Everything that begins, begins with aloneness.
Posted: Thu Nov 06, 2003 12:47 am
Hi all,
Beginnings, eh? Hmm, let's see. Okay, like many of you here, I must've been around 5 years old when I first slipped into a pair of my mother's high heels, stockings, and nylon slip. I remember tromping around the basement, feeling elated. Didn't get caught (well, not back then, anyway!). I honestly don't remember *why* the urge came over me to try on my mother's clothes. It was just there. What I do remember, even at that tender an age, is the tremendous sense of guilt and shame that overcame me afterwards; I vowed to never again "play dress up." Yeah, right! It still amazes me that the 5-year old I then was already knew that "dressing up" was wrong or bad.
Of course, throughout my childhood I became very adept at burying this side of me; however, I still dressed up whenever I got the chance (which, at that age, wasn't very often). I got caught once by my father. He came into my room one morning while I was just waking up and saw that I was wearing a pair of pantyhose; he looked the other way, left the room, and never brought the subject up, either at breakfast or thereafter. I felt like an absolute freak. The next day, his girlfriend had him install a lock chain on their bedroom door. (His girlfriend also caught me once in the basement, fully dressed in clothing I'd stolen from neighbours' clotheslines late at night.) My mother--who was, by then, only partially in the picture--was recruited for a parent-to-child talk: she tried to get me to open up about my fixation on women's clothes. I was mortified; I just couldn't say a word, couldn't even look her, my own mother, in the eye. To her credit, however, she was gentle and receptive about the whole thing and, faced with silence on my part, abandoned our discussion with the proviso that I could always go to her if need be.
So it was that, for most of my childhood, I was the "son with the unspoken side to him." My father grew distant. My mother had her own life to live. And my little brother was clueless. I was alone. And I was a monster.
This is how I dealt with it: I became both feverishly creative, retreating into worlds of my own making (worlds I wrote and worlds I drew--worlds where I was wanted), and excessively withdrawn. I began reading anything I could get my hands on; novels, magazines, psychiatry textbooks, it didn't matter. I also sought to please others as much as I could; I wanted people to like me and to see that I wasn't a monster. I remember playing with friends and wishing I could let them know the real me. I became a teenager more angst-ridden than most, and also much more depressed. Not long into my teens, I hopped onto the "suicide roller-coaster." (I obviously got off at some point; you wouldn't be reading this otherwise.
)
An altogether unhappy childhood, then. When people say that those years are the best of our lives, I beg to differ. Sadly, I don't think my childhood experiences were unique among crossdressers. Growing up in the shadow of normalcy does strange things to your mind, your heart, your soul, your very sense of self. Looking back on those years from the vantage point of a serene and joyful adulthood, I realize that I was suffering something fierce at the time. I used to harbour much rage, anger, bitterness, and self-pity, seeing myself as the spawn of a monstrous society. I no longer do so. Something happened to me in my mid-20s: I was "born again." No, not in the religious sense (I'm not a religious person) but in the human sense. Whatever the reason for this "metanoia," this change of mind, I saw and understood, for the first time in my life, how terribly beautiful, and fragile, and precious human beings are. And, for the first time also, I included myself in that number. I think that my pain and anguish may have acted as midwives to my genuine self, my self waiting to be born.
I still crossdress (hey, it's just there) but I do so now with a most welcome lightness of being. If I were to address the wives, GFs, and SOs of transvestites, I would say this to them: Please try, inasmuch as you can, to see past the fact that your partner likes to dress as a woman--your partner is an individual, a person, who has gone through more pain, anguish, suffering, self-doubt, denial, and self-loathing than should be reasonably expected of human beings. The fact that he's still here, with you, on the journey of life (even if only for a while), is a testament to his resiliency and an ode to his strength of character. Cherish his uniqueness. Cherish each other's uniqueness. In the end, that's all that matters.
Whew! That was a long post. Sorry! Never having had the benefit of any kind of therapy, I guess I have to rely on self-therapy. Hey, whatever works!
Love,
CJ
Beginnings, eh? Hmm, let's see. Okay, like many of you here, I must've been around 5 years old when I first slipped into a pair of my mother's high heels, stockings, and nylon slip. I remember tromping around the basement, feeling elated. Didn't get caught (well, not back then, anyway!). I honestly don't remember *why* the urge came over me to try on my mother's clothes. It was just there. What I do remember, even at that tender an age, is the tremendous sense of guilt and shame that overcame me afterwards; I vowed to never again "play dress up." Yeah, right! It still amazes me that the 5-year old I then was already knew that "dressing up" was wrong or bad.
Of course, throughout my childhood I became very adept at burying this side of me; however, I still dressed up whenever I got the chance (which, at that age, wasn't very often). I got caught once by my father. He came into my room one morning while I was just waking up and saw that I was wearing a pair of pantyhose; he looked the other way, left the room, and never brought the subject up, either at breakfast or thereafter. I felt like an absolute freak. The next day, his girlfriend had him install a lock chain on their bedroom door. (His girlfriend also caught me once in the basement, fully dressed in clothing I'd stolen from neighbours' clotheslines late at night.) My mother--who was, by then, only partially in the picture--was recruited for a parent-to-child talk: she tried to get me to open up about my fixation on women's clothes. I was mortified; I just couldn't say a word, couldn't even look her, my own mother, in the eye. To her credit, however, she was gentle and receptive about the whole thing and, faced with silence on my part, abandoned our discussion with the proviso that I could always go to her if need be.
So it was that, for most of my childhood, I was the "son with the unspoken side to him." My father grew distant. My mother had her own life to live. And my little brother was clueless. I was alone. And I was a monster.
This is how I dealt with it: I became both feverishly creative, retreating into worlds of my own making (worlds I wrote and worlds I drew--worlds where I was wanted), and excessively withdrawn. I began reading anything I could get my hands on; novels, magazines, psychiatry textbooks, it didn't matter. I also sought to please others as much as I could; I wanted people to like me and to see that I wasn't a monster. I remember playing with friends and wishing I could let them know the real me. I became a teenager more angst-ridden than most, and also much more depressed. Not long into my teens, I hopped onto the "suicide roller-coaster." (I obviously got off at some point; you wouldn't be reading this otherwise.
)An altogether unhappy childhood, then. When people say that those years are the best of our lives, I beg to differ. Sadly, I don't think my childhood experiences were unique among crossdressers. Growing up in the shadow of normalcy does strange things to your mind, your heart, your soul, your very sense of self. Looking back on those years from the vantage point of a serene and joyful adulthood, I realize that I was suffering something fierce at the time. I used to harbour much rage, anger, bitterness, and self-pity, seeing myself as the spawn of a monstrous society. I no longer do so. Something happened to me in my mid-20s: I was "born again." No, not in the religious sense (I'm not a religious person) but in the human sense. Whatever the reason for this "metanoia," this change of mind, I saw and understood, for the first time in my life, how terribly beautiful, and fragile, and precious human beings are. And, for the first time also, I included myself in that number. I think that my pain and anguish may have acted as midwives to my genuine self, my self waiting to be born.
I still crossdress (hey, it's just there) but I do so now with a most welcome lightness of being. If I were to address the wives, GFs, and SOs of transvestites, I would say this to them: Please try, inasmuch as you can, to see past the fact that your partner likes to dress as a woman--your partner is an individual, a person, who has gone through more pain, anguish, suffering, self-doubt, denial, and self-loathing than should be reasonably expected of human beings. The fact that he's still here, with you, on the journey of life (even if only for a while), is a testament to his resiliency and an ode to his strength of character. Cherish his uniqueness. Cherish each other's uniqueness. In the end, that's all that matters.
Whew! That was a long post. Sorry! Never having had the benefit of any kind of therapy, I guess I have to rely on self-therapy. Hey, whatever works!
Love,
CJ
You just made me realize how my life may have been different if I had been caught again.
