This Was My Life free porn video

Disclaimer: This story is as true as life is. If you see something here you don't like, stop reading. It shouldn't be read by the ignorant or the faithless. Copy it, keep it, email it, whatever. But don't take credit for it. All Musical Lyrics are copyrighted by their original authors. I've changed some to reflect me. This Was My Life By Lucretia [email protected] I was looking back on my life And all the things I've done to me I'm still looking for the answers I'm still searching for the key The wreckage of my past keeps haunting me It just won't leave me alone I still find it all a mystery Could it be a dream? The road to nowhere leads to me Through all the happiness and sorrow I guess I'd do it all again Live for today and not tomorrow It's still the road that never ends - Ozzy Osbourne 'Road to Nowhere' *** But I know there's a reason, Just can't see it from this far Maybe I don't like it, But I have no choice I know that somewhere, someone hears my voice I thought I knew it all I thought I had it made How could it end this way? I thought I knew Somewhere there's a reason Why things don't go my way Somewhere there's a reason That I cannot explain Just like the change of season, Just may not be my turn But I know there's a reason, The lesson's mine to learn - MegaDeth 'I Thought I Knew It All' *** I was born into a scene of angriness and greed. Dominance and persecution. My mother was a queen, my dad I've never seen, I was never meant to be. Say it doesn't matter Ain't nothing' gonna alter the course of my destination. I know I've got to find some serious piece of mind, Or I know I'll go crazy. 'Cos I'm a wrathchild, well I'm a wrathchild. Yeah I'm a wrathchild. I'm coming to get you, ooh yeah. And now I spend my time looking all around, For a man that's nowhere to be found. Until I find him I'm never gonna stop searching, I'm gonna find my man, gonna travel around. - Iron Maiden 'Wrathchild' *** Don't remember where I was I realized life was a game The more seriously I took things The harder the rules became I had no idea what it'd cost My life passed before my eyes I found out how little I accomplished All my plans denied A tout le monde (To all the world) A tous mes amis (To all my friends) Je vous aime (I love you) Je dois partir (I have to leave) These are the last words I'll ever speak And they'll set me free Moving on is a simple thing Leaving things behind is hard You know the sleeping feel no more pain And the living are scarred. - MegaDeth 'A Tout Le Monde' *** There are times when I've wondered And times when I've cried When my prayers they weren't answered At times when I've lied But if you asked me a question Would I tell you truth? Now there's something to bet on You've got nothing to lose - Iron Maiden 'No Prayer For The Dying' *** But I will pray for her I will call her name out loud I would bleed for her If only I could see her now Living on a razors edge Balancing on a ledge Living on a razors edge, you know, you know The evil that men do lives on and on..... But I will pray for you And some day I may return Don't you cry for me Beyond is where I learn - Iron Maiden 'The Evil That Men Do' *** When you think that we've used all our chances And the chance to make everything right Keep on making the same old mistakes Makes untipping the balance so easy When we're living our lives on the edge Say a prayer on the book of the dead - Iron Maiden 'Blood Brothers' *** Don't know why I feel this way Have I dreamt this time, this place? Something vivid comes again into my mind And I think I've seen your face Seen this room, been in this place Something vivid comes again into my mind All my hopes and expectations Looking for an explanation Have I found my destination? I just can't take no more Think I've heard your voice before Think I've said these words before Something makes me feel I just might lose my mind Am I still inside my dream? Is this a new reality? Something makes me feel that I have lost my mind I only dream in black and white I only dream cause I'm alive I only dream in black and white To save me from myself Lost in a dream of mirrors, lost in a paradox Lost and time is spinning, lost a nightmare I retrace Lost a hell that I revisit, lost another time and place Lost a parallel existence, lost a nightmare I retrace - Iron Maiden 'Dream Of Mirrors' *** O God of Earth and Altar, Bow down and hear our cry. Our earthly rulers falter, Our people drift and die. The walls of gold entomb us, The swords of scorn divide. Take not thy thunder from us, But take away our pride. - G. K. Chesterton (Iron Maiden, Revelations) *** Is it right to be me? In the need to be free? It is for a time I would die And never ask why. - Iron Maiden 'The Clansman' *** I think back to the times When dreams were what mattered Tough talking youth naivete You said you never let me down But the horse stampedes and rages In the name of desperation Is it all just wasted time Can you look at yourself When you think of what You left behind Is it all just wasted time Can you live with yourself When you think of what You left behind - Skid Row 'Wasted Time' *** So understand Don't waste your time Always searching for those wasted years Face up... make your stand And realize you're living in the golden years Too much time on my hands, I got you on my mind Can't ease this pain, so easily When you can't find the words to say it's hard to make it through another day And it makes me wanna cry and throw my hands up to the sky - Iron Maiden 'Wasted Years' *** From our lives' beginning on We are pushed in little forms No one asks us how we like to be In school they teach you what to think But everyone says different things But they're all convinced that They're the ones to see People tell me A and B They tell me how I have to see Things that I have seen already clear So they push me then from side to side They're pushing me from black to white They're pushing 'til there's nothing more to hear So they keep talking and they never stop And at a certain point you give it up So the only thing that's left to think is this I want out--to live my life alone I want out--leave me be I want out--to do things on my own I want out--to live my life and to be free - Helloween 'I Want Out' *** But when your innocence dies You'll find the blues - Gun's & Roses 'Right Next Door To Hell' *** Hell sets you free. - Metallica 'Am I Evil?' *** Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here. - Dante *** In seventh grade, In the spring of 1988, I knew what I was. A Girl. The moment of truth came when I was in gym class by the pool. It was an insult, of course. I'd been used to being picked on by the kids already, it was just one of the things you lived with when you were different. The comment went something like, 'With tits like that, you look like a girl.' I didn't take it as an insult. At the time, I felt wonderful. I didn't understand why right then, but some part of me felt at ease. Later, after I had gone home, I realized something. That word, Girl. How good it felt to think of myself as a girl. I knew that being a boy was wrong for me. I thought about the differences I knew between boys and girls. I never had thought much about it up until that time. All the times I had been picked on, this was why. I couldn't fit in because everyone saw me as a boy, and I wasn't. I couldn't believe that I never had thought of it before. I remembered my mom and dad telling me that I was having problems learning things. They gave me pills to take, and I had gotten a little better. I felt bad it had taken me this long to figure it out, but I was getting ready to make up for lost time. A dream had begun here. Here was something that drew my attention in a way nothing ever had before. I was surprised at how easily I could focus on this, and that confirmed it. Now it was time to make sure that I would never forget, never lose focus on something that could make me so happy. I started trying on some of my moms clothes. I couldn't describe it, but something changed. Some part of me breathed a sigh of relief. There was something nearly magical about sliding into a pair of my mothers underwear and one of her nightgowns. I'd even found a pair of black leotards and tights that fit me perfectly. I looked at the girl on the package and thought that I wanted to be her. It brought me a sense of shame after I had taken the clothes off, and had to dress myself for school. Here, everyone knew me as a boy, and I knew I wasn't, shouldn't be. I always was able to fade back from my surroundings, and into fantasy. Here I was a girl, in harmony with everything around her. Free to explore whatever she found in those beautiful corridors, halls, and rooms in her mind. I hated the fact that I was keeping it a secret, but I didn't know what could be done. I thought and thought and thought. Some puzzle was dancing around in my head. I knew I was a girl, but I didn't know what could be done about it. I started to re-think some things. Maybe this was why I never got along with people. Maybe being a girl with a boys body made it easier for people at school to pick on me. There had to be a way to show them that picking on me was wrong because I was a girl. It took some time to remember a term I'd heard on TV. Transsexual, A woman in a man's body. Memory of exact details, even those I found fascinating, was little. A word, and something else. Something that might be truth. I thought about what I could do about it. I remembered someone telling me that all I had to do was concentrate really hard on what I had to do, and I would be able to do it. Here desire fanned the flames. After the surgery, I would be a girl. I wanted to concentrate all of me to being a girl. I heard about something called a sex change that could make a guy into a girl. Hearing it was possible, happiness danced in my heart. I would be a female and everything that was wrong would be made right. I had read a lot of things in my life about the mind, and I thought of hypnosis. I "borrowed" my mothers tape recorder, and recorded my own voice. You Are female. You Will act this way. You will have a sex change in February. You will do better in school. I felt weird as I said the words, but determined to carry out my plan. Many moments of guilt went into remembering this night. After a certain Saturday, they started to fade, because why would I attempt tell myself the things I already knew? It was simple childish determination to focus. The problem was, I took too rough an approach. Too crude. Once realized that it really didn't matter, any paradox of mind was destroyed. I repeated myself over and over again, and went to sleep hearing my own voice. I didn't sleep for long. I woke up in the black leotard and tights I loved so much and had fallen asleep in. It was still night, everyone was still asleep, and here I was, Mind clear and female no matter what. I went right outside, running and dancing a little, letting the warm night air blow against the fabric of the leotard and tights. But it still felt wrong because of the protrusion my genitals were making. Everything had felt right except between my legs, and I knew I was going to change that. Here I was dreaming in the night while my body raced around the house. Dreaming of what soon was to be. It was easy, actually. I'd tell my mother, and she would understand. My father might not, he was a male after all, and might not understand why his son was really a girl. My mother might question me, she always did, but she would understand because I was like her, a female. Still, doubt troubled me a little. I would have to think about what she was going to ask me. There was also my dad, and telling him brought a sense of shame. But the night would always be clear in my memory because it was the first night I went outside dressed as a girl. Ignorance is a complex thing. Oftentimes, it results from denial. I didn't know much about the other side of gender. I saw how girls were, but there had always been something that kept me away. I didn't understand them. Always I had been told that if I didn't understand something, then I should ask. But, as with asking, there were risks. There had been a conflict, always would be. The need to know versus the risk in asking. The minds drive to understand versus the hearts fear of asking. But that day at the school pool, some part of me had decided that understanding wasn't essential. My mind didn't know, but my heart had decided. Perhaps that's the way it is. The heart is ignorant of the minds need to know. The less your heart knows, the more it believes. My mind might forever be try to know why I chose this path, even as it sought to understand it. To appease my heart, my mind would work toward my hearts goal. It would also proceed because it desired to know. But shortly it would decide that if the best teacher it knew wouldn't teach, then it didn't matter if it didn't know. It would hide the fact that it knew little for a decade. As I've said, Ignorance is a complex thing. Never call someone Ignorant unless you can fully understand their ignorance. A few weeks later, I wrote my mother a note, late at night. I was ashamed and scared to tell her. The next morning, when she woke up I asked her about it. All she would say is 'We'll talk about it later.' Maybe a warning bell should have gone off in my head. Maybe it did, but I ignored it. I went off to school cheerful. It would turn out that this was my first irrational hope. When I got home, I saw a shopping bag full of clothes, and my love for her and my own joy combined. My excitement was uncontrollable as I gazed at the bag. This was beauty, this was love at its highest, and my heart sang. obviously, she loved me and wanted to help me be a girl. Her vocal tone cut into the little girl in my heart. The questions hurt, I had thought she would be happy that I was like her, a female. Here was the beginning, or perhaps only the continuing, of a confusion in my mind and heart. Here began the dangerous behavior of continued self-analysis. I started to question that truth in me, maybe my mother was right, maybe I was wrong. But here, the connecting cord of love was severed before I denied my inner identity. I started to dislike her. Maybe I didn't understand what being a girl was all about, but I thought it didn't matter. In the confusion, the idea that I was a girl gave way to the idea that I could be a girl. Some sad form of love remained, however. Sometime later I would hear my mother telling my father something like, 'He thinks he's a girl because someone said he looked like one.' I was terrified that my father would be angry. I'd seen him angry before, and something like this would probably drive him into a rage. He worked nights on cars as a means of making extra money, and I'd understood his helpless rage. I'd always had pity for him. It was seeing a set of body and face, and seeing him turn away. I'd been asked to write down all the reasons I thought I was a girl, and I identified the physical parts of my body that I was starting to love. Even though it was mostly fat, I liked to think that I had breasts. I hadn't quite gone through puberty yet, so I was grateful a certain set of organs were small. That night, my father would take me out for coffee. We sat alone in his car, talking. The low rumble of his voice I believe carried his love for me directly into my own heart. He also seemed hurt, and I realized this was hurting him, something I didn't want to do. I never really talked to my father about this problem again. Later on, he told me that something about this was hurting my grandfather as well, and from there on I kept it a secret from them. It wasn't the words so much as it was the sad hurt in his voice. I would never willing inflict such a hurt, because I was starting to learn quite a bit about hurt and pain. But there was something similar, something they both thought, something never said, but intoned. Your too young. Too young to decide. Wait until your eighteen. My mother went on and on attacking that dream, telling me I would make an ugly girl. She even would say to me in a exasperated tone once about her duties in an emergency room. She would say once that she had seen a homosexual in there with a lightbulb shoved in his ass. She would ask me if I really wanted to end up like that. Oftentimes when I tried to talk to her I would get the line, "Well, better save up your money." In that world-wise tone of voice. Back then, I expected my parents to take care of me. They had so far. I'd been to see lots of people, and it always seemed that they were trying to help me. But when it came to this, it seemed they didn't care at all. Much later on I would understand THEIR definition of, "Leading a successful and happy life." Turns out my definition was different. Guess all the comments about how smart I was were totally wrong after all. I'd been in Cub Scouts for a long time, ever since grammar school. I really disliked the idea. However, I was used to going along with other peoples ideas for me, and I tried to get along even though I always felt like an outsider. It was making my mother happy, she was the person in my life that had always encouraged me to get along with people. So I went, and maybe if I was asked if I wanted to stop, I said no. I graduated to Boy scouts, and my problems with other people got worse. All the games mean kids play were now more refined, and more hurtful. Even the leaders despised me. One time at camp, there were was a girl scout troop visiting, and I wished badly that I could join them. Just another fantasy that helped hold me together. My father became active in the troop, helping out where he could. I didn't want to tell him that I didn't want to be there because he was having fun, and meeting new people. Here in the scouts I would cry. But the resentful attitudes towards that kind of thing eventually slowed my tears, nearly to a stop. One time my father had to demand that I come out of a tent when I had thrown myself inside to cry. I came out, saw the look on his face, and stopped crying immediately. The emotions in his voice were horrible. Life takes its toll. Please have exact change. The last camping trip I got involved in a argument with the Scoutmaster, and got smashed in the mouth. That camping trip was at an Air force base that was being de-commissioned. The trip was plagued by rain. The teasing I was coming to live with. I was starting to fight back, for one thing. But one day it rained, and everything was drenched. The leaders got permission for the trip to use a hanger. We went to a Laundromat, and dried some of out stuff that was wet. I had brought along a flannel-colored nightshirt of my mothers. I changed into it in front of the troop, sliding it over my head and into my sleeping bag where it covered my briefs. I talked with the kid that was going to be sleeping next to me. All I know is all of the hurt that I had been feeling evaporated as I fell to sleep. It was rather plain, more or less a oversized T-shirt. In my mind, it made me into someone else, someone who didn't care who she was around. I'd been doing things like this while in boy scouts, but this one was my best. After I got home, my mother asked about my bleeding, fat lip. I told her and she and my father argued. She taped the argument. There was some investigation done by the parents. No lawsuits were filed, but the scoutmaster stepped down. It was my mother who stuck up for me. Just another reason to love her in that sad, confused way. I might question her motives sometimes, but she got me out of boy scouts. In 1991, my parents divorced. I was happy for them both. I had sensed something bad between them long before the arguments, and it felt like a relief. They both had join custody of me. Maybe it might have made a difference if I had gone to live with my father. Maybe not. It's one of the times in my life where I was very unsure. I'd been asked who I wanted to live with, and I chose my mother. Now it just was my mother and me living in the house. The weekends I would spend mostly with my grandfather. Here there were no questions if I spent some time alone, and I did. Sometimes existence to me was much like a grand orchestra. Instruments come and go, but some stay on for life. Some of the beautiful ones that are there from the start fade as a person grows up. So here I was, I knew what could be done to help me, but nothing was being done. Here are some of the times I will always cherish, something to remember the flute, the clarinet, and all the instruments that had stopped forever. Here were the times, deep in the night, that I was at my freest. I'd like to think that in some way I knew that some of the beautiful instruments were stopping, and I like to think that each got its own solo before they did. Here I would one day take a walk dressed in my aunts dress, she was very small for here age, and the dress almost fit me. Here I would take a short walk down the street to the park. Here the girl slowly began to grow into a teenager, even though my body was already at that stage. At night, I was free to grow in whatever way I could. In the night, I didn't have to worry so much. The sun was gone and it seemed all hurt faded with it. I called an info-line, trying to figure out what I could do. I was scared and still a little ashamed, but I was able to get information on some local resources. They sent me a packet of information. But I set that aside when I found a book at the library. I read Canary, an autobiography of a Transsexual. To read that, to read her story pushed the dream into reality. I read it deep in the night, with my bedroom door closed. My heart sang in praise and admiration of her. I read that book over and over again. No words in the English language described how I felt when I looked at the final picture of her in that dress. It would take more then fourteen years for me to have a word for that picture, and it would be one of the first Eleven words I would learn: Vanima. Some part of me that was trying to assert itself had found a mother. A mother that explained that there was nothing to be ashamed about, that just how I was. A place in my heart was made for her out of eternal gratitude. The person inside of me learned she could be free. I knew I couldn't just say, 'This is what I need.' I understood the differences in lives, and that I would need somehow to convince a psychologist. I had been to see school psychologists since grammar school, and had gotten to know a little about how they operated. Here I set a goal in my life. I wanted to do everything she had done. I saw it as the beginning of a beautiful life. I dreamed of how I would awaken from the final surgery and finally do the things I was dreaming of. But it was going to be hard, I knew that. Knowing that, my heart screamed its defiance. No retreat, no surrender. If my mother didn't realize I was a girl, then it was time she took another look. I really didn't understand much exactly how the other side of gender felt and acted, only knew the fact that being male wasn't right for me. But part of me went on asking for truth, kept asking why I needed this so badly. I recognized I was becoming a bit obsessive with my desire, and kept asking. My determination fought with it. An interior war had begun. Some part of me fully accepted it as truth, saw the way to go. But another half questioned whither or not this was really a problem. I would convince a psychologist, who would then convince my mother, who then would show me how to show the world. All that mattered was the final surgery. I knew the truth, but who really would believe me? I needed the right words to say at the right time. But I thought I could. Now it was time to try. I remember thinking after that. That I would need some kind of hormone therapy. This one was I could accomplish by myself. My aunt had been on HRT and I stole some of the patches she used. It never was anything structured, I took what I could when I got the chance, and when I knew I could get away with it. I looked over the HBIGDA Standards of care with disgust. I wondered why it was so necessary to prove, to explain why. Wasn't asking enough? Didn't they realize how happy I would be? I began to think of all possible questions I might be asked. To make them believe I was going to have to lie some. I didn't really want to, lying was wrong. But it was either that or simply state flat out that I needed the kind of transition that I'd been reading about. The truth was simple: This is what I need before I can go on with my life. But a darker part of my nature insisted that no one would believe that. After all, Transsexual's had certain characteristic's to them that I didn't. I didn't really get along with my mother better then I did with my father. Dressing up as a girl made me feel good, but there was an aspect about it that didn't feel just right, did it? Something that was missing, right? There were more things that didn't add up. At that, there were more questions that I had, questions I didn't want to think about. I put all my doubts aside in a call to my will. It really didn't matter, did it? I wanted to be a girl, right? The answer to that was a resounding: Hell Yeah! So all my doubts, all my questions that it would REALLY hurt to wonder about, they went into one large box. I threw that box into the lake of my soul, from where the rivers of mind and heart flow. But the instant that the box hit the bottom, it cracked a little, and the doubts began to poison the clean water. What doubts? What questions? The truth I knew. Nothing else mattered. All were forgotten in a summon to my will. Main Engines, System Ignition. And my will answered: Ignition, Full Thrust. Gonna break down the walls, break outta this bad place. Rock and Roll! I had the fire, Didn't I? People had told me I was smart all my life. Now it was time that I put those logic circuits, the computer of my mind, to its ultimate purpose. They were something, heavy duty, Weren't they? Out think the shrink? No Problem! I'd been to plenty ever since I could remember, and I?d read plenty on psychology. So, with some idea of the image I would have to present, I setup a mental program. It was quite simple. I took some of the things I'd read about, and incorporated them with something like a mantra: It has to be proven. Set aside everything else, and concentrate at the task at hand. If they see your not ready to face the challenge, they won't let you. They hold the keys. Care about what they say. Its right. You never will be able to see what you really are. That was an adult view of the world. The child part of me couldn't care. It was the difference in both that had always been part of me. It was the difference that might eventually lead me to suicide. But if I could win through, then it would be over. The conflict within had found another reason to fight. Deep down, the child part of me didn't give a shit about much, other then herself. Two outlooks on life. Two ways of seeing things. Both seeking an end. The child backed off oftentimes when she didn't understand. The adult would try to explain the confusion. Both a yes and a no answer for just about everything. But there was that general agreement with what people said about me, especially my mother and the psychologists. I had a way of answering "Yes" with out thinking. When they asked a question, I saw where it was leading, and I generally agreed. After all, I still had a lot to learn, right? Load Program. Run Program. In this manner, I started to lay aside my heart. Some part of mind and heart rebelled for the need to lay the truth flat out. The box wasn't quite as sealed as I thought. I'd chosen power over grace. As with anything else, it would be forgotten. Because it would be better to forget then to tell the truth. My heart pulled away from all the questions and comments. Here flowed daydreams, delicate and beautiful as crystals. It was going to be wonderful to be a girl. I took another look at the situation, danced it in my mind along with the other questions about myself. One day in Sex ed, the teacher asked if we had any questions, and passed out blank sheets of paper. She collected all the sheets. In mine, I told her of my greatest desire. I saw her read it, read it with an expression of wonder on her face. I did it, I thought. Alright, now lets see what happens. A few days later I was asked to report to the guidance counselors office. I was scared, but happy someone had done something. Still, I was scared. I remembered opening my mouth to a teacher once, telling her about something my parents were planning. Something the school didn't like. All my things had been taken away as a consequence. That was how I had entered the public school system instead of continuing at a parochial one. There was something else too. My mother worked as a teachers aid in the same school. I never was in any of the classes she worked, but I knew she was always there. That was a large fear. Your mother knows, she had always told me. Something in Pink Floyd's song 'Mother' might always stir a corpse inside of me. Something in that song. Perhaps the entire one. Some days later, I started talking to my guidance counselor. I was a bit scared. He asked all the puzzled questions of one who doesn't understand, but is trying to understand. We talked for a few more times, and hope came alive again. He would help. Shortly after that, I went to see a psychologist out of school for the first time. It was 1992, and I was fourteen physical. Mentally and emotionally was something I would always wonder about. My mom was frustrated and before we went into the office she exclaimed something like "Whatever it is, get it out of your system!" It was that exasperated tone that always seemed to bring out guilt. I'd always known that she knew quite a bit, especially about psychology. At my grandfathers house I found quite a lot of her books on it. I scarcely looked at them, but knew they belonged to her, so obviously she knew what she was talking about. Except this. I answered his questions. I don't remember exactly what questions they were, but little seemed to circle around what I told him: I want to be a girl. He seemed to be ignorant, especially during the first session, when he asked rhetorically how I would feel if my mother came home and said that she wanted to be a man. I said I?d understand it, but inside I asked myself if it was true or not. Turns out it was just rhetoric, just something that had hurt to wonder about. Afterward, I'm pretty sure she had HER questions, about what he asked, and what I said. I would continue seeing him for two months. Many years later I would find a letter he wrote about me. It was so upsetting to read how he described me. The letter was dated June,1993. The personality assessment was in a grey area of right and wrong. Emotionally it might always bring a mixture of resigned agreement followed by outright defiance, a scream of hurt in the loud machinery of logic and reason. Personality Assessment: Personality assessment for ------ shows him to be immature, attention seeking, and a somewhat unstable individual who was, at the time of testing, attempting to emphasize a need for treatment by exaggerating his symptoms. He apparently was, at the time of testing, going though a depressed phase of a cyclic behavior pattern involving impulsive, antisocial, self-defeating, and acting up behavior, succeeded by periods of exaggerated and insincere seeming guilt and depression. ------ is a tense, anxious, and perfectionist, obsessively worried and apt to over-react to minor problems. Social problem solving skills appear to be less than adequate. I had the opportunity to continue treatment with ------. It seemed, however that his emotional upsets were becoming greater and ------- was admitted to the Adolescent Young Adult Unit of --------- Hospital on March 31,1992, and discharged April 21st, 1992. He was seen following that in group psychology by me. The final wording of the letter brings out a question, loud enough to disrupt the machinery of logic and reason in me. It should be noted that ------- discontinued psychotherapy at a time when issues were not yet resolved and I am unaware of the resolution of this case. The question is simple enough. Who expects a 14 or fifteen year old to bring themselves back to therapy? Wasn't it a common belief, common sense, that teenagers have problems speaking with adults and professionals? Yet perhaps he believed that it was only a phase, as my mother felt. Perhaps he thought that if the issues were important enough, that I would come back. The last time I remember seeing him, I confessed to him that I had been stealing hormone patches form my aunt. He made the decision that I should go into the inpatient ward. My mother agreed, but my father was against it. He even asked me if I was sure. I felt guilty for going along with my mother, but I agreed. Just go with it. I thought that if I showed them I was willing to follow their directions, then I might be allowed more freedom. Maybe even to begin that road to surgery. It was going to be fun to go to school as a girl. There were other problems, but I would let them handle it. Just listen, do what they say, and they'll help you where you need it the most. Saying goodbye to my grandfather and seeing the hurt in his eyes and in my aunts was nearly unbearable. I loved them on a scale that only Canary could even come close. Here I would meet some people that had tried to kill themselves. I wish I could have met someone like me there. But here I would meet kids that understood suicide and depression. Their reasons were different, but I began to realize one fact of life. Namely that it sucked. Inside of a drawer in my room someone had written the lyrics of Metallica's 'Welcome Home'. Here, contrasting the tan wood, were written in black two things that drew my mind like a magnet. Sanitarium, just leave me alone They see it right, they see it well, but they think this saves us from our hell. Those two things fit the puzzle perfectly. I was in a Sanitarium, of course. Not everything was roses about the people that you thought would help. Why the hell would I be in here if the psychologist understood what was really wrong? I just needed to try harder. As my dad had said time and time again, apply yourself. The program kept incorporating whatever it could learn. It was a cruel, shitty world. People that loved Metal understood that. It was even worse to think that even they might not be able to accept me. All the things that nobody wanted to think about, they understood perfectly. The darkness in me had found another darkness, one with more truth then I had ever seen in my life. I Loved it, couldn't wait to explore it. My stay in the inpatient ward might have lasted for a month, but it felt like six. Memory might not serve well, but I believe it was longer then that. Some part of me started to get hardened, while other parts of me softened. My meals come in, I was even able to pick what I wanted to eat. Life got easy. But there was one time that might forever embarrass me. For some reason, an exam of my genitals was done. unfortunately it got aroused. that doctor looked at me with an expression of utter disgust. Oh Shit I thought. Guilt was still something indescribable. He left. I was scared that I had screwed up my chances. But other parts were fun. They connected me to a portable EEG machine, and that night I kept playing with the button on the side, trying to spike some graph to be printed out. Fun times in the Psycho ward. But time there came to an end. I said goodbye as best as I could. Outside, I began to realize that life had gone on. For a time I wanted bitterly to go back in. I remember crying to my mother, telling her she could take anything of mine she wanted, just let me go back. From then on, crying would become something nearly impossible to do. She had always gone on and on about money, and insurance. What it came down to is: I Can't. But I always would have the idea that she would. I even offered her my small laptop computer. That had been one of my prized possessions. My father and I had re-built a V-8 car engine. We worked together, and when it was sold, I picked out the computer. It nearly drove me crazy deciding on it, but when I got it I loved it. My grandfather had brought it to me in the hospital, and I liked showing it off and showing what I could do with it. But even after I offered to give it up just to go back inside, her answer was still NO! I explored Metal in this time, heard for the first time the song I'd taken a likening to already. I embraced the music, a steel chord that reverberated within, a hard chord of a bass guitar to drive you, and the dance of the lead guitar that was so beautiful. The drums would kick out the back beat of a life that was sometimes not worth living, and the singer could tell you sometimes those things that you couldn't think of, but were correct. I began to think that there was nothing wrong with being alone. Nothing because when you were alone, there was nothing to hurt you, to make you upset, to make you want to cry those tears that would almost never come. Metal had its ways of easing pain without crying, without doing anything at all but listening and singing along a bit. Guns & Roses were still great, but the stronger chords of metal attracted me. I graduated from middle school and entered high school a year after inpatient therapy. Some part of me was beginning to get tougher, to strike back at words. In the summer between, my mother had asked me to volunteer at a Easter Seal day care place. She remarked how good it would look on a job application. I was pretty uncomfortable with the idea, but mother knows best, so I went along. Most of the kids there were disabled in some way. The deepest part of the child in me smiled and laughed. I liked seeing some of the kids, one in particular. She was young, and rather pretty. That child part of me loved how care-free she seemed when I was talking to her. On some spiritual level, we were both the same age. We sat down and talked one day on a mat. She seemed happy to be talking to me. I looked at it as talking with another girl. It was one of those moments where any concept I might have of physical gender were absent. Mistake. HUGE mistake. The camp leader called me to the side. It seemed innocent enough, probably something to do with prepared activities. She gave me a piece of her mind, Quietly but with a scorn whose magnitude I couldn't believe. She talked about the large difference in our ages, and her idea of what she saw me doing. In other words, I was no better then I child molester. My head spun with her perception. Jesus, what was I doing? The adult part of me, suppressed with the happiness of the child part of me, came back full force. I wanted to die. I took the camp leaders perception of me as truth. The adult part of me saw that the girl was seeing me as an attractive male. Both the child inside of me and the adult fought for control. The child saw that I had no intentions of being seen like I had. The child wanted to talk heart to heart with another girl to see all the things she found beautiful, and adopt them as her own. The adult part of me went crazy. Just what were my motivations? What was I trying to do? More fuel for that old conflict within. But the child bowed out, defeated. Both parts of me wanted badly to forget. In some way this was an understanding to painful. The child saw that I might have hurt her leading her on to believe something, but at the same time looked at it as simply innocent. But that adult part of me wondered exactly what my motivations were. If the child and the adult were two entirely different people, the child would cry and say, "I meant no harm!". The adult would probably say "Oh, really?" It would forever change my ideas about male and female, and myself. But in a manner of hours, I simply forgot it. I wouldn?t see its effects for a long time. Forgetting hurt can be a bad thing when it still effects you. I never was paired with a girl at the camp again. It was a retreat into myself, deep within where the heart cries and the mind never stops processing all possible implications. Drawing that line in the behavior of males, females, and age caused something in me to begin to break, totally. Innocents gave way to a rip tide of guilt and perceived age. Now it was time again to move on. Forget. Question why I was the way I was. The old conflict, the old questions and fears. Time to grow up, and to fight growing up, to hate it for the time lost that would never come again. High school. I started something called Adolescent Partial hospitalization Program (APHP). It began with a psychological consolation, another one my mother asked me to go to. The same psychologist recommended putting me on Dexidrene, ever in increasing doses. It was just another medication, after all. My mother had a couple prescribed for me before, so what was the harm? My mother told me what they were going to be working on with me, and I agreed. The problem was, I was seeing shadows where there really wasn't any. Some part of me knew what my mother was saying was wrong, but of course, mother knows best, and I generally agreed with what she was saying. Maybe if I worked on what my mother told me, she would see the light. She had always wanted me to talk to other people, especially other kids, so why not? For most of my life I'd loved being with older people. Maybe it was time I change that idea. But there were times that I thought everything she was doing, everything that I was let happening, was utterly wrong. The same old conflict, just newer things to think about. Here began a social life, something like it anyway. I tried to tell the psychologist again and again what I was, that I knew what could be done to help me. It didn't get much attention. Here the little girl in my hear continued to fade away as I talked to people my own age or younger. It would lead to many things, not all of them pleasant. It was a matter of seeing other people, hearing them talk about life, hearing that other people had problems too, and caring. Caring because there was common ground here. I had known for a long time I wasn't the only one with problems. But here, I would hear other people's problems too. Hearing them, and wanting to help. Help because I knew, or thought I knew, how their parents and the psychologists saw things, and were trying to help. But there still was that child part of me. Here she decided to try and get along. It was a matter of not knowing how to act, not knowing what to say, do, think, or feel. I might never stop trying to know. The adult part of me filled that knowledge with what it knew. As it would turn out, learning how to interact with other people would be something that neither I nor anyone could force. It would be a helplessness that fluctuated in between all out attempts, and pulling back into being alone. It might continue until the day I died. My mother and I had been fighting for a long time now, and it started to get worse. On one occasion she agreed to rent me a movie when she came home from work. When she came home, I asked if we could go. She claimed she didn't have the money. I reminded her there was a can full of change on her dresser. She said "Fine, fine, whatever". Some part of me felt bad about asking. Only after a certain Saturday I would finally understand the emotion that I was feeling now. Guilt I gave in, but reminded her that she had promised me. She flew into a rut of rage, and slammed her bedroom door almost in my face. I wanted badly to talk with her, I was hurt by pushing her to the limit. My own rage flared up, and I cried out for her to open the door and talk with me. The door was locked, and I got a screwdriver to pop open the lock. But when that didn't work, I slammed it into the door. I heard her call someone, and I freaked out entirely. I ran down to my bedroom and using what little I knew about phones, tried to get her to stop. I ran outside, away from the house, trying not to be seen. The idea that I now was a runaway gave me hope somehow that it all was over. I wanted to take off and never be seen by anyone I knew again. I had no money and almost no smokes, but I hoped to get away from a life I knew I was screwing up. I got more then a mile away before I saw my fathers car coming up the street. He pulled over and I got in the car. He tried to comfort me while I tried to wrap myself in my Guns N Roses hooded T-shirt. It was one of only times in my life where I cried in front of my father. I kept saying over and over how sorry I was, how sorry I had to bring him into this. We went to my grandfathers house. It was quite late, and I ran for my bedroom upstairs. My father discussed what had happened with my grandfather and my aunt. Within a week, I was moved in. My grandfather and my aunt I'd loved dearly since a could ever remember. I loved them unconditionally, just as I did my father. I got something defined as I level drop in the after school program. Shit. All the while, that adult part of me was trying to explain, to convince, to do what ever was necessary to pass along the understanding. Problem was, the child would retreat. A sense that I was being led on would pass into the belief that he would understand eventually. The dream was starting to slip away, leaving only the idea of what should happen behind. I tried once in group therapy to talk about the fact that my mind and my heart were wrong for the body that they saw, but the group therapist encouraged me not to talk about it. Interestingly enough, it was one of my friends at the time that brought it up. I had told him a few days before, and when he called on me to say what it was, I knew that this was it. I knew I could talk about it, and I would have, but it was one of those times in life that you listen to adults instead of yourself. I had the idea, indescribable as always of a conflict. I asked to speak to one of the therapists alone. We went into her office and I explained that I felt that I was fighting myself. I got all the questions about hearing voices, etched. Here a part of me silenced the conversation. After all, if they saw I was suffering from a serious mental disorder, that would end my chances, right? While I was going to the after school program, life went on as it always does. I acted up a bit more a school. This was high school, and I made very few friends. I had odd habits of course. During lunch I would almost never sit still. I got up and walked around, making one big circle. There were few moments of happiness here. I brought in my CB radio one day for an extra credit project. But mostly it was a matter of being outcast even from the outcasts. Most of my faith in psychologists was gone entirely, but I was coming to understand there was quite a difference in the ones that worked with you at school and the ones you talked to out of school. The ones in school had more care then the ones out of school. It seemed the one I talked to in school treated me as more of a person then a computer with a serious malfunction. I would never talk about me feelings in school, partly because I knew my core issue was something very few understood. While life was beginning to pick up pace, I was staying pretty much the same. Here, in the midst of everything, I had my first time with sex. One night, I came out to my mothers boyfriend, and I emerged from my room in that girl's leotard with matching tights. I let him lead me in my mothers bedroom and he asked me to lie down on her bed. He stroked my thigh, talking to me sweetly. Here was another time were I just let things happen. I felt nothing much after we were done, except some kind of wrongness that I couldn?t fathom. I thought it would be something a girl might do, but it still felt wrong. I knew about sexual abuse, of course. But it didn't seem quite like abuse. After the third time, I told him no and he stopped. Some part of me will always forgive him, will always want to put some magical enchantment in the times we had together. But in the end, it happened. I learned something from that first time with sex. No matter how bad, you never can hate your first. Here, romance, abuse, and love would be defined, perhaps forever. Soon after, I slowly stopped dressing as a girl. It didn't help me much anymore, couldn't bring that sparkle of joy into my miserable existence. Here was another beautiful instrument, or perhaps many. The players had played for much of my life, but now they bowed, solo's done. Here they left the band hall, passing into the night forever. After a certain Saturday, I realized why I had stopped. Because when I dressed up, all the masculine parts of my body seemed to stand out more. Innocence had passed. Naivete would never. In order to save whatever I thought I was, I stopped trying for that chance that I might be seen as a girl. I would do it sometimes because I didn't exactly want to lie to the psychologist. But the fun had ended. I needed support, desperately. It was the birth of plenty of more doubts, some that might never be eased. All my ideas were running out. But the irrational hope that I would make it pushed me on. What did it matter what I did? Can't SOMEONE give me a break? That hope was strong, but not without some basis. APHP continued and I continued along with it. Somewhere in my Sophomore year, I was discharged. I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe they saw that the malfunction was fixed. Maybe it was that my mothers insurance finally stopped, I don't know. But before I was, some of my effort was repaid. I was told that an appointment was made with a specialist. Finally, I thought. Its done. The child in me decided to go all out, to tell all. I explained everything that I knew about myself. Perhaps it was my attitude then, but it seemed like he was mocking me. It seemed like he was trying to make my dream into a nightmare. He asked if I had had sex, and I told him about the encounters with my mothers boyfriend. I told him I enjoyed it. To my parents and myself, he proclaimed me gay. Some part of me screamed obscenities at that. I didn't hear the one piece of advice I should have listened to. That piece of advice was that I might have problems relating to the people I met at I certain support group. It was time to put everything aside in one last ditch attempt at freedom and salvation. Here was something new, something that had been part of their plan in APHP. Social interaction. I decided to go to a meeting. I don't really know why for sure, but maybe the idea of a group that I could talk to let me on. I didn't think about the fact that the youngest would probably be twice my age. It was one of those impulses, one of those times your heart doesn't speak softly, it thunders a word of nearly undeniable command: GO! My father brought me there with his girlfriend and her daughter. Sometimes I would look at the daughter, with turmoil in my heart and think 'You have no idea how much freedom you have. Respect it, because it ends. It ends when you wake up to certain truths about life. Be happy you have what you have. I wish I was like you. I really do.' I'd have to turn away. Turn away because her attitude about life (at least as I saw it) was one I wish I could have and share. Or at least have a memory of having, and having shared with other people. I walked to the building and sow two women smoking outside. I was nervous and more then a little uncomfortable, though I didn't understand why. I figured a cig would help me ease up a bit. I'd smoked for years and now was one of the times I needed one badly. So I smoked and listened to their conversation. I looked up at one of the women and saw, just for a second the person she had been. I don't know how long it took for me to look away. I'd read her, and every time I think about that time back then, some part of me will always want to tear my eyes right out of their sockets, to see no more ever again. That part of me was sure she had seen me reading her, and was sure I had made her uncomfortable. I never had wanted to do that. If I ever get the chance to go back in time, I'd go here and try to say how much I was sorry. After awhile the group convened inside and I went in. I listened to some of the women talk, and an electrologist explain how the procedure she did worked. I remember hearing one of the women, not the one that had been outside, talk about some painful moment in her life. I felt bad for her, and wished I could say something, anything. She was crying, and only later I would realize how beautiful that was. How beautiful because it was something I couldn't do. I could barely cry when I was alone. Here began a transition of mind, heart, and body. My will to live, to go on no matter what, to accomplish the dream, it began to ebb, to fall back into fantasy where nothing could hurt it. My life and my body fell into disarray. I had friends, I had a home to live in, but deep down I couldn't care. All the friends a had while in APHP had their way with my life and me. I tried to fill that hole in myself with friends and experiences, but nearly all would turn out to be users and used experiences. There would be times I would beg to be used sexually, to fill that part of the hole, but it didn't work. Here true friends waited and waited until all the rest were gone. Some of the experiences, while they didn't fill in that hole, they made it more bearable. I had my first relationship right after I was discharged, and it was more of people pushing us together then anything else. My first time with a girl brought some kind of happiness, but it also brought that sense of wrongness, though it was less. We dated for a bit then parted ways with some kind of friendship between us. High school ended, and slowly my relatives surrendered what little of their control over me that remained. My life was my own. Problem was, I didn't care to maintain any aspect of it. My hope in my parents, the psychologists and myself had gone out entirely. Without hope, that defiant strength whittled away. Friends I had, but some magic, a missing piece, was fading rapidly. I never would have a problem mentioning my inner truth, but now it started to sound stupid because I couldn't back it up with anything. Life was speeding up as I became more and more into myself. I kept on taking things more and more serious. I lost a lot of things this way. Here began a ten year period that would be hard to look back upon because I would never know what kept me from ending my life. The best were the times when I drove alone for hours, after finally getting my drivers license. When I drove alone, there was none of that need to talk with someone because no-one was there. I drove alone in the night, not thinking, but feeling somehow a little of that sense of peace that once I had gotten merely by dressing myself and walking outside. All thoughts of life, people, and myself eased slowly, bringing some sense of peaceful numbness. I would drive for hours, with only the occasional fantasy or thought about stopping for gas going though my head. Here was a part of me in which Metallica's 'Wherever I May Roam' reverberated with perfect understanding. I wanted to cut all ties clean, to slip away in the miles and miles of darkness, the less I have, the more I gain. I wanted to live life somewhere in the shadows that lie beyond the trees illuminated by my cars headlights. I always drive fast, relying on my reflexes, my cars handling, and god to bring me through the unexpected turn. When I had people in the car, most would yell to slow down. Perhaps I was driving faster then normal because of the people in the car, perhaps not. As I said, it was often best done alone. During this time I came upon something that came close. Transgendered Fiction. When I came upon it in my early days of exploring, something in my hear sang. I had just built my own pc, just used AOL for the first time, and I found somewhere in there tons of fiction. I don't know how I managed to do anything else but read. Here were other dreams separated from reality, and given the freedom to live and breathe. My own dream, buried deep inside drew some kind of breath from these other dreams. Here the last of it found something to live upon. During these years, I would gain friendships and lose them. Eventually that one dream that I knew couldn't be real inspired other dreams, other looks into my imagination, where I once drawn out the books I had read. In the end, I wrote and posted a story, it wasn't much, but was the best I could hope for. I started to work on my writing, trying harder and harder to visualize to the readers what I saw and felt. It turned into a slow, but high gain loop. Reviewers formed the energy, which cycled back, forcing me to improve, forcing me to dream more, push the boundaries. But mostly it was a hidden part of my life, something to make that place where hope had been denied more bearable. Eventually, the people I hung out with faded, or held onto me as a friend. Everything would seem great in the beginning, but it would fade. Perhaps because I was burning out friendship with them, and the same was happening to me. I really don't know why they held on, there were only three or so that would actually call me up anymore. My grandfathers house had been abused, I had been abused by some of their friendships, and finally I would fade myself. Emotionally, all growth had slowed to a crawl. I worked with a temporary agency which would usually find me a job. Months or weeks later I would be fired for not showing up on time, missing work, or poor performance. Life around me had always been comfortable, I didn't need to really work because my grandfather paid most of my bills out of his pension. During this time I met few people, and most of them abandoned me a month or a year later. Most of the friends I still had knew about my dream, knew how I felt inside. In this time, when I talked about it, it was usually in blurts, and I couldn?t say anything about that place in my heart right. I tried many things to fill that hole where the hope had been. It was moving to this place that had spoiled me. Food, clothes, and a roof over my head. Just having those things without having to work for them spoiled me. A lack of rules in that kind of environment made it too good a place to leave. That hole where hope had been I tried to cover with friends, other hopes, dreams. But nothing would fill it entirely and the cover of earth eventually collapsed with nothing to support it. Only the hope of being a girl would ever fix that blighted spot in my soul. My first relationship with a girl stemmed more from the people around us pushing us together then actually us caring. My second contacted me directly, and we built a relationship. For my side, it was mostly out of need. A need for love. But that need in me misinterpreted love, and the idea of being in love. The second time with sex was worse, not fully realized what had been going on in the relationship until after it was over. I should have stopped when I realized how fast it had progressed into sex. When it was over, I nearly went insane. Sex and love had been conjoined until now. When I finally realized that, I went numb. I looked at myself from the aspect that I had been the user. I had let myself turn into the person who had used me sexually. It didn't help that there was a five year gap in our ages, something which I had talked to her about and bothered me throughout the relationship. I gave up the hope of love after that. As the song goes, I didn't believe in love, never should have believed in it in the first place. Now all there was to give me real happiness was my stories. I made them up hectically, but they cushioned somewhat my hurt. Outside, the anchor of the dream still resided. One or two things a would dress myself in, mostly night clothes. Eventually that anchor would bring me buy hormones online, but that would take years. And after experimenting with an anti-androgen, I would take a serious look into the fact that if I wasn't sterile from what I had done already, then I would be if I kept it up for long. I did want to have a child someday. Eventually the girl whom had begun that journey many years ago, that girl in myself where all my imagination, my heart and soul, where it all resided, came back. Here she used one trick. Treachery. I imagined a long story, and in it were four transgendered people. I would need to write what they were going through. But that led me again to self-examination, a good trick. I had never totally abandoned the idea that I should be female, I just gave up the hope of ever being. That hope of being female was put into stories, and now a certain story spit it back out, right into my face. One more time, in real life a girlfriend of a friend of mine made a comment about my hair, and put it up roughly in a female style. A friend made a comment that, if I didn't have a five 'o clock shadow, that I could be mistaken as a chick. Here happiness flowed again. It was a process, after all. At some point, God, or my situation allowed a breath of relief, and things were starting to look up again. Here the dream crossed into reality, and I thought about trying again. Trying again after more then 10 years. But even though I couldn't think of the right words to say to myself, I knew deep down a core truth. To be a girl was to love; To love is to be a girl. I would never be able fully to love someone else, though I might try, without having first a love for myself. Loving myself also meant accepting myself, in whatever I had said, thought, or done. That truth would come home shortly, though I wouldn't ever wish to accept it. It was the final truth of my life as I lived it. Could I give up that dream, let it lie forever as a dream? In the beginning all it had been WAS a dream, something to say "This will bring a joy I cant imagine". It had been a dream because there were was no understanding, nor desire for understanding. But that dream had power that not even my imagination had the terms for. A huge, cyclopean engine. One that had all the power that ever is, was, or needed to be. An engine, and a person. An Elven one. But just realizing that I could be a girl brought the idea of loving myself back. For weeks I relished in that, beginning to make plans for a new life. I had recently gone along on a moving trip with my friend. He had moved into a condo nearly halfway across the country, and might have a room to spare. I planned a bit hectically. I knew that to stay here for too long would suffocate me into going back to the old ways I had used for too long. My job could be transferred down to my friends part of the country. I wrote him an email, asking if it was possible, and began to dream that dream of transformation again. I knew I would have to throw away a lot of things, mostly junk. Whatever had happened before, it would not happen again because I was different now. But some part of me wondered why, just why it hadn?t happened before. It was the same part of me that wondered if I ever could do it. Well, it didn't. I was letting it be. I should have realized that throwing things away also meant parts of me that I had known for a long time did me no good. My friend and I talked on the way down there, but nothing actu