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| Image from Marya Volk on UnSplash. |
I was devastated when I outgrew all my mom’s clothes and I had no sister’s closets to raid for clothes. Where would I ever be able to find the feminine accessories, I needed to cross dress in front of the mirror. So, I had to rely on a little luck and a whole lot of creativity to get by. For example, I found a discarded cute stretch mini skirt just outside of the girl’s locker room at school which fit me, and I had it for years. The rest of my “collection” came from being able to do work around the house, and a rural newspaper route I had delivering papers. My parents loved the fact that I was so industrious without ever knowing the real reason why.
As I continued my ascent towards unwanted puberty and
testosterone poisoning, sadly I continued to grow like a weed, making it less
probable I could find any clothes to fit me. Somehow, I did by being very
creative with my meager funds and having the courage to sneak out of my grandma’s
house to secretly go shopping for clothes and makeup. As I always point out, we
lived out of town, and the only way I had to get around was by my bike, unless
I spent the night at grandma’s. Who lived close to downtown where we lived. I
survived the clerks in the stores I went to and slowly became better at what I
bought.
Through it all, I thought I would outgrow this portion of my
life when all I wanted was to be a girl. Like a weed, it kept on growing in me
and refused to go away. I went through the usual phases of gender dysphoria many
of us go through. The heights of euphoria when I crossed dressed, and the lows
when I was not able to. The pressure on me continued to build up until I took
chances and dressed in a locked room with my brother around. Certainly, if I
was discovered, my parents would have treated me with enough weed killer at a
psychiatrist appointment to do me in. My parents’ eldest son wanting to be a
girl would not have been tolerated.
Either I was better in hiding my cross dressing from them,
or they chose to ignore it, because nothing was ever said to me, and I dodged
any trips to therapy where they knew nothing about gender dysphoria and would
refer to me as being mentally ill.
The older I became, the more my weed sprouted and refused to
go away. In fact, when the internet era began and we bought our first computer,
it gave me the chance to research what sort of a weed I had. Very quickly I
learned my early ideas were correct and I was much more than a weekend cross
dresser who was more or less wanting to look like a ciswoman as some sort of a
hobby. In fact, I was transgender which was a new term back in those days. For
the first time in my life, I found a label which fit me. I was not a cross
dresser at all, nor was I a fully-fledged transsexual who wanted to run off and
have genital realignment surgery. Through the computer I was even able to meet
others similar to me for the first time in my life.
At that point, I began to realize my weed was not a weed at
all, it was turning out to be more of a late blooming flower which had to be
explored and nurtured. As I began to
explore the new feminine world I was in, I discovered how complex ciswomen had
it in their lives and what affected them. I can use my second wife as an
example of how badly a woman could feel when her husband wants to run off and
be a woman. Often without having the knowledge to do it. I felt sorry for my wife,
and we fought often, but there was nothing I could do about my new flower in my
life. It was not out of control as much as it was me and I refused to confront
it. Long story short, she did not live long enough to experience the transfeminine
person I had become and that was a shame because like it or not, she had a lot
to do with the new feminine me.
Now I feel sorry for all those toxic men and ciswomen who
can not seem to find their way out of their weed patch. Growing a beautiful new
flower is the only way to go as you live your life as a transgender woman. Now
I know why my old male self never liked flowers.
