Born In the Wrong Body
Out shopping one day, shortly after I turned sixteen, I walked down a well-lit
hallway that led to the public restrooms. Rounding a turn in the hall, the two
doors came into view on opposite walls. Before turning away from the women’s
room, as I stared at the door, quick flashes of a more Utopian life passed through
my mind. A middle-age woman glanced my way before disappearing inside. It
would have felt natural to follow her in, though that would have made her gasp in
horror.
That’s because I still looked like a man, barely a year out of a late puberty.
Not a masculine man, a wimpy one. Still, during puberty, my body had changed
in a way that broke my heart. When the other girls at school were looking at their
new breasts in the mirror, I was looking at a penis that had gotten larger.
Call it a temporary lapse, me wanting to forget my body’s configured
differently than the other women that use that room. Given certain circumstances,
I would have these fleeting fantasies of feeling normal; usually followed by
memories of the day my mother, after catching me looking at myself in the mirror
in a pair of nylon panties, went through every drawer in my room and threw out
all the female intimates I had hidden; or those days in junior high PE class,
changing into those awful gym shorts, invariably humiliated when Johnny Perkins
taunted me, mocked my slender hairless body, my girlie white skin, my small
boyish penis.
It was my sense of self, my feminine sensibilities that urged me to use the
restroom I felt most comfortable in, instead of facing the lifelong dread of making
myself go in and pee with the men. It didn’t matter the rest of my world saw me
as a man, for me it was impossible to accept. It didn’t matter my shoulders were
small and my protruding nipples sometimes felt swollen and sensitive, as if they
were about to blossom into full blown breasts (but never did); I was stuck with the
basic shape of a male. It didn’t matter if I secretly shaved my underarms and
legs; I still looked like a man. But I’m not. Not then, that day at Macy’s; not
now. I’m a woman. Born a woman and destined to stay a woman for the rest of
my life.
I had been looking at the swimsuits in Macy’s, wondering what I would look
like in a stringy two piece, never mind being almost decade away from all the
necessary treatments and operations. I would do things like that to escape the
tormenting world I lived in, always checking to make sure no one who knew me
was in the store before holding something up in front of the mirror to see how it
would look on me.
So how do I describe the conflicts that haunted me every time my parents
looked at me with unspoken questions and doubt; every time the boys mocked me
and called me a sissy while the girls looked on with detached pity; every time I
saw a dress in a store window I’d love to try on, but to do so meant I must be a
pervert; every time my eyes fell on a boy’s lips I would love to kiss, only to
realize kissing me was the last thing he would want to do? How do I tell you how
wretched I felt every miserable time I considered patronizing a gay bar to find out
what it would be like to sleep with a man, only to walk away in shame and self-
loathing before entering the door?
That day at Macy’s I was still a college degree and a few years into my career
away from my first hormone injections, a physical and emotional transition that’s
enormously expensive. It had been one more of one day at a time. When I finally
finished my last two years of high school, I still faced three years of loneliness
without ever having a date. I couldn’t bring myself to ask a girl out. What was
the point? I was attracted to men; not gay men, but men who were attracted to
women, perhaps the most confounding aspect of this unwanted torment. My
misguided genes had reduced my options for romance to zero. But by then I had
a plan.
In college I learned it’s called gender angst: an overwhelming feeling of being a
woman born with a male form, a dread of passing in front of a mirror, a love/hate
relationship with one’s body, especially one’s genitals. You long for a man’s
breath whispering in your ear, only to realize you’re the one expected to be the
whisperer, and it’s suppose to be in some other lovely young temptress’s ear.
You want to feel smooth and soft and feel a light airy dress caressing the curves of
your body; instead, you find yourself standing before a steam-filmed mirror,
shaving off the hair that threatens to hide your jaw, something no woman can
imagine herself doing.
Growing up, I never felt a sense of controversy about who I am. Only
despair. Through puberty and my teenage years, and on into adulthood, I never
felt an urge to act or look like a man. I did, however, struggle to be accepted,
failing no matter how hard I tried to fit in. I identified with the girls, but didn’t
look like them; I looked like the boys, but couldn’t understand why they liked to
play baseball, hit each other on the arm, yell catcalls at the girls. Eventually, I quit
trying. Except for Christie. I’m not sure I could have survived my adolescence
had it not been for her, the girl down the street, my best friend. Somehow she
understood I was different and accepted me for who I am. I’ll never forget the
hours we spent together, confiding in each other, giggling about incidents that had
happened at school, gossiping about classmates. It didn’t bother her if I behaved
like a girl. One day in her room, when her parents were away on vacation, she
applied makeup to my face. I still remember how it felt to sit staring at my
reflection, watching the metamorphosis. “You’re beautiful,” she said, admiring
her handiwork. “Too bad you’re not a girl.”
In college, I approached my psychology professor one day after class. He sat
behind his desk quietly listening to my story. Then his eyes lifted and he studied
me. “So this is why I have an IT major in my psychology class,” he said as a
sympathetic smile formed on his face. We met later in a coffee shop where he
began an impromptu psychological analysis; which, for the first time in my
tormented life, happened to be the first time I was able to talk to someone about
who I am, the first time I had felt a sense of relief. Eventually, after several more
discussions over coffee, he concurred with my plan—I was a natural candidate for
sexual reassignment.
After college, one year into my new job in the information technology industry,
I finally started the hormone injections, planning to eventually have breast
implants; but decided against that when my own reached size C on their own. By
the time I had worked two years, I had just about saved enough money for the
final operation, the procedure that would remove my testicles and transform my
much-ignored penis into a vital effervescent vagina. It had become a matter of
being prepared emotionally for the last step; a step that, as it turns out, also
involved a certain man I had fallen in love with; a man that, much to my surprise,
had become indecisive. Today, if you saw me in a swimsuit or wearing nothing
more than a pair of panties, and my genitals are pulled back and securely taped
into place between my legs, you’d think you were looking a very attractive young
woman, if I do say so myself.
Since I wore loose-fitting business clothes to work, no one noticed my
body’s subtle changes. My hips had become fuller, providing me with more of an
hour glass shape. My ass had rounded and taken on the more pronounced curves
of a woman. My legs looked less muscular and more feminine, even longer,
though I felt certain that was an illusion. Much of my body hair had thinned and
disappeared. The more stubborn hairs were dealt with by way of laser hair
removal, including my face. I had quit having to shave. My arms had grown
slender and felt weaker. My entire body mass was softer. Many of my male
coworkers wore long hair, so no one paid heed to mine as it grew longer. In the
privacy of my apartment, wearing full makeup, I finally looked like I wanted to,
everywhere except between my legs. It was time for the next phase.
Out shopping one day, shortly after I turned sixteen, I walked down a well-lit
hallway that led to the public restrooms. Rounding a turn in the hall, the two
doors came into view on opposite walls. Before turning away from the women’s
room, as I stared at the door, quick flashes of a more Utopian life passed through
my mind. A middle-age woman glanced my way before disappearing inside. It
would have felt natural to follow her in, though that would have made her gasp in
horror.
That’s because I still looked like a man, barely a year out of a late puberty.
Not a masculine man, a wimpy one. Still, during puberty, my body had changed
in a way that broke my heart. When the other girls at school were looking at their
new breasts in the mirror, I was looking at a penis that had gotten larger.
Call it a temporary lapse, me wanting to forget my body’s configured
differently than the other women that use that room. Given certain circumstances,
I would have these fleeting fantasies of feeling normal; usually followed by
memories of the day my mother, after catching me looking at myself in the mirror
in a pair of nylon panties, went through every drawer in my room and threw out
all the female intimates I had hidden; or those days in junior high PE class,
changing into those awful gym shorts, invariably humiliated when Johnny Perkins
taunted me, mocked my slender hairless body, my girlie white skin, my small
boyish penis.
It was my sense of self, my feminine sensibilities that urged me to use the
restroom I felt most comfortable in, instead of facing the lifelong dread of making
myself go in and pee with the men. It didn’t matter the rest of my world saw me
as a man, for me it was impossible to accept. It didn’t matter my shoulders were
small and my protruding nipples sometimes felt swollen and sensitive, as if they
were about to blossom into full blown breasts (but never did); I was stuck with the
basic shape of a male. It didn’t matter if I secretly shaved my underarms and
legs; I still looked like a man. But I’m not. Not then, that day at Macy’s; not
now. I’m a woman. Born a woman and destined to stay a woman for the rest of
my life.
I had been looking at the swimsuits in Macy’s, wondering what I would look
like in a stringy two piece, never mind being almost decade away from all the
necessary treatments and operations. I would do things like that to escape the
tormenting world I lived in, always checking to make sure no one who knew me
was in the store before holding something up in front of the mirror to see how it
would look on me.
So how do I describe the conflicts that haunted me every time my parents
looked at me with unspoken questions and doubt; every time the boys mocked me
and called me a sissy while the girls looked on with detached pity; every time I
saw a dress in a store window I’d love to try on, but to do so meant I must be a
pervert; every time my eyes fell on a boy’s lips I would love to kiss, only to
realize kissing me was the last thing he would want to do? How do I tell you how
wretched I felt every miserable time I considered patronizing a gay bar to find out
what it would be like to sleep with a man, only to walk away in shame and self-
loathing before entering the door?
That day at Macy’s I was still a college degree and a few years into my career
away from my first hormone injections, a physical and emotional transition that’s
enormously expensive. It had been one more of one day at a time. When I finally
finished my last two years of high school, I still faced three years of loneliness
without ever having a date. I couldn’t bring myself to ask a girl out. What was
the point? I was attracted to men; not gay men, but men who were attracted to
women, perhaps the most confounding aspect of this unwanted torment. My
misguided genes had reduced my options for romance to zero. But by then I had
a plan.
In college I learned it’s called gender angst: an overwhelming feeling of being a
woman born with a male form, a dread of passing in front of a mirror, a love/hate
relationship with one’s body, especially one’s genitals. You long for a man’s
breath whispering in your ear, only to realize you’re the one expected to be the
whisperer, and it’s suppose to be in some other lovely young temptress’s ear.
You want to feel smooth and soft and feel a light airy dress caressing the curves of
your body; instead, you find yourself standing before a steam-filmed mirror,
shaving off the hair that threatens to hide your jaw, something no woman can
imagine herself doing.
Growing up, I never felt a sense of controversy about who I am. Only
despair. Through puberty and my teenage years, and on into adulthood, I never
felt an urge to act or look like a man. I did, however, struggle to be accepted,
failing no matter how hard I tried to fit in. I identified with the girls, but didn’t
look like them; I looked like the boys, but couldn’t understand why they liked to
play baseball, hit each other on the arm, yell catcalls at the girls. Eventually, I quit
trying. Except for Christie. I’m not sure I could have survived my adolescence
had it not been for her, the girl down the street, my best friend. Somehow she
understood I was different and accepted me for who I am. I’ll never forget the
hours we spent together, confiding in each other, giggling about incidents that had
happened at school, gossiping about classmates. It didn’t bother her if I behaved
like a girl. One day in her room, when her parents were away on vacation, she
applied makeup to my face. I still remember how it felt to sit staring at my
reflection, watching the metamorphosis. “You’re beautiful,” she said, admiring
her handiwork. “Too bad you’re not a girl.”
In college, I approached my psychology professor one day after class. He sat
behind his desk quietly listening to my story. Then his eyes lifted and he studied
me. “So this is why I have an IT major in my psychology class,” he said as a
sympathetic smile formed on his face. We met later in a coffee shop where he
began an impromptu psychological analysis; which, for the first time in my
tormented life, happened to be the first time I was able to talk to someone about
who I am, the first time I had felt a sense of relief. Eventually, after several more
discussions over coffee, he concurred with my plan—I was a natural candidate for
sexual reassignment.
After college, one year into my new job in the information technology industry,
I finally started the hormone injections, planning to eventually have breast
implants; but decided against that when my own reached size C on their own. By
the time I had worked two years, I had just about saved enough money for the
final operation, the procedure that would remove my testicles and transform my
much-ignored penis into a vital effervescent vagina. It had become a matter of
being prepared emotionally for the last step; a step that, as it turns out, also
involved a certain man I had fallen in love with; a man that, much to my surprise,
had become indecisive. Today, if you saw me in a swimsuit or wearing nothing
more than a pair of panties, and my genitals are pulled back and securely taped
into place between my legs, you’d think you were looking a very attractive young
woman, if I do say so myself.
Since I wore loose-fitting business clothes to work, no one noticed my
body’s subtle changes. My hips had become fuller, providing me with more of an
hour glass shape. My ass had rounded and taken on the more pronounced curves
of a woman. My legs looked less muscular and more feminine, even longer,
though I felt certain that was an illusion. Much of my body hair had thinned and
disappeared. The more stubborn hairs were dealt with by way of laser hair
removal, including my face. I had quit having to shave. My arms had grown
slender and felt weaker. My entire body mass was softer. Many of my male
coworkers wore long hair, so no one paid heed to mine as it grew longer. In the
privacy of my apartment, wearing full makeup, I finally looked like I wanted to,
everywhere except between my legs. It was time for the next phase.
