My Life
Posted: Sat Mar 20, 2004 12:05 am
My Life
In one of the earliest pictures of me that I remember I was four or five years old standing next to my mother. I was wearing an outfit of shorts and jacket of the same material as my mother’s skirt and jacket. I had a proud and happy look on my face. But, if every boy’s first and greatest romance is with his mother, then mine was a tragedy. I wanted her love and acceptance, and I got it only in measured doses sandwiched in-between relentless shoulds and don’ts and hysterics. Maybe out of that early emotional break with her came the split in my psyche between masculine and feminine; more likely what it did was crystallize at two incompatible extremes the energy of a passionate soul. Or did my reincarnating soul choose her as my life’s Mount Everest, an arduous uphill trek that I’ve often wanted to abandon, but always come back to?
One of my fondest memories occurred as a thirteen year old at a co-ed summer camp. I spent almost the entire time hanging out with the girls on their side of the campground. I had my first sexual experience at that time, and it gave me my first piece of self-confidence as a young man that I desperately lacked. Only recently, however, did I understand what else was going on. I wanted to be one of the girls—while not giving up on being a boy as well. I wanted both; and I guess I still do. Some things don’t change. I am not as much transgendered as bi-gendered.
But, as things developed that experience receded into a never-to-be realized nirvana. Around the same time I started to dress up in my mother’s clothes—a beautiful silky nightgown; a black dress and sometimes jewelry and lipstick. And I would smoke cigarettes like the glamorous, sexy women that I admired so much. And of course, then came the inevitable sexual release, followed by searing shame. Was I a homosexual, that shadowy, much feared “creature” portrayed during the time period? I’d never heard of a transvestite. And to whom would I talk to about it? So, I hid it. And the more I drove it under ground, the more it became an ungovernable obsession that ruled my life whenever I got the opportunity. Only when I was intensely in love with my girl friend did the urge abate.
So, my masculinity developed in its early period without the moderating tenderness and vulnerability of the feminine—at least on the surface. I found that I could channel my inner anger into a hard-steel personality that could protect me against other boys—whether in fights on the schoolyard or just walking down the mean streets of the big city. I could also channel that rebellious spirit into politics. And by the end of high school I had already demonstrated my talent for instigating and leading social movements. By college I was a radical and revolutionary in a time of radicalism and revolution. I took part in many of the major events and developments of that decade and played a not insignificant role in them. (enough said) I was usually in the front lines. I will say with pride, however, that I never hurt or tried to hurt another soul; though I can’t say as much about the cops.
Oh to be a man among men. That’s what I wanted to be. Was it a reaction against my inner feminine leanings or was it genuine? No doubt both. So I played college football until an injury forced me to quit, and even while I protested the war in the streets, I longed to join the military—which I came within an eyelash of doing against my will—to test my manhood on the field of battle. And all the time I was dressing like a woman as much as possible in my dorm room—secretly and drowning in shame. So, what did I do? Naturally, I got married, thinking that would help control the compulsion.
Of course, it didn’t. It only got more intense. A decade after graduating college, after two boring jobs that I quit and deciding to go to graduate school, I reached a crisis. On my wife’s suggestion I went into therapy—with a woman. To my masculine side to confess one’s weaknesses, one’s shadow side to a woman was something one should never do. But, I was in extremis, and when given the opportunity, I did so unabashedly. For three full days I cried and sobbed. I couldn’t stop. All the grief and sorrow just came flowing out. Then, slowly and with lots of help I began to reconstruct my shattered personality. I gave up the shameful cross-dressing and practicing other fetishes—though I continued to fantasize about cross-dressing to get release—and was able to integrate some feminine aspects.
How did I do that? A former atheist, I threw myself into an exploration of spirituality. But, nonconformist that I am, I would take nothing on faith. I started by doing past life regression. After an experience that unsettled me to my core, I moved on to trance channeling and intensive dreamwork. I discovered the divine feminine—the Goddess—and began to worship it in its characteristic forms. In retrospect, I can see much of this was a projection of my own inner feminine first onto my therapist and then onto the Unknowable. Nonetheless, I had enough indelible experience of perceiving Goddess energy, that I have never since been shaken in my belief in its reality. Of course, it bothered me somewhat that I was usually the only man in Goddess groups. But, I fought my way through that one—because it was very satisfying being among women.
I then entered the most creative period of my life: a doctorate, four books, two children (my wife did the difficult work for that) and a successful university career—the groundwork all laid in five years. And yet, I wasn’t happy. I thought I was a sex addict and went into a twelve-step program, which I quit after I eventually realized that underlying my fantasizing was something that deserved respect not censure. I joined the men’s movement and achieved initiation into manhood finally—something that I had thought could only be achieved on the field of battle. But even that didn’t make me happy. Then I threw myself into politics again—without the anger born of immaturity—and experienced the joys of working for creative institutional change on behalf of those who are neglected and marginalized. And after two years of that I took stock of myself. I was still unhappy deep inside; something was missing.
I went back to my therapist and told her I was very attracted to the image of men dressed and made up to look like women. I wanted to grow my hair long. I wanted to shop and to hang out with women—not to have an affair, but just to share in feminine concerns. And then for the first time in my life someone whom I trusted sat down next to me and told me that what I wanted was not sick or a disease to be cured, that to be what I came to call “Laura” was acceptable—maybe someone could even love Laura. I didn’t cry—well, ok, not that much—but for days afterward I felt a deep sighing in my body, like a slow exhaling after a deep breath has been held in for one’s whole life. And the first time, someone called me “Laura” I felt a cellular ripple run down my body from my head to my toes. Then I began to cross-dress again after 24 years. But, not out of compulsion; this time it was out of recognition of who I am. And so began, six months ago, a second major reconstruction of my “self.” The journey that is my life continues up the mountain step by step, and the end for the little boy in shorts made of the same material as his mother’s skirt is not in sight. But, now that’s ok.
Love,
Laura
In one of the earliest pictures of me that I remember I was four or five years old standing next to my mother. I was wearing an outfit of shorts and jacket of the same material as my mother’s skirt and jacket. I had a proud and happy look on my face. But, if every boy’s first and greatest romance is with his mother, then mine was a tragedy. I wanted her love and acceptance, and I got it only in measured doses sandwiched in-between relentless shoulds and don’ts and hysterics. Maybe out of that early emotional break with her came the split in my psyche between masculine and feminine; more likely what it did was crystallize at two incompatible extremes the energy of a passionate soul. Or did my reincarnating soul choose her as my life’s Mount Everest, an arduous uphill trek that I’ve often wanted to abandon, but always come back to?
One of my fondest memories occurred as a thirteen year old at a co-ed summer camp. I spent almost the entire time hanging out with the girls on their side of the campground. I had my first sexual experience at that time, and it gave me my first piece of self-confidence as a young man that I desperately lacked. Only recently, however, did I understand what else was going on. I wanted to be one of the girls—while not giving up on being a boy as well. I wanted both; and I guess I still do. Some things don’t change. I am not as much transgendered as bi-gendered.
But, as things developed that experience receded into a never-to-be realized nirvana. Around the same time I started to dress up in my mother’s clothes—a beautiful silky nightgown; a black dress and sometimes jewelry and lipstick. And I would smoke cigarettes like the glamorous, sexy women that I admired so much. And of course, then came the inevitable sexual release, followed by searing shame. Was I a homosexual, that shadowy, much feared “creature” portrayed during the time period? I’d never heard of a transvestite. And to whom would I talk to about it? So, I hid it. And the more I drove it under ground, the more it became an ungovernable obsession that ruled my life whenever I got the opportunity. Only when I was intensely in love with my girl friend did the urge abate.
So, my masculinity developed in its early period without the moderating tenderness and vulnerability of the feminine—at least on the surface. I found that I could channel my inner anger into a hard-steel personality that could protect me against other boys—whether in fights on the schoolyard or just walking down the mean streets of the big city. I could also channel that rebellious spirit into politics. And by the end of high school I had already demonstrated my talent for instigating and leading social movements. By college I was a radical and revolutionary in a time of radicalism and revolution. I took part in many of the major events and developments of that decade and played a not insignificant role in them. (enough said) I was usually in the front lines. I will say with pride, however, that I never hurt or tried to hurt another soul; though I can’t say as much about the cops.
Oh to be a man among men. That’s what I wanted to be. Was it a reaction against my inner feminine leanings or was it genuine? No doubt both. So I played college football until an injury forced me to quit, and even while I protested the war in the streets, I longed to join the military—which I came within an eyelash of doing against my will—to test my manhood on the field of battle. And all the time I was dressing like a woman as much as possible in my dorm room—secretly and drowning in shame. So, what did I do? Naturally, I got married, thinking that would help control the compulsion.
Of course, it didn’t. It only got more intense. A decade after graduating college, after two boring jobs that I quit and deciding to go to graduate school, I reached a crisis. On my wife’s suggestion I went into therapy—with a woman. To my masculine side to confess one’s weaknesses, one’s shadow side to a woman was something one should never do. But, I was in extremis, and when given the opportunity, I did so unabashedly. For three full days I cried and sobbed. I couldn’t stop. All the grief and sorrow just came flowing out. Then, slowly and with lots of help I began to reconstruct my shattered personality. I gave up the shameful cross-dressing and practicing other fetishes—though I continued to fantasize about cross-dressing to get release—and was able to integrate some feminine aspects.
How did I do that? A former atheist, I threw myself into an exploration of spirituality. But, nonconformist that I am, I would take nothing on faith. I started by doing past life regression. After an experience that unsettled me to my core, I moved on to trance channeling and intensive dreamwork. I discovered the divine feminine—the Goddess—and began to worship it in its characteristic forms. In retrospect, I can see much of this was a projection of my own inner feminine first onto my therapist and then onto the Unknowable. Nonetheless, I had enough indelible experience of perceiving Goddess energy, that I have never since been shaken in my belief in its reality. Of course, it bothered me somewhat that I was usually the only man in Goddess groups. But, I fought my way through that one—because it was very satisfying being among women.
I then entered the most creative period of my life: a doctorate, four books, two children (my wife did the difficult work for that) and a successful university career—the groundwork all laid in five years. And yet, I wasn’t happy. I thought I was a sex addict and went into a twelve-step program, which I quit after I eventually realized that underlying my fantasizing was something that deserved respect not censure. I joined the men’s movement and achieved initiation into manhood finally—something that I had thought could only be achieved on the field of battle. But even that didn’t make me happy. Then I threw myself into politics again—without the anger born of immaturity—and experienced the joys of working for creative institutional change on behalf of those who are neglected and marginalized. And after two years of that I took stock of myself. I was still unhappy deep inside; something was missing.
I went back to my therapist and told her I was very attracted to the image of men dressed and made up to look like women. I wanted to grow my hair long. I wanted to shop and to hang out with women—not to have an affair, but just to share in feminine concerns. And then for the first time in my life someone whom I trusted sat down next to me and told me that what I wanted was not sick or a disease to be cured, that to be what I came to call “Laura” was acceptable—maybe someone could even love Laura. I didn’t cry—well, ok, not that much—but for days afterward I felt a deep sighing in my body, like a slow exhaling after a deep breath has been held in for one’s whole life. And the first time, someone called me “Laura” I felt a cellular ripple run down my body from my head to my toes. Then I began to cross-dress again after 24 years. But, not out of compulsion; this time it was out of recognition of who I am. And so began, six months ago, a second major reconstruction of my “self.” The journey that is my life continues up the mountain step by step, and the end for the little boy in shorts made of the same material as his mother’s skirt is not in sight. But, now that’s ok.
Love,
Laura
