psych meds, and this, the second one I ever tried, is the one I personally respond to the best, by far.
The cycle goes something like this: Things get bad. I go on Prozac. It really helps and I feel much better. I feel so much better, I stop taking Prozac after six months or so. Yay, cured for life! For the third time! I do okay for a few months. Things get bad.
After the umpteenth close call I had a few weeks ago, I think it's time I seriously considered that I apparently need to be on something for good if I don't want life to feel like a broken glass treadmill with weekly reminders of how I could feel. Worse yet, I risk it ending abruptly by going without. Even now, as myself.
The last time I quit Prozac, I thought maybe my transition would remove the need for psych meds, at least for me. Even though things are much better than they would have been beforehand, transition itself only fixes one problem, and as the old Buddhist koan goes, everyone has 47 problems.
I've noticed that, in a lot of trans-related weblogs with any kind of personal content at all, a common (and fun) post is the costume show. Now that I'm finally comfortable with the idea, thought I'd share some past photos of who I pretended to be.
Everybody knew something was "wrong" with me, but nobody was quite sure what it was. Probably '79 or '80.
My parents saw a lot of this when I wasn't outside playing "Star Wars" or something similar with my boy friends. Either way, I preferred to play girls when possible. (These were in short supply in the sorts of entertainment I was expected to consume.)
Worst Christmas Evar. Late Eighties. Shortly after my first puberty. My mom bought me an Epson printer for my Amiga computer, thinking that was what I'd likely wanted. I hadn't even opened it when she asked me if she could at least "get a smile." She had expected me to open it and play with it immediately as per usual when I got tech gifts. I felt bad, but in retrospect, it wasn't anybody's fault.
My Hunter S. Thompson (as Raoul Duke) halloween costume. Nobody got it except a customer at Blockbuster Video, where I wore my costume that night.
This is the first photo of me presenting as female in any way. My ex-alter-ego, Lenore von Dunkelnacht, brought to life on the happiest Halloween night I ever had, circa the late Nineties. Those are platform patent leather boots from International Male, and my favorite pre-transition footwear of all time. My brother Mitch evidently secretly hated them. I wore them to my cubicle IT job with black jeans tucked in them and Siouxsie and Misfits t-shirts.
Just after graduation, June 1992. I'm not nearly as happy as I look, but you'll have that after several attempts at a "good" photo. I wanted a white robe like the other girls.
Sitting with my (now) late grandmother on her porch swing. I was so happy and comfortable with myself. Can't you tell? Despite the gap, I did love her a lot.
Among my first transition photos. Early 2005. I won't post any of them from before this, though. I was working at the musicians' store presenting as male at this time (changing when I got home), and my shirts were already beginning to get a bit bulkier and softer in the ribcage area. While it made me a little nervous at work, it was the best feeling I've ever had, knowing that I was well on my way to being myself.
(Warning: New Doctor Who season one and two spoilers follow. No, really!)
Mike and Melissa like to get me hooked on some pretty terrific TV. Most of it's British (or animated), which is no coincidence.
The new Doctor Who series is what we're mostly watching lately. I used to watch the old series with my dad when I was but a wee tranny tot, but I was too young to understand much of it, so it never clicked, and I never started watching it again until starting the new series from episode one a few weeks ago.
In one of the earlier episodes, the doctor and his companion, Rose, meet the apparent "last pure human" some 3000 years from now. She's a transwoman (made clear by lines like "when I was a boy") who's had 700-some surgeries by now, and consists of a face and skin stretched out like a trampoline, occasionally misted with moisturizers by her assistants to keep her alive.
I had a lot of reservations about this villain-ish character, but they were misplaced.
She reappears in another episode, and after some well-written science fiction-y action and drama, the Doctor and Rose take her (now in the body of her new, dying assistant) back through time and space to a time somewhere around now, when she still appeared human (and gorgeous at that), socializing in a ritzy, upper-class nightclub.
Okay, looong setup. Anyhoo. Just after finally admitting it's time for her to pass on, and traveling to this place and time, she addresses her younger self and tells her she's beautiful. Her younger self has the same expression I would have in the same situation, with pleasant surprise and slight guilt. And I started to cry.
It was another reminder that I concentrate so much on scrubbing the boy off me (like I'm doing between paragraphs with an epilator) that I overlook the girl, both inside and out, that has already emerged.
Unless you've been really, REALLY androgynous for most of your life, AND are happy with remaining as such after changing your label, correcting your gender or presentation is a surprisingly involved task. Let's step through a typical day in the life of Your Humble Narrator, circa August 2005.
10:00 AM. I wake up alone in bed in my Columbus, OH apartment. My roommate is at work. In my dream, I was still pretending to be male. I sit up and am reminded in several ways that I am already definitely on the bigger side of an A cup and am developing curves. Oh yeah, I'm a girl! Rock. I flip on the computer, take my hormones, check jobs, and head to my shower bath.
In the shower, as usual, I take great pains to shave my face very closely and carefully, as I can't afford electrolysis.
After drying off (and a bit of nude mirror gazing), I take 10 minutes or so to do my makeup. Concealer, foundation, mascara, lipstick. Natural colors. Shadow remains on my upper lip, even beneath my concealer. Shit.
12:00 AM. I head out the door to do a little job hunting and grocery shopping.
I wasn't passing very well yet. Even going grocery shopping seemed intimidating. Anyone who paid me any mind seemed nervous. People stared and took second glances. I just kept smiling gently and acting like a lady. (Though, I did flirt with the odd nervous male clerk. Cruel? Perhaps. But everyone needs comic relief.)
At first, this new attention seems amusing. Empowering, even. But it quickly began to wear on my psyche, and gave me a "unbelonging freak" complex. I never blended well. Familiar feelings, different reasons. At the checkout counter, everything always went wrong. But practice makes perfect. I was new at this.
To be continued...
Posted in hindsight, transition by Milla | Comments (1)
Once again, we return to Augtember Umpteenth, 2005...
5:00 PM. After coming home and eating my cheap frozen pizza, I call the temp agency I applied at a week ago. I won't name names. One of the owners had given me a weird, nervous interview. They didn't contact me for a week afterward.
"Oh, hi, Milla! Sorry, right after you applied, several of us in the office went on vacation!"
Ahh, I see. Um, you know, evidently they never did come back from vacation.
I'm glad, too.
Other than job discrimination, perhaps the biggest issue the transgendered person faces, especially early on in his/her/hir transition, is confidence. It's a bit of a duality.
You feel so wonderful and free when being yourself in public, and it feels as though the hormones (if they've been started yet) are doing amazing things to one's appearance. Although they are, you probably have a ways to go before passing as your true gender in public, no matter how girly- or manly-looking you may feel.
On the other hand, if you feel like you're being "read"-- in that you're getting funny looks, uncomfortable stares and second glances-- one commonly begins to feel far less confident. As confidence is a huge factor in passing, this can tend to put you in a negative feedback loop. Especially under the scrutiny of the checkout counter.
Posted in hindsight, transition by Milla | Comments (1)
A Note to Young Milla, Addressed Backwards Through Time.
Dear Milla,
I know you're thinking about zipping through electronics at DeVry after graduation. But it doesn't work. You drop out due to a crushing depression caused by your complete lack of self-esteem. It's rooted in your lifelong gender dysphoria. Go to a real university instead. In fact, make it OSU, because Columbus is where your soon-to-be gender therapist lives. Get a pharmacy degree; forget computers. Work.
That one guy you met a couple years ago? Ditch him nicely.
Fix your relationship with your sister now. You won't have to be jealous anymore.
Oh, one more thing: I know you're just about to graduate, and you're still figuring things out.
And I know the very idea terrifies you.
Let her out.
That's the real you. You're an intersexed girl, not a crazy pervert. Do it. Now.
If you have any questions, I'll be here in the future, beating my head against the desk.
Love,
The Real You
--
*thump thump thump thump thump*
Posted in hindsight by Milla | Comments (2)
People often say growing up transsexual sounds difficult. And it probably was; it's just hard to compare without some sort of common vantage point with non-trans people.
I was a happy enough kid, provided I had some sort of distraction.
Distractions let me forget I was really a girl for a while. Toys, video games, arcade games, computers (wayyy back to the early 80's TV ones), books, cartoons, even psychedelics a couple years ago. Actually, I kinda buried my head in the sands of Distraction Desert, and that continued until they just ceased to work. That wasn't very long ago.
A somewhat more effective method of coping was release. Release was more problematic (and scary for me), and not always even intentional.
Until the age of 6 or 7, I wasn't afraid. My earliest memory of trans-evident behavior was when I was about 4. At the YWCA daycare I was in, there were gendered bathrooms for us kids. I insisted for a short while on going with the other girls to the girls' room but was made to go to the other one. Not long after, I knew it was something to hide dearly.
Besides wanting to be the mommy when playing house, I also have memories of having red toenails in sandals (my aunt painted them for me at my request) at that center later on. ("That's for girls!" "No it's not!" Yesss.) And still later, my father and others telling me "Don't walk on your toes!" "Don't talk through your nose!" "Don't hold that hammer like that!"
For the longest time, I borrowed mom's bras and stuffed them with water balloons or folded up socks in private. My dad would find them just under my bed skirt and take them. On separate occasions, I accidentally left out a slip and a dress in my early teens. Oops.
In my late teens, I tried to grow my hair out several times. It's very, very thick and wavy. I dressed as androgynously as I could "get away with." I shaved my arms once with the excuse of running out of spots to put a nicotine patch. I often shaved my legs completely in winter and down to shorts level in summer. I got into the whole "goth" thing partly as an alibi to wear skirts, makeup, and nail polish. I shaped my eyebrows with a safety razor once. I "neglected" to trim my fingernails until Mom complained. Then I'd trim them and let them grow again.
The ballsiest thing I did was buying a nice pair of black leather high heels at a retail store as a "Christmas present for my girlfriend." Yes, I could bring them back after Christmas if they didn't fit her. Luckily, they fit just fine. The sales lady saw straight through me I'm sure, as I was shaky and stammering, but it was totally worth it.
My brother M, then about 18, found my shoes, worn, in a shoebox in my closet with hose and a slip (both worn). He asked me about it. Horrified and angry, I lied gruffly, "It's a present for my girlfriend," shooting a look that added, "and don't bring that box up again if you want to live to 20, motherfucker." I "purged" my shoebox and makeup months later, and hid from myself.
So, hmm, yeah. Growing up trans probably was a little bit rough. How it compares to being non-trans, I really can't say, but I imagine it's even less fun.
Posted in hindsight by Milla | Post a Comment?
[Note: This entry was originally written on January 6th 2006, two days after I was released from my first, and hopefully only, stint in jail. It was posted to my StumbleUpon weblog. It is pasted here verbatim.]
I'm not proud of what happened. But the bit I'd been dreading since July is over with. Hopefully.
I wasn't going to share this publicly, but fuck it: I spent the first holiday season I didn't hate (12/5/05 - 1/04/06) in a solitary cell at the luxurious Dodge County Detention Facility in Juneau, WI! Don't believe me?
Before beginning my full-time transition (and for a short while afterward), I was pretty irresponsible. Barely squeaking by, ignoring problems that shouldn't have been ignored, and generally trying to make things as easy, fun, and painless as possible. To hell with tomorrow. After I went full-time I hadn't quite completely straightened out yet (although I planned to after finding work in Columbus). It finally bit me back at the worst possible time.
On my way home from Appleton, WI to my new digs in Columbus, OH (I moved in with another trans girl, very pretty), I struck another car, running a stop sign because I was busy desperately looking for a gas station. It was kind of sudden and unannounced anyway. The other car was a 30s model, on the way home from a car show. I had *just* gone full time. And, having been so irresponsible before my transition, had no liability insurance.
You know, I never had panic attacks often. But I have, and that one was quite a mother.
Before I really knew what happened, I fled. It was over in seconds. And I got caught looking for gas in the next town up the road, in a sort of daze. It turned out I'd left my front plastic bumper cover behind. My car, a '99 Dodge Stratus, was otherwise unharmed, as the other driver turned out to be, thankfully.
Yep! Female driving! Oh ho!
I was charged with felony hit and run (which was later reduced to a misdemeanor). I spent a long, scary ~24 hours at the same jail in solitary before I bailed out.
Later on, I got a plea bargain.. a fine, suspended license, four months in county, and two years probation. Yeesh! But I took it. No contest, y'all. I was guilty as sin, and they knew it as well as I did.
The judge, seeing my squeaky clean driving AND criminal records, withheld sentencing and reduced the four months of jail to thirty days. Thank God. If my probation is violated at any time over the next two years, however, I'll be finishing those remaining three months up. That's right, if I get a dog and they find out it barks too much.. back to the slammer.
The thirty days, like I said, weren't fun, but didn't kill me. As expected (and hoped), they put me in solitary to help protect my sissy behind, and therefore their pocketbooks.
The guards were (mostly) pretty respectful and nice. I wasn't allowed female pronouns, but they started referred to me using my last name, and not "sir" or "Mr. [so-and-so]." I also finally managed to get the proper laundry out of them.
The most amusing thing about the whole ordeal? I'd gotten work release privileges (huber). I don't think they'd ever housed a tranny, and they weren't sure *who* to have strip-search me on returning from job interviews or work. One solution they considered was having a female guard check my top half.
It turns out the probation can't be transferred out-of-state so I'm going to live and work here in Appleton with my babygirl for the two years. I hope she goes back to Columbus with me!
So there you have it. Now I'm going to be the bestest behaved little girl in the class. For a little while! Hee!
[Epilogue: Still don't have work, but I'm waiting on the judge's word on community service instead of the fine. Once the fine/work are completed, my probation will very likely end.]
Posted in hindsight by Milla | Comments (2)
Once upon a time, when I was but a wee little tranny tot, in the first grade wayyyy back in 1981, I had some friends. Not a huge lot of friends, but the friends I did have were close ones. One of them-- let's call him Kelly, not his real name-- was every bit the sissy I was, if I may.
We kind of latched on to each other. We had an affinity for small, cute things. We sucked at sports and liked it that way. We hated loud music and never went shirtless. We giggled and acted prissy to others for our own entertainment.
And yes, we even sang girls' hand-clapping rhymes:
Etcetera.
Even back then, some of the other kids around his neighborhood (the less sheltered ones) thought we were boyfriends. "YER GAAAAY! Huh huh huh."
But what they were missing out on was that we weren't boyfriends, we were just close girlfriends. I say this not out of assumption on my part, but because Kelly admitted to me that "he" felt like a girl, and took me into his neighbor's garage several times one summer, where he'd briefly put on a sundress lying on one of the boxes in there.
He urged me to wear the dress once or twice, but I was too chickenshit at the time. I hadn't even done that in private yet, never mind right in front of someone. He told me not to worry, that he did it all the time. I was afraid to even be in there for fear of being caught. But I actually did want to try it on, soooo baaaad.
I never did wear it. Oh well.
Eventually, sometime before our journeys into hell (read: male puberty), we slowly parted ways. He moved away without so much as a goodbye. And wow, this was a parting of ways to be reckoned with.
Back to modern day. It's really early, and I can't sleep. I'm trying once more to lookup-and-hookup old friends, admittedly doing a little cyberstalking in an attempt to find Kelly.
I feel dirty, in a bad way. But find him, I did!
I hate to bring politics to Transgurl. I try actively to avoid it. But I'll do it just this once, because it's the point of this entry, and is trans-related here:
He's now a professional politico, and quite the activist. He's even hung out with Ronald Reagan (pre-Alzheimer's). I read his article about how great Reagan was.
Most perplexing and disappointing, he's against queer rights.
I'm not really surprised, overall, but I am a bit disappointed and saddened. I'm obviously not going to say that all people who lean far conservative are suppressing sides of themselves they're not entirely comfortable with, because that would be outright false and stupid. But it seems that, sadly, that is what has happened with Kelly.
I have his email address right in front of me. I'm fighting off the terrible urge to contact him, to tell him I came out, to try and catch up on old times, but I have a strong hunch that it wouldn't go so well, and I don't think he's interested in clapping hands anymore.
Maybe he really was lucky enough to find peace in denial. Maybe I'm doing him a favor by not writing him.
I sure hope so.
Posted in hindsight by Milla | Comments (5)
While things have been for the most part pretty okay-- relative to how most of my transition has gone so far, at least-- I've not been, well, doing well, which makes it pretty hard to get the things done that need done. Like, say, posting on Transgurl more than once in two months!
Being a Fucked-up Bipolar Chick™ means there are both highs and lows, but Type II bipolar disorder (which I've been diagnosed with in the past) is hypomanic. This means that when I feel "high," it's not as severe or long-lasting, relative to Type I bipolar.
The rest of the time is usually kind of a low-grade depression that sits just below baseline, and reacts to situations a little too strongly. Type II is also faster. It tends to turn your life into a roller coaster. And being hormonally female, especially via easily forgotten oral medications, does not help the matter. Seriously.
In a few moments, I'll be back on Prozac (generic). I've not taken it since right before going full time, but I probably should have been on it all along. It's not for everyone, but I've used it for four different periods, and it has always ended up making me much happier, more focused, and admittedly, better functioning. The change it induces in me is marked enough to draw happy, surprised comments. I've been on various other psych meds, and this, the second one I ever tried, is the one I personally respond to the best, by far.
The cycle goes something like this: Things get bad. I go on Prozac. It really helps and I feel much better. I feel so much better, I stop taking Prozac after six months or so. Yay, cured for life! For the third time! I do okay for a few months. Things get bad.
After the umpteenth close call I had a few weeks ago, I think it's time I seriously considered that I apparently need to be on something for good if I don't want life to feel like a broken glass treadmill with weekly reminders of how I could feel. Worse yet, I risk it ending abruptly by going without. Even now, as myself.
The last time I quit Prozac, I thought maybe my transition would remove the need for psych meds, at least for me. Even though things are much better than they would have been beforehand, transition itself only fixes one problem, and as the old Buddhist koan goes, everyone has 47 problems.
46. *gulp*
Posted in hindsight, misc by Milla | Comments (3)
I've noticed that, in a lot of trans-related weblogs with any kind of personal content at all, a common (and fun) post is the costume show. Now that I'm finally comfortable with the idea, thought I'd share some past photos of who I pretended to be.
Everybody knew something was "wrong" with me, but nobody was quite sure what it was. Probably '79 or '80.
My parents saw a lot of this when I wasn't outside playing "Star Wars" or something similar with my boy friends. Either way, I preferred to play girls when possible. (These were in short supply in the sorts of entertainment I was expected to consume.)
Worst Christmas Evar. Late Eighties. Shortly after my first puberty. My mom bought me an Epson printer for my Amiga computer, thinking that was what I'd likely wanted. I hadn't even opened it when she asked me if she could at least "get a smile." She had expected me to open it and play with it immediately as per usual when I got tech gifts. I felt bad, but in retrospect, it wasn't anybody's fault.
My Hunter S. Thompson (as Raoul Duke) halloween costume. Nobody got it except a customer at Blockbuster Video, where I wore my costume that night.
This is the first photo of me presenting as female in any way. My ex-alter-ego, Lenore von Dunkelnacht, brought to life on the happiest Halloween night I ever had, circa the late Nineties. Those are platform patent leather boots from International Male, and my favorite pre-transition footwear of all time. My brother Mitch evidently secretly hated them. I wore them to my cubicle IT job with black jeans tucked in them and Siouxsie and Misfits t-shirts.
Just after graduation, June 1992. I'm not nearly as happy as I look, but you'll have that after several attempts at a "good" photo. I wanted a white robe like the other girls.
Sitting with my (now) late grandmother on her porch swing. I was so happy and comfortable with myself. Can't you tell? Despite the gap, I did love her a lot.
Among my first transition photos. Early 2005. I won't post any of them from before this, though. I was working at the musicians' store presenting as male at this time (changing when I got home), and my shirts were already beginning to get a bit bulkier and softer in the ribcage area. While it made me a little nervous at work, it was the best feeling I've ever had, knowing that I was well on my way to being myself.
Posted in hindsight, playing_boy by Milla | Comments (7)
(Warning: New Doctor Who season one and two spoilers follow. No, really!)
Mike and Melissa like to get me hooked on some pretty terrific TV. Most of it's British (or animated), which is no coincidence.
The new Doctor Who series is what we're mostly watching lately. I used to watch the old series with my dad when I was but a wee tranny tot, but I was too young to understand much of it, so it never clicked, and I never started watching it again until starting the new series from episode one a few weeks ago.
In one of the earlier episodes, the doctor and his companion, Rose, meet the apparent "last pure human" some 3000 years from now. She's a transwoman (made clear by lines like "when I was a boy") who's had 700-some surgeries by now, and consists of a face and skin stretched out like a trampoline, occasionally misted with moisturizers by her assistants to keep her alive.
I had a lot of reservations about this villain-ish character, but they were misplaced.
She reappears in another episode, and after some well-written science fiction-y action and drama, the Doctor and Rose take her (now in the body of her new, dying assistant) back through time and space to a time somewhere around now, when she still appeared human (and gorgeous at that), socializing in a ritzy, upper-class nightclub.
Okay, looong setup. Anyhoo. Just after finally admitting it's time for her to pass on, and traveling to this place and time, she addresses her younger self and tells her she's beautiful. Her younger self has the same expression I would have in the same situation, with pleasant surprise and slight guilt. And I started to cry.
It was another reminder that I concentrate so much on scrubbing the boy off me (like I'm doing between paragraphs with an epilator) that I overlook the girl, both inside and out, that has already emerged.
She's beautiful, both inside and out.
And I'm still scrubbing.
Posted in epilation, hindsight, transition by Milla | Post a Comment?