Too Late?

I have some great guy friends who, I have no reason to doubt, are guys. I also have a sensitive, kind, thoughtful friend who presents as a guy but … might be a trans girl.  That’s for my friend to figure out; I am just making some benevolent observations.

I visited my friend today.  My friend is perhaps 75 years of age, and on the walls are mini-posters with various witticisms, including one that’s maybe not funny at all: “This is not the life I ordered.”

My friend was encouraging and positive toward me while, over the years, seeing me transition from presenting as a guy to living openly as the girl I fundamentally am.  Recently, my friend opened up conversationally about childhood, specifically about being ten years old or so, and socially preferring to avoid boys of that age, and playing with girls instead, and playing with dolls.  My friend’s brother confronted the doll-playing with angry ridicule and scorn, and a lecture to the effect of “No! You’re a boy!  Boys don’t play with dolls. Go play baseball!”

The story matched something in my own past.  At a young age, I, too, enjoyed playing with dolls, and my mother recently told me that when my father found me doing so, my father furiously grabbed the doll out of my hands and scolded me.

My friend sounded sad, telling me the story, and on two occasions during my visit, made reference to it now being too late to start something new that, given enough time, would grow into something enjoyable.

Preferring to play with girls, and with dolls, and voicing fundamental regret about life, and being gentle and kind … that doesn’t mean someone is a trans girl.  But those items do make for, at least, a tiny pile of circumstantial evidence in favor of that hypothesis.

What if the hypothesis were true? What if my friend really is a not-yet-out trans girl and wants to come out? The first few years of transitioning are the hardest, so it would perhaps mean my friend will be 80 years old before things start to integrate fairly well.

If I didn’t realize I’m trans until age 75, would I then still then have come out? Probably so, yes.  But I’d certainly lament all the decades in which I lived a life that was fundamentally sub-optimal, for me.


Status: First Day of Fall, 2018

Pink_DressI’m a trans girl. Initially, I didn’t like how my brain was female and my body was male. At the time, I disliked how I think. I wished I could think like the boys around whom I was growing up because I was born with “outie” plumbing so everyone took it for granted I’m a boy and so did I. I tried hard fit in, to think and react like a boy but I just couldn’t. As part of trying, I did macho things, some of them harmful to me, like smoking cigarettes. I tried hard to be more macho than anyone else so I smoked 3 packs a day when I was 14 (for one day).

As an adult, I started realizing there’s value in being emotionally sensitive and communicating like a girl does. Also sex and relationships with girls were great because we would have an amazing mental connection. So things changed to where I liked how I think. But I felt freakish thinking like a girl and looking like a guy. I wish I didn’t look like a guy. I felt conflicted and wondered why I was such a crazy individual that I’d have girlish thought patterns so strong that femininity was fundamentally dominant.

One day I saw a counselor versed in trans girl issues, and she explained that being trans is a known and fairly common (though culturally suppressed) biological mutation, so a simpler and more likely explanation for me thinking as a girl isn’t that I was crazy but simply that I’m trans. I though the news too good to be true, so I insisted on tests and I took the Stanford Bern test and then was satisfied that, wow, I’m indeed a trans girl.

Then began the journey to unlearn everything macho. From trying to be as guy-ish as I could, I had to learn to walk, dance, talk, move and dress like a girl. It was hard but I rejoiced in my femininity. I wore 6″ stilettos until I could walk a mile in them easily. I wore stripper dresses out in public even before my boobs grew. I was screamed at while I walking down the street. I heard death threats. When people ridiculed me I’d turn and walk to confront them in conversation. I wasn’t phased when people disapproved or were mean to me. I didn’t need their permission to live openly as myself. I was finally fundamentally happy. I would wear a sexy blonde wig because my hair was still too short for my liking. One day, however, all the adversity got to me and I bought a mousy-colored wig, and when my girlfriend at the time heard of it, she gave me a speech to the effect that she understands I’d like to become invisible and hide, but I can never hide because I’m a 6″ tall, muscular trans girl and for me, blending into the background isn’t an option and will never be. She was right. So from then on, I lived my life all-out.

I started taking hormones. I SO wanted to look more like a girl. I would look at pictures of cellulite on a girl’s thighs, and I’d fantasize about that, wishing I looked like that. I didn’t like my plumbing. I paid a deposit and made an appointment to go to Thailand and have Dr. Suporn change me “down below” to look and function more like a typical girl. I felt I needed to do so, to be fully a girl.

I then realized I’m a girl based on what’s most fundamental to me: my brain. I think like a girl, so regardless of my plumbing, I am a girl. So I canceled the Thailand trip and got my deposit back. I still didn’t love my private parts in front, but they ceased bothering me. And they’re useful for writing my name in the snow.

* * *

Today is September 22nd, 2018. I looked in the mirror and saw a happy, tall, blonde with long hair and nice-enough natural boobs, and hard nips. I have a layer of fat below the skin and the backs of my thighs are just barely not perfectly smooth in a way I love. I still don’t have cellulite but almost. I haven’t shaved my face or body in months but except for a few fine, stray hairs around my nips, I’m smooth all over. My legal paperwork has my new name and my gender marker is F on my driver’s license and passport.

My mother used to be mean to me about being trans and now she’s cheering me on. Wherever I go, almost everyone calls me “Miss” or “Ma’am.” Some guys still get confused, but they’re nice and it’s OK. What they think of me doesn’t affect who and what I am. Almost everyone is always nice to me. When I go out, I just wear eyebrow pencil as makeup and I still often get complimented. I love my life.