At Least I’ll Own a Dress…

There was a relatively lengthy moment of silence, then; “You like men? Do you like men?” She stoically queried. “No, no…I don’t. I like women. Girls. I just have this,…this feeling I’ve had my whole life.” I gently stated. It was out now,…i’ve done it,…I did it, said it, itemized it, at least the major plot points, now what?

So, we moved into the kitchen, my favorite place in the whole house. The kitchen table took up most of the space, but no one minded much, as it was the nerve center of all that was really good and for certain, a comfort zone of sorts. The table was that which my parents purchased many years prior when we lived in another town, it was a heavy, darkly stained piece of oak with both leaves removed. This was the kind of table, that when touched, even lightly; you knew there was something there and that I believe was why it was so safe, around which to sit, lean into with your elbows and let your guard down.

Over the years much truth and where many secrets would be kept…at

The Truth Table

We certainly smoked many cigarettes that night, as we continued to talk. I know my mother was hurting from all what I’d told her and she was trying hard to find her way, so at one point she says; “You should see someone, a therapist…” “I have, that’s partly why I’m at the end of my rope and why I really needed to talk with you.”, I said. “They have to be able to help you…”, she states. “He does want to help me, he’s going to help me…” I choke through as I’m preparing to tell her the next bit. “Good, good…I’m glad you’re seeing someone about this,…what do they think,.., this therapist?” She pours coffee for us both and lights another Carlton. “Yes, yes…this doctor I just started seeing,…well he diagnosed me immediately as,…as transgender,…you know,…transsexual…”, I offer, as I unconsciously stir the half&half into my mug of 8 O’ Clock. “Yeah,…uh huh…” she says easily enough.

This is not exactly how I imagined it going, or rather wanted it to go. But this was, I mean though it was definitely difficult, the most difficult conversation I’d ever had, it was going pretty well.

WAIT-A-MINUTE!!!

I don’t think my mom has fully grasped what I’ve just told her. I’m allowing for her not remembering and it’s not an age thing either, we’re only 18 years apart-remember 1958 and that little thing called pregnant before being married thing…sure I can do that, but we’re well past those items now and we are both firmly planted in the present and she is a smart woman, one of the brightest-Salutatorian of her graduating class in High School,…carried a 4.0 GPA attending full-time at Rivier College, all while married with 3 kids and a household to run. Yes intelligent, educated and quick on her feet. But is it possible she’s not getting this?  I’ll try another approach, just to test the waters, see if this will bring it crystal clear.

“Mom,…mum…so this doctor, this thereapist, psychologist,…whatever,…anyway, after he gave his diagnosis, and he’s been doing this a long time, matter of fact Transsexualism is his metier, his specialty. Yeah, I know…yes, they have such things. Well, he…after we finished our first session it was very clear to him that I’m,…my story,…me, what I’m going through is textbook.” I finish and wait. She goes, “Uh huh,…so what’s he think?” “I just told you, he says that I’m a textbook transsexual and his recommendation, he recommended,…he said it’d be a good…”

I’m losing it now…she’s not getting it, but it’s too late…I’m on a roll.

“What? What did he say,…recommend…” another Carlton placed between her lips. “He recommended Hormone Therapy.” I did it! I said it! The whole shebang!!! Me, the one who has always run from conflict and confrontation my entire life. I finally did it! What a relief…wait another minute,…she readies her response…

“So, he’ll give you hormones to make you feel better, that’ll make you feel,…you’ll feel,…so they’re,…he’s going to give you something to increase your hormone levels,…you had low, you have low testosterone,…as long as he knows what he’s doing,…this should make you feel better…” She takes a sip of her coffee and yup,…lights another Carlton.

I’m in the corner now, for sure. Now I don’t get it. What more, how much more clearly could I have explained, told her every major moment and the present. C’mon…I just want to crawl under the table, The Truth Table, where even the truth is able to get lost in the translation.

“Mom,…mum…what I’m saying is, is that his recommendation, based on his diagnosis of my being transsexual, is that I should immediately begin hormone replacement therapy,…estrogen accompanied by an anti-androgen and that after a time, after a certain amount of time, that I should start living, working and presenting as a girl,…a kind of assimilation,…you know…”

I once again prepare myself for her response.

Sipping her coffee, dragging on her Carlton; gently, yet firmly she begins -

“You were born,…God made you,…He created you a boy and, and…there’s nothing wrong with being a sensitive man,…a man who likes,…likes beautiful,…enjoys pretty things. That’s O.K.,…it’s alright for a man to like, to enjoy, theatre, music and, and…things like that. There is nothing wrong with that.”

“I know, I know that. But mom, what I’m trying to tell,…to tell,…tell you…”, I plead.

“But if you think, think that by growing,…developing breasts, that that will make you a woman,…you’ll never be a woman. A real woman. You won’t be able to bear children, you have no womb. You won’t even be able to have a period.”

“I know, I know,…but there are plenty of women who don’t,…can’t bear children…”, I feebly attempt a counter-point.

“And besides, your grandfather will never be able to accept it, nor your brothers and your father. They will never be able to accept this.”

She’s now pretty emphatic and sees me completely decimated across the table and she reaches out in the only way she could; “If you decide to go through with this, do this,…yes, I will love you no matter, I will always love you,…but I don’t know,…I don’t think I’ll ever be able to accept this either.”

So there it was,…it had been told, discussed to whatever degree and there it was;

My Deep Dark Secret exposed, bathed in the brightest light to the person I loved the most and I had hurt her, hurt her in a way that only I, her child could do.

Suppress. Suppress. Suppress.

It would be another 10 years before I would again deal with my transsexualism.

In the meantime, I had drugs to do.