The Girls

Growing up as a guy two things always interested me, boobs.  Yep boobs.  From my earliest thoughts boobs where there.  From my mother feeding me, my teacher leaning over my desk, adolescent girls with their budding new friends, and finally into adulthood there they were.  Something just draws your eyes to them.  I don’t know if it’s just that I didn’t have them, or was it that I wanted them, or was it the plunging neck line with the gleaming silver pendant nestled safely between them like the little guy who brings back up when you owe money?

 

By the time you’re an adult, girls have dealt with these things from the age of 13 or so.  They’ve gone through the itching, the pain, the feeling of the bounce, and finally the lowering eyes of any man who’s attempting to have a conversation with them.  The training bras, the cleavage, the feeling of joy when you finally take your bra off..  Women take this for granted.

For a tranny like me, boobs can be a big deal.  For me it wasn’t until I was 38 when I finally felt something behind my nipple.  It was like a pea. Like someone put a little pebble in there, and OMG did it hurt if you touched it.  Not just a little hurt, but screaming, jumping around hurt.

Then there’s the other trannies.  Always wanting to compare size, give reports on their growth.  It’s like some contest to see who can grow faster and bigger.  I always imagine a couple of gardeners sitting around discussing the progress of their melons.  Each, as they tend them, day by day, watering, feeding, and finally they bring them to the great gardener show to show them off.  “Here, feel my melons”  says the first gardener, “Oh that’s nice, but check out my melons” replies the second gardener.  This tends to go on for a while, both not wanting to admit the other’s melons might be better, and both pinning the success of their gardening on just how big and ripe their melons are.  Finally they give up with secret resentment and walking off in a huff and tell their other gardener friends just how vain the other is.

Most of the boobs a man sees in his life are on some type of media.  Or they’re on some gyrating stripper.  In both cases the boobs tend to be perfect, and no one tells you that when you start hormones at 38, your’s are a lot less likely to be as spectacular as you always dreamed they would.

It’s been 16 months since I started hormones, and as my bra cup fills more and more, finally ditching my forms, it’s painfully obvious to me that I’m not going to be some giggling girl at the end of this.  I’m not even going to be winning a blue ribbon at the local gardening contest.  It’s evident to me that I must seek professional help,, and thus, I’m off to the plastic surgeon.

As I said, other trannies, like their melons.  Well the trannies with professional help love their melons.  And there is no shortage of trannies with silicon breasts that are willing to show you theirs and rave about their surgeon.  It’s like a 3d demo, many time’s in some club, the music pounding, people screaming into each other’s ears, and the subject turns to her new boob job.  Before you know it she pulls down the neck of her top and her bra and her boobs spill out in glorious fashion. It’s like an adult game of peak a boo.  And there you have it  “touch them, feel them” she says, and even though you’re a tranny just like her there’s always that bit of male guilt in the back of your head from years and years of women beating it into your head just how much of a pig you are.  So, you touch them, you feel them.  But there really is no charge of erotic electricity.  Instead you’re purely scientific.  You study them, you feel how they move, how they rest, how heavy they are, and you see exactly how they’re shaped.  And once you’re done you nod and tell her they’re beautiful, and she pops them back in never losing the beat as she dances to the clubs super DJ.

I had made my decision, and after seeing a particularly gorgeous set, I made the phone call to a doctors office to schedule a consultation.  I don’t know why I get nervous with these calls.  I do explain I’m a tranny, and that I’m wanting to do the surgery as soon as possible.  I’m turning 41 this year, and I’d love to have a new set just in time for my birthday.  The girl on the other end is nice and pleasent and suddenly I have an appt.

I suppose it’s all about aesthetics when you’re discussing plastic surgery.  The office full of Michael Angelo-esque statues, the soothing music, the comfortable furniture, and suddenly the window opens and quite possibly the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen asks if you’ve brought the documents and then calmly and pleasantly and beautifully prompts you to have a seat and wait for your appt.

I felt special, the only potential patient there, as I was ussured through the doors into a room set up with a desk and various binders full of women 😉 for my perusing. My special feeling continued as I donned the pink terry cloth robe then finally sitting down at the desk ready to gander at what could be mine in a short time.  

With a turn, turn, turn of the pages, not unlike browsing a catalogue, I felt myself getting anxious and a little full of myself, and as the quiet knock on the door, then a slow opening, an even more beautiful girl walks in and introduces herself.

It was about this time, in my terry cloth robe, that all of my painful insecurities came rushing back into my head, with the terrifying thought of showing this gorgeous perfect person my not so perfect hormone titties.  But, with a show of the fakest confidence I could muster, I extended my hand and introduced myself.  “Hi, I’m Veronika” 🙂

If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a tranny, it’s how to push your fear aside and let your confidence rush forward.  You have to almost ignore the screaming voices of fear in your head.  It’s loud to be sure, but a girl learns how to get strong in those many months of transition, living half boy and half girl.  You have to.  It’s the only way to progress.  And progression is the only way to survive.

Sadly, her beauty didn’t magically transfer to me as we shook hands.  I didn’t really think it would, but there’s nothing wrong what a tranny hoping and wishing.  And it really wasn’t a stretch with her magical glow of awesome beauty emanating like the light of a bug zapper just waiting to zap you for getting too close.

After talking a little about options and sizes, it was time for me to remove my robe and show this gorgeous creature my tranny body, and my tranny little boobs, and as I stood upright, my poor little boobs trying their hardest to be perky, the self conscious thoughts rushing into my heads, and me standing there almost a full foot taller than her as I just stared at the wall behind her as she explained how the doctor would use the measurements to decide profile and placement.

Finally she had me back up to a wall, and produced a camera to take, what I’m sure would later be used to snicker at, pictures of my poor little girls as they weeped in humiliation.  The pictures she assured me were for the dr to see as he was on vacation this week.  I didn’t mind that he was on vacation, and they had told me that.  I’ll see him again before the surgery, and I’m sure any further questions I have will be answered.  I don’t know if I could have handled being in front of him and this porcelain doll at the same time.  I already felt horrible enough without the eye of a plastic surgeon critiquing me.  A picture with arms down, snap.  Then she asks me to raise my arms.  Suddenly I’m panicked trying to remember if I shaved my armpits that morning.  An internal sigh as I had, but now I’m worried if I got it all.  She didn’t comment, so hopefully I’m safe, and finally my arms are lowered and now, and forever, a record of the event.

About that time, she handed me a cloth bra.  She explained it was like the bra I would wear after surgery as I tried desperately to put it on and not look like I had only been wearing them a couple of short years.  

When you’re a tranny different parts of your body will never change.  After 38 years of masculine development, my rib cage seems huge, and the “large” banded bra she handed me was cutting into me.  But, I was able to get it on and she produced the first of three implants we would try.   It was like the old story goldilocks, except with one major difference.  The first was way too small, the second was just right, and the third was what I wanted.  I slipped on my top and turned side ways inspecting it’s size and weight.   It’s hard not to be giddy, but at the same time you panic a little thinking with my already freakish rib cage, how am I going to find things that fit.  Quickly you brush that aside though and thoughts of dancing in a club and proudly showing some tranny your tits as she asks about your surgery fill your head.  If you were a cartoon the little cloud above you would be totally censored out, or they would change the image to something like an innocent set of melons.

After we decided on what size, and type of new breasts I were to get.  The conversation turned to some other procedures that I’d like.  I have to admit, I’m very fortunate with some outstanding genetics.  I can’t complain.  I know that I’ve been blessed compared to most trannies my age.  But, at 40, there are some things you want to fix.  things that weren’t there when you were younger, and possibly perking up some of those feminine attributes your mother so graciously handed down.

And again the critique, and honesty, and allowing yourself to take in her advice, and finally deciding on additional procedures at the same time.

I find as I transitioned, when people find out I’m trans, one of two things happen.  Either it bugs the crap out of them.  Years of ignorance and misunderstanding, and what there grandma told them comes to service, and they just don’t know how to handle it.  Or, the more often, excitement that almost makes me feel like a mini celebrity.  It’s like they just can’t wait to get home to talk about the tranny they met.  They become super sweet, and personable.  I like the latter.  And so the girls in the office, as I put down my thousand dollar deposit, smiled and introduced themselves, and made me feel just as special as I had when I first got there as they welcomed me to their little family.  I couldn’t help but think of it as a plastic occult with the dr the leader, and soon I’d be one of his beautiful creations.

I haven’t scheduled the date yet, but after checking my schedule and finances I’ll let them know, and finally I’ll have the girls I always wanted, and soon my friends, I’ll be wearing plunging neck lines, gleaming pendants, and as I dance to the music in the club, I may even show them to you, in all of their glory, as I rave about my surgeon.

Peace out my trannies!

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I love you~

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 No other time in life are the three simple little words “I love you” more meaningful than the first time we hear them.

We’re born into a harsh little world, cruel doctors pulling at us, bright lights blinding us, loud noises offending our ears, and finally a slap on the ass that proves we just can’t take it any more.  And with that, our first cry.

It’s hardly a welcome wagon and a gift basket would have been nicer, but never the less, we can’t climb back inside the warm wet safety of our mother’s womb and so here we are learning our first life lesson.  You can’t go back, you must move forward, and life isn’t all daisies and ice cream.

It’s shortly after this we learn our second lesson..  As the nurse finally lays us on our mother’s bosom, and she looks down at us through her teary eyes, her, lips parting into that weary smile, and she says those words.   I love you….  And with that, we learn life’s second lesson.  Mama always makes it better.

Three words so simple, so powerful.  We’ll hear these words countless times in our life time. They’ll speckle our story like those push pins on a map, the ones people use to show how traveled they are, spread from one country to the next.  Those of us more social may have lots of push pins, while those of us a little less inclined to throw our fragile heart out into the world, not so much.

And as I said, at no other time in our life will those words mean as much as what they meant when we heard them the very first time.  It’s ironic really, the most important time to hear I love you and we can’t even understand the words.  We don’t understand the sounds coming out of our mothers mouth, but laying there on her bosom we instantly get their meaning.

Coming out to those you love is a lot like those guys who jump off of cliffs on those bungee cords.  You know, good or bad, things will never be as safe as they were before you jumped.  You’re about to expose a part of you that very few people ever knew.  A part of you that is counter to what so many perceive in you, and yet there you are.

As I sat on the couch with those words on the tip of my tongue, my breath held in my lungs, my brain screaming no, while my heart screamed yes, I thought about what would change.  I wondered would the bungee hold, or would it snap.  Would my mother embrace me or would this drive a wedge between us that would be impossible to remove.

But, because of life’s first lesson my heart won out, and those words came trickling out of my mouth as my held breath finally escaped in what was an expression of who I am.  And like that day with the harsh lights the shouting, the smack on the ass, They’re met with understandable shock, a look of confusion, and finally silence…..

You notice a lot of things when time slows to a stand still.  You notice the clock ticking, the slow yawn of the dog laying at your feet, the ceiling fan with it’s woosh woosh woosh, the short labored breaths of apprehension, and the screaming of your brain as it proclaims loudly “I told you so”

Suddenly a smile from those same weary lips and she expresses her unconditional love that had always been at the root of our family, and suddenly the feeling of ease came back.  My heart slowed, my brain got quiet, and the death grip I had on the couch was loosened as the tears started to flow from my eyes.  And the questions, the answers, the unknowing what would happen, but all in all it was a good experience and I left feeling accomplished if not exhausted.

There’s a very interesting effect I’ve noticed in all of my coming outs.  There is the initial acceptance driven by the urge to be nice, then there is a processing period that can span as long as a year or two.  This is the part you have to learn to deal with.  It’s a time when people question how ok they are with this.  What does it mean to God, will this person go to Hell, Will I be embarrassed for people knowing.  It’s this time where life feels like one of those big pendulums swinging from positive to negative and finally at the end it rests on just fine.  Well, we hope it does.

It’s a period where people say things that hurt, most of the time they don’t know, but it hurts none the less, and it’s this time where we loose contact with a lot of the people we loved.

I never lost contact with my mother, but she did go through this period and it wasn’t easy for both of us.  But, because of her love, she learned, she spoke to someone who could help her process her thoughts, and at the end she’s come through it in a very positive way.

For many of us “coming out” is longer than one day.  It’s a time period for people to finally move through this process and for us it can very well be a rebirth.  Our friends and families see us in a different light, knowing our true selves for the first time, the walls come down, and we’ve become stronger for the experience.

The other day I was on the phone with my mother discussing our recent Sunday lunch date.  We were supposed to go to church, but given the fact that people were handing me shots the night before, I had a little thing we like to call a hangover.  I did manage to muster up all the strength I could to make my way to my mothers, stopping only a few times for the occasional vomit.  I thought, if I could just get food in me, I would be fine, and sure enough, we made our way to my favorite Mexican restaurant El Tiempo.

Following lunch, and with renewed energy, we made our way to the grave site of my grand mother.  The woman who’s name I’ve taken, and as we stood there looking down at her grave, I remembered all of the time as a child I spent with her, and how we would play winnie the pooh, or she would let me base the chicken and help her in the kitchen, and I just knew she would understand it all.

That visit actually meant a lot to me, to see her name, my name on her tombstone, it gave me renewed strength in my transition, and I left with a really happy feeling.

As I was saying, the next day, my mother and I were talking on the phone, discussing all of this, and my transition came up, and what people thought, and how she loved me, and any other typical thing a mother and daughter may talk about on a lazy phone call was said.

As we said good bye, my mother paused, then for the very first time, with such pride in her voice, simply said..  “Veronika, I love you”……

Life is full of struggle, it’s full of hardships, and it’s full of sorrow.  Some of us make it through these times with our eye on the future knowing we can’t go back and we must move forward.  My transition has been like being born into a new life, it’s new experiences, new perceptions, and new friendships.  And through it all 3 things still hold true:

You can’t go back, you must move forward. (sometimes life is ice cream and daisies)
Mamma always makes it better (Most of the time) 😉
And “I love you” is always most meaningful the very first time you hear it.

 

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The Actor, the Drag Queen, and the Tranny Bigot

“Drag is the Black Face of the Transgender Community” ~Nameless self righteous tranny

No doubt I’m part of a community who’s experienced it’s share of bigotry.  For some reason the world still has this black and white view of gender in a way that slams shut any dialogue about any type of non conforming gender expression.

I’m one of those laid back trannies.  I don’t let words or odd looks offend me.  Of course if you are just blatantly rude you’ll get to hear, in a pretty colorful way,  what I think about that rudeness.  But ignorance isn’t bigotry, it’s simply the human condition, and we are all afflicted with it.

As I’ve settled into the tranny community, I’ve met others who also happen to be trans.  I’ve become great friends with some, while I’ve grown completely tired of others.  The thing about trannies is that the only thing that really binds us as a community is that we were born into a gender that we didn’t quite feel comfortable with.  After that, nothing binds us.  Some experience great hatred.  Some, like myself, have had a wonderfully positive experience.

I’m still not convinced that some of the hatred those others may have experienced wasn’t a result of some action by my tranny brother and sister, but that’s another discussion.

The thing I’ve found interesting in this diverse community is the amount of people who feel they are victims, and will cry out at the top of their lungs to fight against any perceived slight to their tranny kind.  On the surface it seems a noble fight, but once you dig deeper you find very quickly that while they scream and shout at the transphobic bigots discriminating against them, they’re also snubbing their nose and bitching about others of us in the community.

Whether you’re a full on transsexual, crossdresser, or in between, we all have a place here.  Of course it’s ok to find certain people, and even groups disagreeable to you, but it’s another to point your fingers at them and try to kick them out of your elite little club as somehow not tranny enough, or even worse, accusing them of spreading a message that we are all perverted, painted clowns, or some other nonsense.

Recently a male actor portrayed a preop trans woman who happened to be stricken with HIV and addicted to drugs.  Immediately the trans elite, the ones who tells the rest of us who and what is offensive, jumped up shouting and screaming “HOW DARE THEY?!?”

They pointed out that a trans woman didn’t get the part, they pointed out that the character in question was the stereotypical caricature of a trans woman while shouting “we aren’t like that”.

The actor in question did a wonderful job, and during his acceptance speech of some hollywood award made the typical comments that any male makes when he dresses as a woman for a part in a film.  The jokes of tucking, pantyhose, and lipstick, however, were followed with an admiration of his character and those like her.

Immediately tranny royalty accused him of being bigoted and transphobic for his speech.

What they refuse to admit is that there are those of us in the tranny community who are exactly in the same place as his character.  They refuse to admit that perhaps a man, a celebrated actor,  was the right choice to play someone so early in their transition, someone who needed to be rough and raw.   Furthermore, they refuse to admit, that by pointing their fingers and accusing him of his misdeeds, they are lumping us all together and putting all of us in his characters place.

In a very spirited facebook debate, I pointed out that many drag performers I know have no problem joking about tucking and panty hose to which I was almost shouted out of the tranny community.

You see, for some reason those who decry the fact, that the non tranny world doesn’t understand us, also will willingly paint a picture that all drag queens are loud, crude, gay men who dress like cartoonish women for laughs.

Sure, some drag is camp, some drag is what Ru Paul so lucratively spot lights on her show.  But drag is also a beautiful artform performed by transsexual women and others who are very serious about this craft competing in pageants that take months of preparation and mind blowing talent.

It’s a celebration of beauty, grace, pride, and showing the world who you are.  This is a perfect example of what I want to be.

My girlfriend performs and competes in these pageants.  Many of my friends do as well.  These are many transsexual women who I look up to as they’ve taught me how to laugh at myself, how to not sweat the small stuff, and how to simply be me.

So while many in the transgender community rush off to get their vagina in a round the world trek to prove they are women, then stand at the grocery store with their 5 o clock shadow and bad wig getting all huffy because some poor clerk, who didn’t realize they had their little kitty hidden deep in their levis, called them sir, I’ll be happy in my pursuit of beauty, passability ,and self expression.

Lets not attack other’s ignorance by battering them with our own.

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My Little Big Man

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Being a tranny, I love being a woman.  I love when the world treats me that way, the polite smiles, the doors held open.  I even love how the guy at the auto parts store talks to me like I’m an idiot.

It’s about more than how you look.  It’s about how the world reacts to you.  It envelops you in this bubble of femininity, and you feel safe, secure, and just plain right.

Those that knew me before still hold on to a fading mental picture of the person they used to know.  Some call me he, some call me by my birth name, yet others can feel that image slipping away like the memory of a dream just after waking..

Those that never met me before the “big life change” see me as a woman, never questioning pronouns, and even have a hard time seeing me as anything but female.  The image they have in their mind is such that they can’t interact with me in any other way, than how they would interact with any woman they knew.  This is a feeling that evokes happiness and much content.  I know my other friends and family won’t be far behind, and soon, they won’t remember me as anything different than who they see today.

I think trannies appreciate their gender role in life much better than born girls, or born boys.  It’s something we’ve fought for, it’s something we’ve cried for, and it’s something we celebrate with each win that is a step in the ascending staircase of confidence.

I have a friend, a dear dear friend, who has become so special to me in a way that few will ever get to experience.  This friend of mine, my special little man, is someone who wasn’t always a man, and understands me, and the things I’m going through in a way that few can.  His experience as a woman, and as a transgender man, provides him insight into how I’m feeling and what I need in the dynamic of my life.

To say we’re an odd pair is a little of an understatement.  I, standing 6 foot in flats, having played college football, he standing 5.6 will gladly show you pictures of his quincenera, with his porcelain skin and a gown that would make any little Mexican girl from the east side of Houston jealous.

He would sooner die than have me lift anything even moderately heavy, he brings me food when I’m hungry, and he tells me I’m beautiful when I don’t even realize how much I needed to hear it.

I help him with perspective, and the finer points of fitness, and fill a void that every man needs, a doting woman, feeding his ego with genuine words of admiration.

We fit in a friendship that helps us experience what life is like for those who are born into a gender that matches their brain.  It’s something we seek, it’s something we treasure, and it’s something we’ll fight until the bitter end to retain.  

He’s quickly becoming the standard at which a woman should measure a man.  What he lacks in height he more then makes up for in heart, and I know he would give his last breath to protect me.

My little man has shown me how a woman should feel, protected, cared for, loved, and through it all, important.

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The Battle of Silicon Valley

I know it’s been a long time since I posted a blog update.  I’m sorry for that.  Work has gotten way crazy, and honestly, I was sick of computers.

So, here I am.  I’ve just gotten back from a trip to our corporate office in California, and I’ve never been happier.

I work remotely, and this has really allowed me to transition at home without having to really face other people at work.  It creates a lot of anxiety when trips are scheduled, and I usually spend a few weeks wringing my hands and almost giving myself a heart attack because each time I’ve changed just that much more.

I live my life as Veronika while I’m home, and I’m not in the closet with anyone.  But, I haven’t really had that talk of talks with work just yet.

After my last trip to Israel, I decided that with no foreseeable travel, I was going to do some things that I’ve been putting off.  Hair color, extensions, earrings, and my first surgery were definitely in my sights.  My appearance has changed a lot since that trip, and I was hoping the break from travel would solidify my grasp on transition and really push me through the point of no return.

My break from travel was short lived, and shortly after this, like the very next week, I was told that a group who I’ve had some really rough times with wanted a face to face meeting in a couple of weeks.  At this point I was so over my job, and quite frankly didn’t care if they fired me, I told them it wasn’t possible until at least February.

Lucky for me, we just had a reorg and one of my best friends, who knows about me, became my boss, and I was able to fill him in on some things.  He’s great, and understood and we put the team off for a few months.  It really worked out great as a lot of things got solved even before the trip.

So there I was, the trip inching closer, even got moved up two weeks, and I was faced with the very real necessity to tell HR.

My HR rep has been awesome, and they almost seemed excited about the transition.  They let me know that someone else had been through this, and I could talk to her if I wanted, and honestly, that made me feel great.

I bought my tickets, and packed my clothes, and made an attempt at butching up before I left for the airport.

Any idea I had that people saw me as a guy was quickly ruined by the ever so nice TSA people as they called me ma’am, miss, young lady, sweetie, and all the like.  My sudden panic about bathrooms almost consumed me as I was trying not to be a girl, but still didn’t pass as a guy.  Suddenly both sets of bathrooms were a no man’s land…. or no woman’s land…. I guess it depends on how you look at it.
Lucky for me, the airports had some really nice unisex bathrooms, so that crisis was averted.  My bladder was loving me again, and I could relax a little as I flew from Houston, to Dallas, to California.

About two weeks prior to the trip, I had surgery on my midsection, and flying in a compression garment that crowds your intestines can make for a miserable trip.  It pressed so hard into me, that any movement in my bowels came to a complete halt, and I really didn’t know how I was going to get things working again.  Umm…. Yeah, like that.

This surgery which was lipo and a tummy tuck with fat injection in my hips gave me a new feminine body that didn’t quite fit into my male pants anymore.  So there I am, with my pants up to my armpits, my bowels kinked to no end, and totally scared that my long blonde hair was going to evoke some type of reaction that I wouldn’t be able to deal with.

I arrived at the hotel around 2 am, pulled my garment off, laid on the bed, and prayed things would work right before the morning.  Thank God they did, or I would have exploded all over the meeting rooms and I’m sure that would have really given the wrong impression.

The next day, I had planned on slipping into the room before anyone else, but that jerk Murphy had other ideas.  I was 10 minutes late, and I had to walk into the room as people were giving their personal bios, and all eyes landed on me.

Yep, Hello spotlight! So there I am my hair in a ponytail, my beautiful face ;), holes in my ears that had previously been home to some cute earrings, and my male pants up so high because of my new luxurious hips.  It was almost as if time stood still for an instance like in those twix commercials.  Only thing Is I couldn’t go back and change it.

There I was center stage, searching for something to say.  What was only a few seconds felt like forever, and my forehead turned into a waterfall of sweat, before I simply smiled, and said “Hello everybody!”

Before my trip, HR had asked if I was going to be presenting.  And of course I was.  It wouldn’t have been a problem if I was going to sit quietly in the corner.  It wouldn’t have been a problem if I wasn’t charging into battle in a room full of people who’s had their entire job duties turned upside down by someone coming in and redesigning their solution.

Of course Murphy’s a bitch, but the funny thing about Murphy, he pushes you through uncomfortable situations.  He makes you face a task with no where to run. He makes you plan for what could be.  Murphy kicked me in the ass that day.  He pushed me into enemy territory screaming my battle cry, leaving my insecurities dead or dying in my wake.

Maybe it’s fight or flight, but when you’re faced with a pivotal point in your life, it changes you just a little.  Needless to say, I proved my worth.  I defended my decisions, I suggested new changes, and in the end, a room full of techno nerds that may have started out with their own idea of me, found out who I really was.

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Friendships

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Me, Nameless friend, and Pete 2003

A friend recently got onto me about not posting in my blog for a while.  I gave an excuse of work.  But, the real reason was a bit different.

I had created a rather lengthy post about my past friends.  Guys that I was closer to then my own brother, and guys who I sweated with, guys who I cried with, guys who you could share anything with.  Even things that most guys don’t share with each other.

You see almost two years ago I came out to my best friend.  He’s the one on the right in the above picture.  He expressed his support and his love for me, and told me he would always be there, but then I really didn’t hear from him after that.  It was as though I ceased to exist and my old life and relationships never existed.

out of everything about my transition, the hardest part has been loosing these friends.  You know that nothing will be the same once you come out, and you know from that moment on your life is completely different.  Not only do you shed the defensive walls you put up, but a lot of times you shed the relationships that were formed during the years you were trying to be someone else.

I won’t go on and on about the loss of these relationships, But let me just say I shed a lot of tears as I wrote that phantom post.  I just couldn’t bring myself to post it, and that really put a sour taste in my mouth about the whole blogging thing.

Blogging tends to make you dig deep.  It lets you poor out your inner thoughts without fear of someone reacting.  It lets you search your soul and revisit things you put aside.  

So,  here I am, posting away, and I really like to post about good things, fun things, and that my friends, is what I’m going to do.  You see, I turned 40 on July 19th.  Birthdays haven’t been particularly special for me.  In fact they tend to pass and few even know I turned another year.  Of course like anyone else, the major birthdays, 21, 30, 40 are all important, and you want to mark this as a new chapter in your life.

My 30th birthday was spent with my now ex wife in her apartment as we were separated and working through things at the time.  We ate pizza and watched TV, and it passed just as any other day.

I wasn’t going to let 40 pass so quietly.  And with that, I embarked on a mission.  A mission to not only mark my transition, but to also make sure my friend in that picture was there.  And let me tell you.  He showed up!

ImageMe and Pete 2013 

I can’t express how special that was for me.  I can’t express how important and how much it meant.  It really made everything worth it, and with this one act, other friends from high school have started contacting me.  My other very very good friend who works in Afghanistan, a member of the group I was so close to, assures me he’s planning on seeing me when he’s back next.

It really seems as though this little hiccup in my life may be past and even though my relationships with them will be different.  I get to keep them.

I can tell you after a very long time of not seeing him, I was nervous.  I was no longer the person he remembered, and I didn’t know what he would think.  Of course I tried to be as hot as I could ;), I wanted him to see that my transition was happening in a very positive way.  I wanted him to meet my girlfriend, and my friends who now dominate my social life.  I wanted him to see, that deep down in my core, I’m still me.  I’m just the me that he got to see at my most vulnerable.  The real me, the one that really made me who I was.

I’ll post again about the celebration and all it’s fun times, but for now I’ll leave you with this.  

Relationships worth having will persist through the best and worst of times.  Those are the ones you work on, and those are the ones that make life worth living.  And no matter how much we change, that stays the same.  

I love you best friend guy 🙂  

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Upside down, Inside Out

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“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn’t be. And what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?”  ~ Lewis Carroll

There’s a funny thing about growing up.  All of those little rules ever taught to us by our parents, teachers, neighbors, and who ever else took it upon themselves to tell us how to act and who to be, burrow their way into your subconscious mind forming the framework of what is considered normal.  If the rules were trees the forest would be normal, and you get lost making your way around each tree fearing breaking a branch when the better thing to do is  pull that chainsaw out and cut a path to freedom.

It’s not easy cutting those trees down. With each lesson learned, each scolding received, those trees grow bigger and thicker, until they finally drown out the sunlight.  Cutting them down can be a daunting task for someone who has let them grow over the years without so much as a simple prune, and the canopy’s shade can become quite cool and comfortable.

It’s only a temporary comfort, however, and soon you scream for the sun, and suddenly hiding in the shade becomes even more difficult then wielding that heavy chainsaw through those thick old trees, until finally you leave them all behind.

A world of trannies is a world of people who are no stranger to cutting things down.  😉  We’re a group who had enough of those trees, and burst into the sunlight, and can even be over come by fear and anxiety at the mere thought of the shade.  And when you bring a group of people like this together you can form an atmosphere that laughs at normal.  It’s an atmosphere of fantasy.  Boys are girls, girls are boys, and everything is upside down and turned inside out.  Sure, it seems typical to those of us who live in this world, but for those looking in from the outside it can be as if they are passing through the looking glass.  Some of us would have you believe that we are no different then anyone else, and a large part of that is true, but regardless of how much we want to warp the world’s perception to see us as we see ourselves, the truth is, we are different.

I’ve met an interesting woman recently.  She comes from the UK following love and a career in fashion.  Whether it’s her blue eyes, delicious accent, her multi colored hair, or a smile that lets you instantly feel at ease, she is fast becoming one of my best friends.

I’ve recently introduced her to my wacky world of trannies, and it was her comment of just how interesting and strange my world is that caused me to contemplate just what it is that makes it this way.

Sure, the women are tall, the men are short, people don’t let silly things like social norms dictate who they fall in love with.  It’s a world where people express themselves in the ways most natural to them.  And certainly when you bring people together, who each have their own story of escaping the forest, those who live in the shade will find it a bizarre display.

My beautiful British skydiving seamstress has cut her own share of trees down in her life, and surely she’s experiencing her own sunlight.  And I for one, am happy she’s experiencing a little of mine.

Once you find your sunlight, the world truly is a wonderland.

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