Dear Mr. Notadouche

I've maintained a profile on a popular dating site for some time. It doesn't lead to much but interesting conversations which is fine. However, I'm completely up front about who (and "what") I am on that site, because I don't want to talk to 100 people only to have 97 or 98 of them turn away in shock when they do find out.  I'd rather talk to 2 or 3 who might actually want to talk to me.  If we did wind up meeting in person and going out on a date, I don't want a difficult, dangerous situation to arise.  Yes, I've allowed myself to go there before, but it was not something I set out to do nor something I care to repeat.  It's too dangerous.  Even though I'm very explicit about my past in my profile, a lot of people don't read it or don't understand, and run the other way once they realize, but most people are actually very nice about it.  In fact, I've had the distinct pleasure of interacting with several people online who were truly wonderful, thoughtful, and even encouraging to me.  The word "courageous" comes up often.  I don't think I'm courageous, but it's humbling to know that so many people think that.  Unfortunately, every once in a while someone comes along with so much unprovoked, vile hatred toward me that it reminds me how far we trans people have yet to go - and then I feel like throwing up.  Then I feel unsafe, vulnerable.

Today, I encountered one such hate-filled individual.  He apparently had wandered across my pictures on the aforementioned site, and clearly read my entire profile before sending me this vicious message:

Unfortunately, it's true that occasionally being attacked for no reason comes with the territory of being part of any minority, but I have to admit that because I seem to blend in well generally, and have a professional career, lots of friends, and a loving family, I am often so insulated from the negativity and hatred that still festers out there in the wild that I can and have forgotten that it exists at times.  When I read the above words, my instinct was to not afford their author much of my time, and just strike back with a quick, clear response, and then report the message to the site's administrators.  I assured him his username - which started with "NotADouche" - was incorrect since he clearly was exactly that (I swear - I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried).  Then I shared a one line, strongly worded assessment of his lack of education on the matter of transsexualism and ended it there.  I do have to wonder why anyone would feel so compelled to make a username proclaiming themselves to be "not a douche"?  Hmm.  One can only speculate.

I thought about Mr. Notadouche over dinner.  Isn't it funny how we can get maybe ten positive, praising comments and almost dismiss them, but when a single, solitary negative one comes along it is so hard to just let it go?  I've heard it said that's the case because the good stuff is harder for most of us to believe about ourselves than the bad.  But I wasn't thinking about this person because I believe anything he said.  I thought long and hard about those sorts of questions for many years.  I would not have transitioned if I thought there was any possibility of truth in such beliefs.  Still, I did think about him.  He reminded me of something.

Mr. Notadouche reminded me of a situation that my therapist, Erin Swenson, shared with our support group one time several months back.  Erin talked about a time when she was at some venue giving a seminar about transsexualism to a large group of people.  She told them that sometimes they may encounter someone after the talk who will come up to them and express very angry, bitter feelings about Erin having been there and about her discussions on transsexualism and people who transition genders.  Erin asked them to be especially kind to the people who do exactly that, because, as Erin pointed out, those are likely to be the very people who are struggling themselves with their own gender issues, and not able to come to terms with them.  This is likely quite true, but even if it were not true, it's quite a powerful psychological tool with which to arm one's self in such a situation.

I'm not as eloquent and even tempered as my therapist - not even close.  I'm not a trained, professional orator as she is, but I do tend to be pretty crafty with the words.  Oh yeah!  More importantly, I feel a sense of duty and obligation to help out my fellow trans people - even the ones in deep denial such as Mr. Notadouche.  So, after dinner I decided to share some wisdom with him.  I couldn't be quite as Gandhi-like as my therapist, but I gave it my best shot.  This is what I wrote:

Dear Mr. Notadouche, 

You know, I was thinking about it, and I realize that the only reason you'd have such a violently negative reaction to my very existence is that you yourself must be suffering from seriously conflicted feelings about your own gender - and seeing me stirs up those feelings, making it harder for you to hide them, and not think about them, not admit to yourself what you really are. A lot of my friends have transitioned quite successfully and now live full-time as women and are accepted completely as such just like myself.  Some of them, like you, started off as very hateful, bitter, homophobic, transphobic guys.  Others, also like you, gravitated toward high risk, hyper-masculine professions (police officers, Special Forces and other military, and fire fighters - just like you). Over time, they came to realize that all that excessive proving themselves as "men" was their way to cope with this deep, dark, shameful secret that they harbored. I bet it must be very hard for you to live that way. I remember that feeling - like life was not worth living because it was a complete facade. It wasn't me. 

My daughter is great, because she has two parents who love her, instead of one living and one dead or emotionally unstable parent. Don't worry about my family. Worry about your own - if you have anyone who loves you. Do they know the real you? I'm in and out of women's locker rooms and restrooms every day, because I live this way - 24/7. Never a strange look. Not one. Why? Because I don't look like a man in lipstick, silly. I imagine you probably cross dress sometimes, and then feel so ashamed afterward, repulsed at your own image in the mirror, because you haven't undergone female puberty as I have. You haven't had your facial hair removed yet as I have. So, you surely look like a man in make-up and a dress when you dress up, and when you fantasize about it. And I know you do. I want you to know it's okay. You don't have to be ashamed. There are support groups you can go to. There are therapists who will guide you. 

I know a woman who transitioned a while back who is a firefighter like you in another city, and her squad is totally behind her. They respect her courage for dealing with this thing people like she and I are forced to deal with. Did you know that the American Medical Association's latest stance on transsexualism is that it is, in fact, a serious medical condition?  It's true.  They once thought of it as purely psychological, but they have reversed themselves after years of evidence to the contrary have piled up. They've learned from the facts. Educate yourself, and do the same. 

I hope you find some peace in your life that you are obviously sorely lacking. Until then, maybe you should stop seeking out people you think look like guys in lipstick - unless you're attracted to guys in lipstick. Is that it? Are you struggling to suppress your homosexual urges? I mean, if you ARE a homosexual - just admit it and you will feel better. Life is so much better when you don't have to live a lie anymore. You can do it. You can. In the meantime, when you come across other people who are honest with themselves and who choose to be healthy and happy and find what is normal and right for them, when you come across those people, people like me, who are not bothering you, who should not threaten you in any way unless you are afraid that you are really one of them, you should just keep your ignorant mouth shut, and go about your life and let others do the same. Doing otherwise just calls you out as being ashamed and hiding something of your own. 

By the way, when you choose a username like "NotADouche34", you clue people into the fact that you must be a douche instantly. Why else would you feel so compelled to defend yourself before the accusation has even been made? Stop hiding and living a lie, and I promise you won't feel like a douche anymore. It's hard, because occasionally you will come across people who treat you the way you've treated me. But it's worth it, because living an authentic, true life is worth any price. You can do it. Good luck.

If any of you who is reading this can guess what dating site this might be, feel free to drop by and visit Mr. Notadouche's profile often.  Add him to your favorites list.  Even send him a sweet, encouraging message if you feel so compelled.  I have a feeling he genuinely needs the support of the trans community, and we are nothing if not supportive of our own.  Well, that's been my experience so far, and one that touches me deeply.  Thank you.

The Man in the Laundromat

I quickly settled into my new apartment once I moved in.  There's still storage boxes to go through even now, but all the essentials are in place.  A few things are missing, because I don't own them anymore - such as a washer and a dryer (I left them with my ex).  So, shortly after moving into the new apartment I found myself at a nearby laundromat.  I put it off as long as I could, because I'd not been to a laundromat in a long time, and I never was fond of going.  I love to cook, but I don't like doing laundry at all.  Yet, there I was, sitting in the laundromat, biding my time.  The place was fairly busy.  A lot of young and middle-aged adults were rolling laundry carts around, filling and emptying machines, and sitting around watching TV and otherwise occupying their time.

I hadn't been sitting very long before I pulled out my laptop and figured I'd write something.  Yet, I had "blank page syndrome" - nothing was coming to me.  After a few false starts, my focus was interrupted by a tall man asking if he could use the chair next to me.  "Sure - I don't mind," I replied.  After a couple of minutes, he was conversing with me and smiling, and so I put away my laptop.  I wasn't getting anywhere with that anyway.  After 10 or 15 minutes of conversation, I got the impression that Bobby might be flirting with me.  Understand, though, no matter what people tell me, I still assume that people can usually just look at me and see "him".  Some days I don't think that, and the days I do, I don't let it dissuade me from interacting with life.  I am me, and I'm happy with what that means regardless of what others think, don't think, know, don't know.  It's becoming irrelevant.  Still, I expect that people know or definitely that they will figure it out after a little bit of conversation.  Yet, Bobby didn't give any indication of taking me as anything other than a woman he just met at the laundromat.  By the time he left, I'd learned that he was in town only for several more days working for the railroad, and he learned my phone number when he asked me out to dinner that night.  That was the first time that has ever happened.  Maybe laundromats aren't so bad after all.

I thought about backing out, because it became clear to me that Bobby didn't know about my gender issues, and I broke my own rule by not telling him first.  I established that rule for use on dating sites to keep myself safe and to avoid confusion, anger, and wasted time.  Yet, I hadn't counted on meeting someone outside of a dating site - in the real world!  I wasn't prepared, but I was flattered and my curiosity had been piqued.  So, I moved forward cautiously.  Because Bobby would only be in town for a few days it wasn't like there was a chance of it turning into anything.  So, it could be an interesting test, and a lot more fun than sitting around the apartment all weekend.  I would pick Bobby up in my car because he was driving a huge work truck.  We would go some place I was comfortable for dinner that he would like also.  I would not let us get into a private place that could be dangerous, and I would avoid situations that might lead to him finding out about my physiology and possibly having a bad reaction to it.

We wound up at a lovely Italian restaurant near my apartment.  Wine, delicious Italian cuisine, and a steady stream of great conversation ensued.  Bobby opened doors for me, walked behind me, called me "ma'am" and "lady", and insisted on paying for our dinner.  His chivalry was endearing.  Of course I mentioned having a daughter, and explained the shared custody situation with my ex.  Bobby asked me how long my ex-husband and I had been together.  "10 years," I said, noting that Bobby has expanded "ex" to "ex-husband".  People do this sort of thing a lot.  Maybe I should stop questioning myself so much.

After the restaurant started closing down around us, Bobby and I left.  I drove him to his hotel, and something about him made me feel comfortable with him.  I wasn't scared.  So, we both got out of the car, and said goodnight.  I was trying to be friendly and let him know I enjoyed myself, but trying to avoid a "goodnight kiss" because, I theorized, if we kissed and then later he found out I was a pre-operative transsexual he could have a very negative reaction or maybe even become violent.  So, I tried to part ways with a hug, but ... it happened anyway.  I was caught off-guard.  Bobby kissed me.  It was nice, though.  There hasn't been a lot of kissing going on my world in a very long time, and I do miss it.  With that we went our separate ways.

Over the next few days, Bobby and I went out on dates 2 more times.  On the second day, I bought us lunch and a movie, and then did some minor shopping at Ikea.  When we got back in my neighborhood I was going to drop off a couple of small nightstands I'd bought at my apartment, but Bobby offered to come help me assemble them.  I knew it was probably a bad idea to bring this stranger into my home, but again, I was progressively more and more comfortable with him.  Plus, I HATE assembling things; so, it wasn't a hard sell.  Afterward, I got us some beverages and we sat down to a little TV.  I should have known better, but the more time I spent with Bobby, the more in awe I was that things just felt this okay and normal.  I'd rather be my own real self any day of the week, but I still miss a simple, normal, even boring life.  I like stability and this new single life doesn't feel stable.  Dating definitely isn't a process that instills stability, but here I was with this 6'6" man in my apartment getting a taste of something that felt like normal life.  I didn't want that part to end.

After a bit of TV and conversation, we started to get a little amorous.  We'd already had the goodnight kiss the night before; so, a few more kisses wouldn't really make it that much worse, I rationalized in my head.  At one point things began to feel like they were progressing into dangerous territory though.  So, I had to stop Bobby, explaining vaguely that it was simply "not a good time for me."

"Oh, your monthly cycle, eh?" Bobby asked.

"Um, something like that," I confirmed.

On Bobby's last night in town, he took us out to a beautiful Thai restaurant, and we took our time enjoying good conversation and good food.  He would be leaving in the morning, but wanted to keep in touch.  I didn't want to make him think I hadn't enjoyed his company, but I really didn't want him to keep in touch and possibly come back to see me.  After all, I avoided certain issues by encouraging him to think I was on my period.  Obviously, I can't just always be on my period when he's in town.  So, that wouldn't work very well.  Still, I figured he'd do the typical guy thing and forget about me once I was out of sight.

A couple weeks later, Bobby contacted me.  I was shocked.  He wanted to talk about seeing me again one day when he's back in town.  Uh oh.  "I really enjoyed meeting you, but I just don't think that's a good idea," I told Bobby.

"Oh, okay," he said.

"It's not that I didn't enjoy spending time with you.  I really did," I explained.  That lead to further conversation and I finally decided that from the safety of being hundreds of miles apart I would come out to Bobby.  "What do you think of people in the LGBT community?" I asked.

"What's that?"

Oh, yeah, not everyone knows all this stuff.  Duh.  "LGBT - as in Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender."

"I'm open-mined," Bobby replied.

"How open-minded?"

"Very," he assured me.

"Okay, well I am the 'T' in the LGBT - I'm transgender," I said, involuntarily holding my breath as I awaited his reaction.

"Oh," Bobby said.  Then, after a pause, he continued, "Well, I've always been a little bit bi-curious."

Arrrghh.  Being with a man who is bisexual isn't ideal for me, but is sort of a reality in most circumstances.  A lot of bisexual guys express interest in trans women, but don't consider us women.  Rather, they're thinking of us as very pretty gay/bi guys.  Um, no.  For most of us, it doesn't work that way.  Still, at least he wasn't angry.

We talked some more, and Bobby still wanted to see me again in spite of my revelation, and he confirmed that he had no idea I was trans before I told him.  That was quite affirming.  Then, Bobby told me he had a secret, too.  I was half expecting him to say he had always thought about transitioning (a few guys I talked to had said something to that effect), but instead he admitted he was married.  What?!

Okay, I had little right to get too angry.  I held back a very important detail from Bobby, and he had done the same with me.  Still, I felt stupid.  I never even looked for a ring or line from one on his finger.  He'd talked about an ex, but apparently she wasn't actually an ex after all!

For the record, I do not recommend this sort of experiment to anyone.  In this case everything turned out fine, but it was stupid.  I could have gotten hurt - or worse.  Yet, I did learn three things from the experience:

1.  Apparently, I "pass" better than I expected - even under extremely close scrutiny
2.  Guys who don't know I'm trans don't treat me any differently than guys who know
3.  Guys are sneaky and many of them don't take their wedding vows very seriously at all

It was an interesting experience, but for days after I first met Bobby, my stomach was a ball of anxiety.  I was really scared of what might happen if/when he found out about me.  I've got enough anxiety in my life, and I don't have any desire to fill it with more.  So, I won't be repeating this experience, but it did give me some surprising information.

Six Months Full-time

When I first moved out on my own (about this time last year), I'd just begun to build a second wardrobe - one of female attire, and I'd already stopped buying any new male clothes.  I knew I wouldn't need them for very long -- or I hoped I wouldn't.  I started out with two closets:  a "male closet" and a "female closet".  Well before I went full-time, I was already presenting as female everywhere and anywhere I went except for work; thus, my "male closet" gradually shrank to a very small size (insert HRT shrinkage joke here), and my "female closet" expanded proportionately.  On my 42nd birthday, after just under 9 months of psychotherapy with a gender specialist, 8 months of electrolysis, and 4 months of hormone therapy I began living full-time as a woman.  About that time, my "male closet" was retired forever, its contents donated to charity.  That was 6 months ago, and the time since has been at once wonderful, scary, emotional, and intoxicating in its peacefulness.  I am more certain than ever that I am where I belong in my life right now.  Finally, I am on the right path.

That's not to say it hasn't been incredibly hard at times.  This time last year, moving out on my own was paired with being forcibly exiled from my family, and with that came repeated waves of guilt washing over me and sometimes knocking the wind out of me.  Financially, I was a wreck, but I was extremely fortunate to have a consistent income and so I managed to afford the expenses of a divorce, contributing to two households, and keeping a fledging gender transition afloat.  By mid-summer, I had been dying to stop hiding from my 6 year-old daughter, Jade, and was finally permitted to come out to her.  Shattering her simple child's vision of her very "typical father" was painful - necessary, but painful.  Allowing my mom to say goodbye to her son (and to start to get to know her youngest daughter) was uncharted territory for me, as was walking into my place of employment for the very first time during business hours as a woman.  I remember reminding myself to breath.

There's been many moments of sheer joy during this 6 months:  getting my name legally changed, watching electrolysis and hormones morph my face into one I actually recognized as my own, getting my first legal female ID (my passport), spending Christmas with my mom and my daughter, seeing and hearing little things my daughters says that let me know she sees me as I see myself, watching my body slowly change into that of a woman, joining a gym and happily being ignored by other women in the ladies' locker room, dating a tiny bit as a woman, beginning to feel accepted among other women in various aspects of society, starting to find myself, experiencing increasingly long periods of time when I forget/don't even think about the fact that I'm trans when out and about.  There's been struggles, too:  accepting the divorce and permanent death of a decade-long relationship, being away from my daughter, being away from my pets, loneliness and lack of companionship/affection/intimacy, awkwardness at work between myself and another person, fighting to improve my voice, fear of losing my job due to the economy's impact on my company, days the mirror laughs at me, but mostly, time spent on my knees, sobbing, often uncontrollably, filled with guilt over the pain my needs, my transition has caused my ex-wife, my daughter, all of my family to some degree.  And yet, all of this is necessary to get to live an honest life filled with integrity, my head held high.  I know this.  I really do.

Now is the time I should be looking forward to the next step in my transition.  Unfortunately, next steps all involve scalpels and money, lots of money.  Somehow people find a way to do this, in spite of divorces, in spite of absurdly large tax bills, in spite of all the little (and big) curve balls that life throws their way.  So, I'm not pushing myself.  I'm not going to make myself crazy or feel badly that I can't progress beyond where I am with the click-click-click expediency of my transition up to this point.  I will do all I can, continue to arrange the pieces of my life in such a way that my family's needs are taken care of, but so are mine.  I will keep fine-tuning that balance.  In the meantime, I'm on what is probably best viewed as a plateau.  I don't have a lot to talk about in my transgender support groups because there's not a lot of active transitioning going on -- and yet there is.  This getting to an automatic state of comfort and ease in dealing with life from the standpoint of a new social and societal role is funny stuff:  it takes time, and you can't force it to happen.  You get comfortable living a new life, honing new skills, and fitting into a slightly different demographic only by doing it day in and day out.  So, that's where I'm at now.  It's not exciting, but it does feel better and better all the time.  Trying to picture the end result in how ever long it takes just brings a smile to my face.  And now, it's time to really get to know the new people who have made their way into my life, let them know me, and continue to build solid relationships.  Life is hard sometimes, but it can be very good also, and it's the connections we make with special people who come into our lives that really make it so.

Moving On

This time last year I found myself  moving out on my own away from my family and my home for the first time in over a decade.  Because my finances were heavily strained between helping my family and filling in where health insurance fails trans people, I chose to rent a room with another person in order to keep my costs as low as possible.  I had a roommate and a landlord who could come and go whenever they wanted in each of the three places I've lived since then.  The majority of the time (about 9 months) I spent at my last place where I paid almost 50% extra rent in order to have a room my daughter could use when she was there.  My roommate would leave, and my daughter would use her room every other weekend.  We'd take a sleeping bag and lay it atop my roommate's bed.  It was makeshift at best, but we made it work.

Recently, I became very focused on changing our living situation.  I wanted to find a place that was nice enough that Jade would feel comfortable there, but inexpensive enough that I could afford it without needing to have a roommate and without completely compromising my ability to continue my transition.  I'd never really spent any appreciable time in my life living alone, and such a place would give me that experience I feel I missed out on in my previous life, but mainly it would let me make a home for me and my daughter.   I wanted her to want to spend time with me, and be able to keep toys and books and clothes there so it felt like home to her.  I didn't want to replace her existing home with her mom, my ex, but to make her feel that she was at home when she was with me, too.

Several weeks ago I began apartment hunting.  I did the whole process "stealth".  I made no reference to my previous gender or my past identity.  I had leasing agents give me safety suggestions as a "single woman [about to be] living alone".  I got the distinct impression everyone took me at face value, and I appreciated that.  When I found "the place", and I signed my very first formal lease ever as a woman and on my own, I felt a huge sense of accomplishment.  This week I moved into the new apartment. I'd never lived in an apartment before except for a very brief time a long while ago, and I was excited about it.  I was also overwhelmed.  Living in a furnished room for so long, and having left most of my possessions behind so my ex and my daughter would have everything they needed in my absence, I found myself without most of the basics that any home should have.  From furniture to kitchenware, I had only a handful of items, and found myself doing lots and lots of bargain shopping.  I now have most of the essentials covered, and my new place is really starting to look and feel like a home.

As I write this, Jade is in bed in her room fast asleep after a nice evening together, a warm bath, and a very animated reading of the book, "Tickle Monster".  When she saw her room for the first time, including her bed with a rainbow-colored comforter she used to have in our old place, and a desk for her computer, she squealed with joy.  She told me she didn't like the new place - she loved it.  She said it wasn't nice - it was really nice!  Tonight she really seemed to be comfortable and happy here, and that is the best outcome for which I could have hoped.

However, earlier today as I sat in my living room alone for the first time and looked around at the collection of old and new stuff, it occurred to me that there was probably another reason why I was so bent on renting a room in someone else's house all of this time.  When I really started thinking about the relative permanence implicit in my going out and buying furniture, and houseware items and such, I realized that part of my chosen living situation until this point was, on some level at least, a refusal to commit to where I was living.  I was keeping myself able to quickly and easily move back in with my ex and my daughter.  Not having a lot of "stuff", it would have been a much easier proposition to move back in with them.  By taking the steps to truly began building a home of my own, and having to amass a certain amount of basic possessions again, I'm admitting to myself that I've moved on, and I am at the start of a brand new phase of my life.  Though nothing is impossible as they say, I'm a few degrees past the "point of no return" now.  I live here now.

I'm at peace with my new life, and in certain ways it feels very right.  I'll spare you the details of my having to go through boxes of books, greeting cards, photos, and other mementos and the emotional toll that took on me.  It was rough, and I've cried a lot (again).  Still, I needed this experience of moving out on my own in order to figure out who I am as a person and as a woman, and Jade and I needed this to feel like we're living together as a family even though we don't do so together with my ex anymore.  I just had not really given much thought to some of my less obvious motives for not having done this sooner.  Financial reasons?  You bet.  However, it also allowed me to not be completely committed to my new life until now.  Had the door to my past been reopened, I could have gone back.  No, I couldn't detransition - not without serious and permanent emotional consequences.  I am sure of that.  However, I could have gone back to my family if they could have accepted me as I am.  Now, I am at a point where going back is not on the list of realistic possibilities.  In moving out on my own, living alone for the first time, and really working to make a home for Jade and me, I'm stating that, beyond unexpected tragedy, this is where I live for the foreseeable future - from now on.  I have my own place now.  Finally, I have indeed "moved on".

Inside the Women's Locker Room

Before my transition I had reached my heaviest weight ever at 260 pounds.  Once I knew I would be starting hormone therapy eventually, I knew that I had to lose as much of that excess weight as I possibly could before HRT.  One of the effects of HRT for us male-to-female transsexuals is reduction in muscle mass and density.  If you know much about weight loss, you know that more muscle mass means your body burns more calories at rest.  So, I knew that once I began to lose muscle mass from being on HRT losing weight would become a harder and slower process.  In general, men lose weight more easily and quickly than women do because men tend to have more lean muscle mass than women (speaking generally).  I started going to the gym 4 to 6 days a week, working out with serious intensity, and modified my diet a bit.  In 4 or 5 months I lost 50 lbs.  Then my transition started.

Starting to transition meant reprioritizing my spending.  When I moved out on my own, I was financially supporting two households, and spending a substantial amount of money on things I would consider to be medically necessary like weekly electrolysis, psychotherapy, and visits to my endocrinologist.  So, my money went away.  I couldn't afford the gym anymore.  Realistically, I needed to focus on my transition anyway.  Over time, my finances began to rebound enough and I could have gotten back to the gym, but there were several months during which I looked very androgynous.  I would not have felt comfortable in a men's locker room or a women's.  So, I waited.

In November I got my first legal ID with a female gender marker, and I began thinking about the gym again, but I was scared.  I wasn't ready.  Finally, in January of this year as the annual onslaught of weight loss and fitness promotions began, I felt ready.  I could do this.  So, one evening I found myself walking into a new LA Fitness that had just been built less than two miles from my home, and I sat down and spoke with a sales rep there for perhaps 30 minutes.  I never mentioned anything about gender.  He had me use a machine to calculate my fat percentage and BMI.  I knew I'd regained about 10 pounds since stopping my regular workouts, and the machine didn't let me forget it.  He did have to type some information about me into the machine such as my height and my gender.  I told him 5'10" (and a half) for my height, and I saw him enter "female" for my gender.  That was nice.  I left that evening, having spent 30 minutes up close and in person with this man prospectively scrutinizing me, speaking to him in my "work in progress" voice, and everything went fine.  I left with an ID for the gym and the resolve to begin workouts the next day.

My first workout held, for me, one of the biggest challenges I could imagine:  the women's locker room.  This was the main reason I'd been away from the gym for so long.  The night before I'd gleefully gone out and bought my first female workout clothes, but between me and getting into those clothes stood the women's locker room.  During my tour of the facility, I'd walked through the women's locker room, but it was a quick "in and out" sort of thing.  This time I was going in there and would have to change clothes in the presence of other women doing the same.  This would be an ultimate test for me.  Would the other ladies be startled when I walked in?  Would they look at me suspiciously as I put my things into a locker?  Would they run out screaming and return with a manager or even the police?  I didn't really think so, but this was brand new territory for me.

I did not attract any special attention in the women's locker room.  No one stared.  No one screamed.  No one ran out.  I was strictly in there for the business of getting ready to work out, and so were they.  Down to my bra and panties only several feet from another woman and no sign of any concern.  She was getting ready to go swimming, and stripped completely to get in her bathing suit.  I was looking away, but caught this on my way out.  She was oblivious to me.  I was relieved!  I left the locker room and went on to have a great workout.

Over the next two weeks I went to the gym five or six times, and each time the women's locker room proved to be a non-issue for me.  In fact, I realized that I was far more comfortable in there than I'd ever been in the men's locker room.  My only problem was that after my workouts I would have loved to have gone and showered, but I couldn't figure out a way to do so easily without potentially revealing my birth defect.  So, I avoided that part.  Still, there I was, and I felt great.  I even had an hour long complimentary personal training session with a very hairy, short Italian man during my second week at the gym.  It went perfectly well, although it was the basis for a rather humorous exchange between my ex and me.

Just minutes after I'd finished my training session, Lynn sent me a text message, asking what I was doing.  I replied, "I just finished my free session with a personal trainer at the gym."

"Oh?  So, how did that go?" she asked.  I felt her eyebrows were raised and she was expecting to hear something shocking.  My little evil, playful side kicked in.

"Well, about halfway through the session, he leaned over and whispered in my ear, 'Pssst!  You're really a guy, aren't you?'" I texted to Lynn.

Lynn stopped texting immediately and called me on the phone.  "Did that really happen?  That .. that .. that didn't happen.  Did it?"

I could barely contain my amusement, but I tried to sound serious.  I replied, "Why?  Because I'm so beautiful?"

"No.  Just they would .. no one would .. even if they thought something, they wouldn't say anything".  Lynn seemed to be shocked and trying to convince herself.  I had to let her off the hook.

"Psyche!  Just kidding.  It went fine!" I said, following my words with almost hysterical laughter.

At this point I've been a member of the gym for not quite a month, and I'm completely over the newness of the women's locker room experience.  People who don't understand transsexualism might consider there would be some sexual or erotic component to someone like me being in such a place.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Just like using a women's restroom:  I'm in there for "official business only".  Initially, my mindset was, "Please don't notice me".  Just like overcoming any fear, through repeated exposure to the source of my fear I soon realized that it was unfounded.  No one noticed me, because I'm not trying to be anything or anyone.  I really am one of them, and my body now reflects that in almost all regards (ignoring one part which i can't do anything about yet).  Now my mindset is all about my workout.  I'm just another woman trying to fight against the effects of a sedentary job and lifestyle, and trying to become as healthy as I can.

After I shared with some friends and acquaintances online the fact that I'd joined a gym, one guy asked, "So, which locker room did you use?"

"The only one I could use any more!" I replied, thinking his question completely absurd.  "I mean, look at me!  I don't think it would be comfortable for anyone if I were in a men's locker room.  I definitely don't think I'd feel safe in one!"

While this experience has magnified my confidence beyond measure, it's really nice to be at the point where I can just focus on the gym as a place to get fit - just like everyone else!

A Year in Transition & Some Sad Local News

This past month has been a time of many anniversaries for me.  People define the start of their gender transitions differently, but for me I would say mine started as I left my car and walked through the parking lot on my way to my first therapy session with Erin Swenson.  That was Saturday, December 18th, 2010.  I had arrived early, and sat there in my car frozen in terror for quite some time thinking about the fact that my life was probably about to change forever.   I would possibly lose everything and everyone that mattered to me:  my mom, my daughter, my wife, my job, my home, whatever possessions I'd amassed over my lifetime.  Then, I thought about the pain that had driven me to search for a therapist, and that gave me the strength to e-mail Erin for the first time and request an appointment.  I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a moment to calm my panicky mind as best I could, and stepped out of the car and into my first gender therapy appointment.

Just a few days ago was my anniversary of a year of electrolysis.  I remember when I called my electrologist, Ahoova, the first time, I only planned to make a consultation appointment.  Yet, when I began talking to her, I remember thinking, "Why am I making a consultation appointment?  I know I want this. What's to think about?  What's to consider?"  So, within days of that first phone call, I was getting my not-so-subtle introduction into the painful but amazingly transformative world of facial electrolysis.  Now, it's been several weeks since I've seen Ahoova.  My last appointment was down to a 15 minute touch-up.  If I didn't mind tweezing an occasional lip hair or two, I could even call myself "done" with electrolysis, but I'm too much of a perfectionist for that.  So, I'll be going for a while every so often, I know.  But wow, what a difference between when I started and where I am today!

In terms of what I've lost in my transition, I've been one of the lucky ones.  My initial expectation that I could lose things and people from my life prepared me as much as anything could for the eventuality that did come to pass of losing one of the most important people in my life, my then wife, Lynn.  Stuff?  Yes, I've lost most of my stuff.  Friends?  Well, a few have gone away, but they've been replaced by so many more with whom I am so much closer that I really can't see that as anything but a "win".  If you couldn't stay my friend as I became my true self, then we weren't really friends to begin with.  I truly believe that, and it's not even a negative statement about those former "friends".  They didn't know me.  They knew someone else they thought was me, and that wasn't their fault but was an unfortunate part of my gender identity disorder.

On the subjects of friends and loss, many of my friends are people I've met in local transgender support groups over the past year.  Julie Hernandez was one such woman.  Tragically, Julie, who indeed seemed larger-than-life to a lot of people in our community, was struck and killed while walking across the street in the neighborhood where she'd lived and spent much of the last few years of her life.  She was only 39 years old.

Julie was one of three women with whom I spent Thanksgiving this past year, and I was grateful for that.  She will definitely be missed.  In the reporting of her death, there came a battle between the local transgender community and the local media who initially reported on her death by saying that a "man dressed as a woman was hit by a car and killed".  Julie had lived as a woman for her entire adult life, had long since finished any physical transition she felt she needed, and was known as a female to everyone who knew her.  So, the media's mischaracterization was extremely offensive to us, and would have been to her as well.  Through a mass onslaught of communications from many of us, most of the local news coverage was changed to something far more accurate.  I think we were all aware that this could easily have been any one of us, and we'd all hope that others who know us would fight for our dignity and respect were the situations reversed.  As I wrote in a "Thank You" letter to one of the news article's authors who responded quickly with corrections and a far more dignified and accurate characterization of Julie after receiving many e-mails in protest, "It may seem cosmetic to the rest of the world, but I assure you to those of us who live this life, such respect is far from superficial."  I guess this makes me and a lot of us transgender activists to some extent - whether we want to be or not.  Some things simply should not go unsaid.  Rest in peace, Julie.

Anniversary of Coming Out

At this very time exactly one year ago tonight I came out to my ex-wife in a mutually tearful exchange that lasted over 3 hours. We'd been laying in bed next to one another, not touching, not speaking, not sleeping, both of us looking up at the ceiling and knowing it was coming. I just hung up the phone with my ex after a tearful reminiscence on this anniversary of sorts. It's a necessary pain for both us to fight through, and it will get easier, but not tonight.

Yesterday, I was sharing these feelings with Ahoova, my electrologist, who also doubles as my second therapist.  Ahoova reminded me of how far I've come in this past year.  In a few weeks I will have been having electrolysis for a full year.  So, she has really seen all of the changes over time, and with all humility, I have to agree my transition thus far has been an amazing experience, and even though I am nowhere near done, I am so grateful for how far I've come.  Ahoova reminded me, also, that had I been married this past year there's no possible way I would have made anywhere near the progress I've made.  Of course, she's right, and I appreciated her reminding me to consider all sides of the situation.  Other bittersweet anniversaries will continue to pass by and there will be more nights like this, but it is me, the real me, who confronts them and lives through them, carrying on - alone - but with as much integrity, honesty, and self-awareness as I can possibly muster.

I'm sure many of you have lived through similar things.  Perhaps someone out there has just come out to his or her partner or spouse, or is struggling to build up the courage to do so.  I have no magic words to make things instantly safe and easy, but I can tell you that you are not alone.  There are many friends and future friends here online who understand, who bring their own special gifts and experiences with them, and many who are willing, even enthusiastically so, to listen, to interact, and to support you.  Thank you to so many of you who have done exactly that for me over the past year.  I hope I can come close to following the examples you have so graciously demonstrated to me.

Happy New Years - with love & gratitude,
Stacey