I was incredibly nervous as I prepared to venture out as Melanie for the first time in
nearly a year. I had made arrangements with my dad to watch the kids for the day, and had
taken my old clothes, make-up and wig out of plastic bag storage in the garage. Earlier in
the morning, I had used my old supply of "Nair" to get rid of the hair on my
legs and arms.
It took a long time to get everything just right, but eventually, I was satisfied that
even if I looked awful, it was enough to convince the doctor that I was serious. In truth,
I needed to make the breakthrough into the mainstream of actual medical care so strongly,
that I would have walked a gauntlet or red-necks in three-inch heels to latch onto a
program that would lead where I wanted to go.
I checked my appearance one final time. Hair - ratty, make-up - cakey, skirt -
laughably short, high-heeled shoes - preposterous. In summary, I was ready. I sneaked out
of the house, slunk into my car, and boldly set off to find my destiny. Driving through
the city and down the freeway was exhilarating. I knew that I was a woman to all who saw
me, and I anxiously hoped with every fiber of my being that the doctor would see fit to
make that dream a reality.
The medical center itself was a modern ten-story facility, not the sleazy back-room
affair I had anticipated. I parked across the street and (after some hunting) found the
front entrance. I went looking for room 1009, but there were only two levels in this part
of the building. I had no idea where to find the office, nor the certainty that I could
(with my nervousness) pull off a conversation to get directions.
Just when I was feeling most distressed, a ten-year-old boy showed up out of nowhere,
took one look at me and asked if I needed some help. I told him, in a breaking voice, the
number of the office I wanted. He said it was in the other building, and asked if I knew
how to get there. I replied in bad falsetto that I didn't. He said, "Do you want me
to show you?" I gagged out, "Sure..." He said, "Come on..." and
bolted down the hall.
I don't know if he was the son of someone who worked there, or perhaps a patient
himself. But he darted down the corridors and around corners like he had designed the
place. The only question he ever asked was, "Are you going for plastic surgery?"
Thanks a lot, kid! Anyway, after two minutes of mind-boggling twists and turns (him
run-walking and me trotting gracelessly down the slippery floors in high heels) we arrived
at the elevators. "Tenth floor", he said, smiled, and left as mysteriously as he
had arrived. "Thank you!", I croaked as he disappeared around a bend.
Fortunately, the elevator was empty, and I was unmolested, embarrassed or ashamed on
the way up. The doors opened revealing the tenth floor: the location of my destiny. I
stepped into the hall and checked the office listings until I found the prescribed number.
Gripping the knob with a sweaty but determined hand, I gave it a turn and stepped inside.
The room was small, but well decorated (by waiting room standards). There was one
short, round lady sitting in the corner and the reception desk straight ahead. I walked
up, asked for Ann, as I had been instructed to do, and was told to sit down and wait.
No sooner had I lowered myself, as lady-like as possible into a chair, but the
plumpish, weathered woman began to speak. In broken English, she told me the story of her
life; her days in San Francisco, her stint as a land-lady and run-in with the Housing
Authority, the death of her husband and how she coped. All the while, she rarely required
a reply (thank God!) content to have a live body as audience that had not been initiated
into her life previously.
I nodded with sympathy and understanding, peppered with an occasional "uh
huh...", and she seemed not only satisfied, but almost euphoric. Once, the nurse
caught my eye and smiled knowingly, in empathy with my ordeal.
Finally, my name was called, and I stood to the window to fill out information and
answer questions. Then, out of nowhere, the nurse asked if I wanted to buy the pills
today. I was shocked! Suddenly here was another human being, a qualified, legitimate
medical professional just GIVING them to me! "Yes!", I stammered, fumbling the
required twenty-two dollars out of my purse.
Bill paid, the door opened and I was beckoned inside so meet my future. I flushed from
head to toe as I crossed that threshold into the unknown.
I was ushered down the hall to an examining room, where the nurse sat me down, handed
me a bottle of 100 2.5 mg estrogen pills, "Take one a day, and don't miss any!",
and took my blood pressure. I just kept staring at that bottle, unable to take my eyes
from it, transfixed to the reality and weight of the decision I was about to make.
The doctor came in, asked some routine questions and told me to "bend over the
table." for a prostrate exam. I hardly noticed the pain.
Finally, Ann came back with two syringes, one for vitamins and one, the fateful one,
with a mix of estrogen and progesterone in sesame oil for slow release. She asked me to
stand and raise my skirt. I complied, my heart racing as I contemplated the path I was
beginning, the reality of a lifetime of dreams.
I stared out of the tenth floor window, across the city, bustling with thousands of
ant-like people, going about their daily routines, unaware of the change of life that was
about to occur 100 feet above them. I stared out toward the ocean, across the universe,
across the years, as my entire life collapsed into an abstract desire whose fulfillment
would begin with the sharp prick of the needle that hovered behind me.
And then, I felt the tiny pain as the steel shaft slid into the tissue of my derriere,
then slowly deposit its cargo of womanhood, rushing into my system, realigning the
workings of my entire anatomy, so that its new responses would ultimately transform me
into a true and undeniable woman. That brief moment lasted an eternity for me as I savored
the upwelling of emotion, knowing that I had the courage to take that first step. And, now
that I had, there would be no going back. I was on the road to womanhood, and I would not
stop until I reached my destination.
I fixed my clothes, left the office, and felt incredibly feminine as I sashayed down
the hall, riding the most pleasurable high I have ever experienced. Down the elevator and
back to the car. Onto the freeway and across town. Into the driveway and the house. It all
blurred together with the knowledge that the hormones were working already. Carrying their
undeniable commands to all parts of my body. Telling my most basic systems, "This is
a woman, do your job!"
I didn't come down all day, and I fell asleep with a smile on my face.
(The preceding entry was written the morning after, August 2, 1989)
[Author's note: There are about three weeks missing between the first diary entry
and the second. I had no idea at the time, that I would be documenting my transition so
fully, and had only written the first entry since I am a writer by trade and by love.
Writing for me has always been a natural way to work out my feelings. Nonetheless, several
important events transpired before my entries became regular, so I document them here for
clarity. The Saturday following my first Doctor's appointment there was a support group
meeting hosted by the fellow who had recommended the hormone doctor to me. Mary did not
yet know about my recent hormone use, although I had told her of my fantasy of being
female a year ago, and had even confessed I had tried hormones briefly. After that, I had
grown a mustache to prove to her that I would not follow that direction any further than
fantasy. So, I elected not to tell her I was on hormones, but tell her only about the
support group meeting and use that as an excuse for having shaved off my mustache.
She did not like my going out dressed as Melanie, and refused to see me dressed as a
woman, instead taking the kids to a movie so I could get ready in peace.
It took me three hours to put myself together in those days, and I needed every
minute. I was more nervous than I had ever been as the time drew near. Being summer, it
was still light when I finally left at 6 pm, sure that the neighbors would find out.
The drive was scary, but exhilarating. I had actually never met another transsexual
and had no contact or knowledge of the community so I had no idea what to expect.
The meeting was at a private home in the San Fernando Valley, in the midst of a
typical suburban neighborhood. I parked my car and gingerly made my way up the walk. I
couldn't tell where to enter from: there were several doors. I knocked on one, but got no
response. I began to fear that I had the address or the time wrong and that some angry
homeowner would leap out with a shotgun and end the adventure right there.
Finally, I moved around to the alcove and saw a note taped to the door:
"Welcome, Come on in". Would there be five people there? Fifty? Would any of
them also be "dressed"? (I was wearing the same outlandish outfit I had worn to
the doctor's - it was the only one I had). Most important, would they think I was pretty?
I was the second one to arrive. The host, Lee, introduced me to the first
guest, a middle-aged man named Bill. I was the only one dressed as a woman. I felt like an
absolute fool. Lee urged me to sit anywhere. I selected a spot on the couch across from
them. And they returned to their animated conversation. I felt completely out of place.
Three or four other men arrived for the 6:30 pre-meeting class on Gender
Identification, and none of them were dressed either. At this point I would have left in a
flash, except THAT would have embarrassed me even more.
Finally the class started, and Lee illustrated the differences between anatomical
sex (male or female) sexual preference (straight, gay, or bi) and gender identity
(masculine or feminine). He explained how none of them were tied together and any
combination was possible. I finally began to understand for the first time, just what
nature of beast I was.
Toward the end of the 90 minute class, other people started to filter in for the
support group portion of the meeting. And some of them were "dressed"!!!
FINALLY!!!! I was not alone!
Eventually, about 30 people had arrived: gays, bis, TVs, pre-op and post-op
transsexuals. REAL transsexuals! I had never been so close! Everyone was warm and
friendly, even the truck drivers in the tutus (not really, but that was the impression a
couple of them gave.
The one thing that impressed me the most, was that each of these people was
friendly, sincere, respectful, and willing to accept everyone for whatever and whoever
they were. No ridicule, no recrimination.
The format was a round robin, and at my turn, I had my first experience impressing
people with who I was. I was nervous, to be sure, and my voice was a joke. I kept trying
to gesture in a feminine manner, but managed only to look stiff and stilted. Still and
all, the group accepted me as one of their own and I felt like I had come home.
Afterward, I ended up talking at length with the guest who was there when I arrived,
Bill It turned out that was HIS first meeting as well. He was TV, but had never dressed in
front of anyone. He was also a writer and asked if I might like to co-author something
with him. I agreed, and we exchanged phone numbers.
Later in the week, he called and invited me to lunch at the Rose City Diner in
Pasadena, not far from the route of the Tournament of Roses Parade (whose official film I
had worked on).
I arrived with excitement, as I had never gone to an eating establishment as a woman
before, nor had I as a woman had lunch with a man.
He greeted me outside with a handshake. When we walked to the door, he opened it for
me. Hey, this was great! He gave his name to the waitress and it was only a moment before
a table opened up.
It never occurred to me that the woman is supposed to go first behind the waitress
(you never think about what you don't do) so it wasn't until he indicated I should that I
finally realized I was screwing up already!
I then realized that here was my first trip out that wasn't just a quick romp and he
had selected the busiest diner in all of Southern California at the peak of lunch hour!
And the tables were all open, so I would be in full view with nowhere to hide.
I looked over the menu, and selected the Chicken Salad, as the item least likely to
attract attention. He ordered for me, "The young lady will have..." We talked
for a while, man and woman out for lunch, and then the order arrived - with fanfare!
Here was the biggest chicken salad I had ever seen! A tostada shell filled about a
foot high with every imaginable garnish. The waitress had to strain to carry it! Every eye
in the place turned to see who had ordered this monstrosity. So much for anonymity! (To
this day, I have not been able to order a chicken salad in a restaurant!)
Well, I made it through the meal, and actually had a good time. After lunch, we
walked up and down the streets of Old Towne Pasadena, stopping in shops and talking about
his story that we might work on together. We said goodbye with another handshake and went
our separate ways.
Meanwhile, the hormones began to take affect. As predicted, on the 10th day after my
first shot, my nipples began to swell slightly - actually more of a puffiness - and became
tender.
I have never been able to keep a secret from Mary, so once again, I broke down and
told her everything. She was upset, but we did not have an argument. In fact, we discussed
the issues rather calmly, and even arrived at a tentative agreement that would allow us to
stay together. The confrontation I had dreaded never really materialized. In fact, it was
something of a let down. I almost yearned for, no, REQUIRED a major event, just to mark or
prove my resolve. But it didn't happen, and that left me feeling somewhat unsettled,
almost as if nothing had really happened at all.
It was in this state of unfulfilled confusion that I made my next entry.
August 25, 1989
So much has happened, but nothing's occurred. The hurricane I call my life surrounds my
quiet eye with a turmoil of events, and yet all of them collectively are a process, not a
condition, and nothing tangible has congealed in the gale; perhaps it never will.
It all goes back to my childhood, and with any luck, it would've stayed there. But such
is not my lot. The seeds planted in my young mind by environment, were nurtured in the
fertility of my genetic stew. The twisting vines that sprang forth have so entwined my
psyche as to be indistinguishable from it.
I believe myself to be female, from the inside out. The question poised upon resolution
is: have I become female from subconscious efforts on my part to achieve that condition,
or have I always been of that kiln and only now am realizing it?
Hopefully, Time will tell, while it heals all wounds.
August 26, 1989
Bill called me again a couple of days after our first "date". I thanked him
for a good time and told him how natural it had felt for me. He told me that he had to
keep reminding himself that I wasn't actually a woman, and I put on a breathy voice and
told him, "Don't remind yourself." He said okay.
Our conversation drifted through many areas including my admission that for the first
time in my life, I was attracted to a man. I told him I found his quiet strength, but
gentle eyes very sexy. He admitted that ever since the support group meeting, he had been
extremely attracted to me. But he was worried, as he was married and totally straight. I
told him not to worry, he was just responding to the woman he saw, not to the remaining
male underneath.
He had told his wife about our meeting, but not that I was meeting him as Melanie. She
responded that it was okay, as long as he didn't bring me home. But as the conversation
ended, he asked again if I wanted to write with him and I told him I very much wanted to.
He decided that it was best to meet at his home, so we agreed.
All week long, I thought about the upcoming meeting and found myself hoping that I
would have my first experience with a guy. If things went as I wanted to, I'd experience
my first kiss.
The day before our meeting I found myself doing all kinds of female things to get ready
that I had heard about but never done myself. I bought a new skirt: a pleated, frilly
thing, just so I would look more desirable and feminine.
The day of the meeting I spent twice as long as usual with my make-up, intentionally
wore the pull-over top he had first seen me in, and added a second spray of perfume. In
short, I was a female planning to trap my man.
When I arrived, we began to work on the story, but as he is TV and I am TS, the
conversation naturally drifted. I re-iterated that I was confused by my new feelings
toward the "opposite sex". He admitted that he was worried by how much he was
thinking of a relationship with me, when he was a happily married man.
I allowed myself to begin to cry, knowing exactly what effect that would have on him.
And he responded as planned. He opened his arms and said, "Come here..." I
melted into his embrace and clung to his strong arms while he held me tight and comforted
me.
It's hard to describe the feelings that went through my head at that moment. For the
first time in my life, my need to be cuddled and protected was being fulfilled. I was not
expected to be strong, to hold my emotions in check. I could respond as I felt, weak and
helpless, and let him take control. These were the same needs I had gotten married in
order to fulfill fourteen years ago, but had never found in my marriage.
Well, I pulled myself together and we returned to the story for the few remaining
minutes before we both had to leave. But at the door, as I was fiddling in my purse for my
keys, I heard him say again behind me, "Come here..." I turned and found his
arms open for me. I eased into them and felt him hold me tight. I held him close, then, in
mutual need, we loosened our grips slightly, looked into each other's eyes for a fleeting
moment, as if to confirm what we both wanted, then our lips met for mere seconds in a
tentative, almost brother/sister kiss.
We again fell into each others arms, then broke away and nervously fumbled our way to
the door. We each left for our cars without another word or glance. But all the way home I
basked in the afterglow of the completeness I had finally achieved for the first time in
my thirty-six years.
Afterward, I went to my weekly doctor appointment, more anxious than ever for another
dose of the medication that was making me into the woman I wanted to be; the woman I
NEEDED to be...
August 29, 1989
Mary has been much more content today, and her almost-happiness has made my depressive
clouds evaporate. It seems she has accepted my offer that I will not appear in her
presences as Melanie, will not tell the kids until they find out for themselves, and will
remain faithful to her as long as we stay together. In exchange, she will remain through
the hormone treatment and even SRS. I can have an outside life as Melanie, as long as it
doesn't get back to her.
Now I realize, of course, that this is only a temporary solution. Within the space of
several moths to a year, it will be extremely difficult for me to successfully appear as a
male. And as soon as the kids crawl up on my chest, they're going to know something is up!
Plus, there's the terrible strain of leading a double life, while trying to develop one
of those lives and whither the other. But at least it gives us both time to find
ourselves, and most important, it gives Mary the chance to accept the changes and perhaps
even allow me to go "full-time" and still keep our relationship. And after all,
it works for Clark Kent, doesn't it?
August 30, 1989
It's so hard to know when I've really decided anything. Just as soon as I think my true
drives and emotions are coming into view, another life-changing revelation jumps in to
screw things up! But today, so many pieces QUIETLY fell into place that I trust this new
view, as it came in like a lamb. A very STRONG lamb, to be sure, but not with bells and
whistles.
I was at the lumber yard with an old Boy Scout friend, Chuck. While he was having some
cutting done, I wandered down the isles of stacked lumber, breathing in the fragrance of
freshly cut wood. Pleasant emotional memories began to filter through my mind like
sunlight through the sawdust.
I remembered my woodshop days in Junior High; the smooth, solid feel of the finished
pieces, the deep glow of the polished varnish, the satisfaction of creating an object of
beauty and function from a simple block of wood. And I remembered trips that Mary and I
had taken to the lumber store throughout our marriage. I re-enjoyed the thrill of picking
out just what I needed for a project: a project that had her totally confused. Not that
she couldn't have easily done the job herself, but that it was MY domain, the HUSBAND'S
domain, and she chose not to tread there.
Suddenly, I realized that these were aspects of the male life I didn't want to give up.
Sometimes I enjoy and want to continue to enjoy being the knowledgeable protector and
handyman. This didn't lessen my desire to be the submissive and protected partner, but
rather to add that to the other facets of my life as well.
In that moment, in a gentle revolution, my male and female persons merged and melded
for the first time. I was not longer Dave or Melanie, I was me. ME!!! I didn't have to
conform to either role, regardless of the sex I ultimately choose to be. All at once, I
didn't care what others thought of my attitudes, gestures, or activities. All I needed was
to be true to myself in either role, and the rest of the world could come along or get
lost.
This was not an emotion of vindictiveness, but of freedom. I cannot recall a time in my
life when I was not secretly terrified to cross a street for fear of what the oncoming
pedestrians would think of me. It didn't matter what I thought of myself, but just the
image I projected to them; and I was not at all sure of that! I was self-conscious of my
walk, my arm movements, my thin wrists. I frequently would pretend to scratch an itch on
my face, just to raise my wedding ring where it could be seen: a badge for all to
acknowledge that at least someone thought I was male enough to marry, so I must be okay,
no matter what YOU think, NYAHH!!!
But that afternoon, I walked down the street outside my office, drifting with the
clouds, feeling the light breeze on my face and listening to the rumbling sound of the
traffic, like mechanical babbling of a concrete brook. And everyone encountered was not a
test to be passed, but a fellow human being of no greater or lesser value than myself.
Thirty-three years of affected gesticulation fell away, and I walked without conscious
control, swinging my arms without concern in whatever manner felt natural, without
censorship.
I cannot recall a time in which I had not constantly been aware of every movement, at
least on a subliminal level, to prevent any possibility of disapproval by even casual
acquaintances, even STRANGERS, for that matter! But today, I simply let all that go, or
perhaps it was taken from me. Today I became myself, not anyone's expectations of me.
This evening, at home, Mary told me she had shared our problem with a friend at work -
a gay guy whom she often jokes with. That, to me, was her most significant reaction since
this all started. Because, what this really means is that she has finally accepted that
what I have been telling her is real: not just a strange imagining. She may never come to
terms with it, at at least she is truly acknowledging it. Thank God!
August 31, 1989
Today may have been the most uneventful since this all began. It's strange to
contemplate that someday, the changes I have set in motion may seem commonplace. Then
years later: the excitement has worn off, the struggle nearly forgotten. The strangeness
of my new body has become its normal feel, and the question, even awareness of what sex I
am, what gender, never enters my conscious thought.
What then of my life? The wind still blows, the sun still shines. What will I have
gained? Perhaps nothing. So what will I have lost? Perhaps everything. Or perhaps the
other way around. Ask me again in ten years.
Tonight, Mary told me she had confided in another friend at work. This confirms my view
that she is coming to terms with the reality of the situation. She was given a
recommendation by both of her confidants to see the same psychologist for counseling.
Amazingly, she has taken the advice and intends to meet with a professional.
I worry about her; I worry about myself too, of course, and THAT is mostly what I
consider at the intellectual level, but for Mary I worry with my heart. I do not know if I
can live a life without her. But I suspect I could not live a life without following my
own needs. If the two diverge, I am not sure what I will do.
So, now that she is facing it all and now that she is talking to someone who can help,
I know that she will become strong. There is a deep sense of loss in this, as I know that
I will no longer be the one she comes to for strength, but will either find it within
herself or from someone else. Rather than being her source of conflict, I will, or perhaps
have already, become the object of her fears or anguish. I cannot wish her not to find
that comfort; I love her too much, but as I write these words, my eyes fill with tears
that I am not the one providing it.
Mixed with my own fear and anguish is a strange excitement, an almost giddy elation
that at thirty-three years of dreams may ACTUALLY become REALITY. To really awaken in the
morning and know that I am truly a woman, not in fantasy, not in costume, but in
actuality, fills me with a jittery nervousness of anticipation: a school-girl rush just
before her first date.
I intend to let Mary read this entry when I am through, and though I know she will be
disheartened, perhaps even disgusted by these admissions, I need her to know. I need her
to know that I do not bring this upon us from lack of love or insensitivity, but from a
driving force so strong that, left denied, it would have torn us both apart in years to
come, or at best doomed me to a private hell of always wondering, yearning to find out and
feeling my life had never been more than a series of days.
If I could change this, I would. And the fact that I enjoy it so much makes it all the
harder to defend as a need. But the lack of joy is the need, and the need fulfilled
becomes the joy. Will I follow this through? Can I live without the half of my life that
Mary represents? Will God smile upon me and let me have both? Somehow I doubt He will.
There is always a price for inner peace and perhaps perpetual grief is mine.
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