Gender Dysphoria: How it Feels to Live a Lie

About this story: for those of you who know my style of writing, my stories try to have some depth and seriousness to them. I try not to make them bullshit. I did A LOT of research on TS women i.e. slang terms, medications used, surgeries, testimonies I’d read online, so I think I should have enough info about this to write the story.

I’ve also seen lots of pictures of TS women. The first thing that comes to folks minds is, well she’ll LOOK like a TS woman. Or most of them; mannish, haggard, ugly, pounds of make up to hide the roughness, a man wearing his wife’s clothes and cosmetics. True, but not exactly. There are many that are just like a non-TS woman. I saw a website last summer and was down right shocked at how gorgeous these women looked. These were ones who went through the final surgery. Slender faces, smooth skin, beautiful long hair, shapely figures, and some with very light make up at all. Totally convincing. That’s what my main character looks like. Like you and me. That’s the point of this story. She’s so convincing, no one notices she’s different, so she feels like she doesn’t need to be herself and proud of who she is. She will, but there are bumps and bigger bumps along the way of course.


--Scribbles05

I apologize in advance to those of you who had reviewed this story before the Big Move. If you are here, I encourage you to please review again.

Disclaimer: I own the story. Though brand names of products I may mention, of course are not mine. That’s all.

Prologue

I was fourteen when I realized I was not the person I was supposed to be. I knew for years that I didn’t like sports at all, didn’t care to watch it, play it for real, or play it on video games. I knew I couldn’t stand for my dark brunette hair to be cut into those short cut cropped cuts my father demanded I’d have –I totally believe it was on purpose, to be so uncomfortable wearing suits in public that it was on the borderline of embarrassment, and feel so unconnected with males at school that I never had any of them as friends.

I like softer things; bubble baths, scented lotions, rubber duckies –I stole it from my little brother, Eddie. I’ve wanted to grow my hair out so bad times before, that I would take bath towels or t-shirts and plop them on my head to have that look of long, pretty hair. My favorite color is orange-- which isn’t really a sign of anything different about me, but when your father beats you for wearing bright and “unmanly” colors, I think it can be included in my list—I’d spend hours on end decorating my room and talking to myself, trying to match up clothes that I’ll wear for the rest of that week. I guess I could also add that I don’t look, act, or sound the least bit manly and that I’ve been called a “cute little girl” so many times in public by strangers, my father yells at ME for it.

“So what did all that stuff mean?” I had thought. As a preteen, I had no clue as to what the proper name was for it, but I knew then that I wasn’t meant to be a boy….but a girl.

To say that my family was okay with my little revelation, would be an understatement. More like mixed emotions. I told my older sister, Felicia Pillman, first. At seventeen, she had a bit more knowledge about things in the world. Not to say that my parents didn’t, but because neither of them finished high school and she’s still going, my sister had labels for situations. As you know, I had no friends, so Felicia was my best friend too. She understood me a bit more than my parents and at times, protected me from my father’s wrath. (Notice I call him “father” instead of dad? I feel that to be called a “dad”, you have to earn that right. Father didn’t. He didn’t deserve to be called “father” either, but he smacked me across my face and said I was being “smart” with him, when I called him George once.) Anyway, I walked into Felicia’s room and told her my dilemma one night when father was away working third shift. Pouring out every thought that ever came across my mind, every feeling I had about this and that, every preference that came to mind.

She only responded with one word: transgender. My mouth dropped. “Huh?”

“Don’t you know what transgendered is, Junior?” I shook my head. “You said that you feel embarrassed wearing boy clothes, you don’t feel comfortable around males, and all that other stuff, right?”

“Yeah.” I was so clueless.

“That’s what transgender people feel too. They don’t feel comfortable fulfilling a male role in society.” She leaned back on the headboard of her bed and looked at me for a moment, studying me. “Let me ask you this question. Do you feel like you should’ve been born in another body?”

I looked away from her eyes suddenly and focused on the fabric of her bed sheets. This was all of a sudden getting too real for me. “Yes.” I whispered.

“Do you feel like you should’ve been born a girl?”

My cheeks turned an embarrassed pink tint. I couldn’t believe she was asking me that. But what could I do? Deny it? Why? It was the truth. I nodded my head.

Felicia climbed over one side of the bed, to sit next to me on the other side. She wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “That’s it then, Georgie. You’re transgendered.”

I should’ve been upset. I should’ve been crying, or whimpering, or denying, or whining. Or at least depressingly confused. But I wasn’t. When she said those last two words, I felt an overwhelming sense of clarity. It was all clear to me then. That’s why I was so different. That’s why I didn’t feel accepted with the guys. That’s why I was such a sissy. That’s why. My sister could tell it too by the look on my face.

“You don’t look shocked about it?” She stated.

“Cause I’m not. I’ve known this since as far back as I can remember. I knew there was something about me that others around here didn’t seem to have. You just gave IT a name.”

It was a bit difficult to tell my mama. She had spent so many years protecting me and secretly trying to help mold me into what a young man is supposed to be, it was hard telling her that her eldest son wanted to become a woman. She didn’t believe me at first, putting it off as me just saying silly stuff a typical fourteen year old would probably say. But then she saw the seriousness on my face. She knew I wasn’t joking.

“The joke’s over, Junior. Stop lying to your mother.”

“I’m not lying, mama. As soon as I’m able, I want to start taking steps to being a woman.”

Mama’s knees gave out and she dropped onto the sofa in the family room of our crappy and cramped trailer. Covering her face with her hands, she cried. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to do. I’d never seen mama cry before. Always the strong woman. Beautiful too. In her prime, mama was the youngest Miss Florida at sixteen. Though since then, she’s gained a bit of weight after having three kids. I sat down close to her and lightly touched her shoulder. She lifted her head and I saw her now red face streaked with large tears. Sniffing, she touched the side of my face. A face that looked very similar to hers. “Are you sure this is what you want? You’re positive?”

“Yes. Very positive.”

“You’re a determined little soul. And you’ll do what you set your mind to. No matter what. So I won’t stop you.” She pulled me into a hug and held my head against her bosom, under her chin. “But Lord knows I want to.”

I didn’t feel it really necessary to tell my little brother, Eddie about what my new goal in life was. He was only eight then, so he’d never understand. Besides, I didn’t know what proper sign language to use to tell my brother I was transgendered. I guess I forgot to tell you. Eddie’s deaf/mute. Had been all his life poor thing. To this day, Felicia believes Eddie ended up like that because our folks argued SO bad during the pregnancy. I was too young to fathom it, but she swears by it.

You remember when I said earlier that I had no male friends? I take that back. Eddie was my only one. Out of us four, (Myself, Felicia, Eddie, and mama. Father didn’t give a damn. Calls Eddie a mistake anyway.) I was the quickest to learn the sign language, eager to help my brother communicate with us. Pretty soon, it didn’t take me long to have the sign language down pact. Eddie would follow me everywhere, signing what this and that was. And I’d tell him. All three of us siblings were very close. One looking after the other and vise versa, against our bastard of a father’s harsh words, nasty looks, and ruthless beatings when we could.

I knew for a fact I wasn’t going to tell my father. I knew he probably would’ve killed me. No…I KNOW he would’ve killed me. You have no idea how many times I’ve heard him say to me during his many drunken stupors, “Boy, I’ll kill you dead first before I let you….” Such and such. It had to be a secret. At least until I could find my escape outlet.

And I did. At fifteen, I started taking hormones. The changes that did occur—I say that because there wasn’t hardly any “manliness” to change in me in the beginning-- over the next two years, were hidden behind baggy clothes. One night after having a one-sided argument with my father, I secretly packed my bags, talked to Eddie about my plan, and ran away from home. I hitchhiked a ride to the nearest bus stop and hoped on the first bus I could with the money I had. Which lucky for me, was going all the way to Las Vegas.

In Las Vegas was where George Ashley Pillman Junior died and Gwendolyn Ashley Pillman was born.


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