So the next few weeks were filled with deadly stares, total silence with the occasional reminder that wearing mum's clothes was disgusting, perverted and would make me a "Transvestite". Life continued, but rather than being able to play with the friends I liked to play with (neighbouring girls) I was thrust into playing with the boys, ie. football and general rough-and-tumble, god didn’t I miss playing with the 'girls world' !
Time passed and slowly things started to return to normal, as long as I played with the boys, I could occasionally play with the girls, which inevitably meant playing dress-up, and yes, you can guess who played mum! Don’t ask me how it all came about as I really don’t have a clue, but during all the dress up play sessions I started to become aware of the differences between our bodies. For some reason I had an ‘outy’ whilst the girls appeared to have nothing, if you get my drift. This started a kind of crazy period in my young life - how the hell was I going to look like a girl with this 'outy'?
I was under the opinion girls had nothing down there - well, I was only around seven and hadn’t really looked! You just don’t, do you? I started developing several ingenious ideas about how to get rid of it - remember at this age there are no testicles down there. So after some careful consideration I thought about the back wheel of the push bike and how close it was to the braking mechanism - mmmm, convenient ! It has to be understood that a great deal of thought for a young person had gone into all this over several days, so after removing the first obstacle - the mud guard - I had plucked up sufficient courage to have a go. Well - ouch! The best laid plans and all that.....
I decided it would be a good idea to cycle down the steepest hill I could find, of which there were plenty. I had also figured I should be wearing a pair of shorts! So there I am going ninety miles an hour downhill, gritting my teeth, and slid onto the back wheel. I managed to miss my genitalia but instead got the crack of my back side, I had managed to wear a hole in my shorts and I could now walk like John Wayne. The pain was immense and I had to consider my options - go to mum and explain it all? Some how I thought not..... So for the next few weeks I lived sitting down very carefully!
I suppose at this point I should add a bit about my school life. Around this time my dad in his infinite wisdom sent me to private school where I was supposed to get a good education - like that was top of my agenda ! So it being a private school I could speak French yet I was unable to write my own name. As you do in this kind of place I started science class where I got increasingly frustrated to the point where I set fire to the lab why, I have no idea other than sheer frustration. So I was expelled from the school and had my first introduction to the great world of child psychologists, where I found very quickly that it's wise in these circumstances to keep quiet. Telling the shrink that I thought I was a girl was followed by the beating of my life when I got home as she had told my mother what I had said. Oh, the joys of it all.... Once again the word “transvestite” was ringing in my ears along with the slaps from my mother, so again we started down the road of silence followed by comments about "perversion" and "transvestism".
At this point in my life I decided that I should keep my mouth well and truly shut when it comes to shrinks, as they just blabbed whatever you said back to the ones you didn't dare tell. So the visits to the psychologist ended rather abruptly - I think due to my mothers insistence, but I guess I will never know. Again it was back to playing with boys and being increasingly pushed towards football, tennis etc., with the added bonus of all birthday and Christmas presents being totally male. I had more action toys than anything else - everything from Action Man to Steve Austin - and just for the record I had a huge crush on Steve/Lee Majors, but that’s another story. So life continued - new school, new kid, able to speak French but struggling with English and the written word, so you can guess who got bullied.
Around this time I met a young lad named 'A', he had a hare lip and a unfortunate turn of phrase but we got on well. After a few months something happened, or was said, and I ended up going home to get a pair of tights. Don’t ask my why or how it all came to this - it just kind of did. 'A' was waiting patiently in the park for me to return with the tights. I slipped into the house and shoved a pair in my pocket - big mistake! Mum the overlord made me turn out my pockets before I could leave the house, so another beating from mum, only this time with the nice wooden Scholls. Again whilst wood was cracking against my head the faithful old word "transvestite!" was being shouted, so once again the little boy whose only passion in life was to do tapestries which his Aunt had shown him was forced to do the little boy thing.
What really sticks in my mind is those stupid football albums that you had to buy the stickers for, and if you were bought a packet of stickers you were meant to be all happy! God give me Barbie!
I am still unsure what happened with the friendship with 'A' during the next few years - I have no real memory of it all. However, I did come up with "lose the sticky outy bit plan Mk.2", which involved me and a milk float. You might not remember them - they were battery powered delivery vehicles that actually brought milk to your front door. So take one 9/10 year old with a outy about a inch long and a milk float and you know things aren’t going to turn out well.... But I persevered with the plan until I thought I would have to give it a test.
Well, I thought I would try a couple of stones under the wheel to see what happened (only small stones, you understand). So there I was lying in the road next to a milk float with my genital area around the back wheel, and seeing the milkman returning to the float, I was starting to put the small stones under the wheel when the milkman drove off leaving me with the top of my finger hanging by a thread. Screaming, I got back to the house where I was rushed to hospital to see if they could save it and a long and painful story later, they could - even though my skin grew over my stitches, which had to be picked out. God, did I scream the hospital down the day they came out. So the bottom line is, I had proved my idea would work but thankfully I never returned to the milk float ! Around this time I had another run in with the child psychologists - what for I have no idea - but this time I kept my mouth well and truly shut.
I begged to stop here but I just got pistol whipped and told to carry on.....
There were a few more ideas relating to the best way of removing my sticky outy bit, but after the milk float I didn’t have the balls (hehehe) to follow through with any of them. Eventually I started secondary school with all its pressures, and before you knew it a transsexual's hell started - puberty! I would really like to explain just how things felt in and around puberty, but I just don’t think there are words expressive enough even to come close. Just imagine that you know you are right whilst having an argument, and I mean 100% right, no question whatsoever, but everybody else tells you are wrong. How do you feel? What is the frustration like? Now multiply that by one hundred and you might be getting close.....
Puberty, and all its masturbatory glory - not that I did that much for a young male, although add that to the tights and skirts that I had accumulated - both of them, I guess that made me what my mum always told me I would be - that bloody “transvestite”. The hardest lesson I learnt when puberty started, was that I actually was a boy - up until that point I had lived in the naive belief that somehow I was a girl. It still makes me feel like shit now to look back on it.
At this point the hiding began - well in public, anyway. I started boxing - got banned for being too aggressive. Played rugby - great, got rid of heaps of aggression. At the same time I started Tae Kwon Do, which was great until I found myself using it on a poor bloke who really had done nothing to me. The rugby continued - I was playing for the school on Saturday morning, the club rugby in the afternoon, and spending the evenings hidden in my bed with my skirt on. Makes total sense, doesn’t it?
Around this time 'A' came back on the scene. He stole some of his dad's magazines (yes, that kind), and they had a huge amount of anal sex in them. So the next logical step was for me to don a pair of tights, pull them down a bit, lie on my back and let him have a go in the middle of a field. God only knows who was shaking more, me or him, but by the age of 12/13 I had a small tub of Vaseline and knew what its real use was for. I had inserted things in there before, normally in the bath, but this was amazing. He was treating me like a girl - OK, so he wasn’t really, but at the time that’s what it felt like. Thankfully he was only small and lasted only a few minutes or so. At the time it was fantastic. Looking back, it was a very small fumble, but it meant the world to me as I had been the girl!
The euphoria lasted until the next time we met, when he totally ignored me, although it did happen again. But it's the first time that sticks in your mind. I could never come to terms with being ignored afterwards, or even walking home separately even though we lived in the same area. I suppose for his part it was disgust with himself.
Around this time a young lad attacked me with a knife and I defended myself (OK, so I went over the top), and guess which one ended up in trouble and back in front of the child psychologist? This time it was the top dog, a doctor by the name of Thafasopy (the spelling is all wrong) - she was a Indian woman in what I can only describe as a green frog suit. Many a month was spent with her looking at ink splodges, pictures and the like, trying to get to the bottom of why I defended myself. Doesn’t figure.....
Eventually in the continuing attempts to be ’normal’ I found myself a girlfriend. I was drinking enough alcohol to damp down my feelings whilst trying to do the "right thing". We left school and I got a job in the construction trade - nice and masculine - and bought a house, complete with mortgage. She went from job to job as we struggled to make ends meet. It was at this time I joined the wife beaters, although I wasn’t married. Nevertheless, I still hit her on several occasions until one day I gave her a black eye. Thankfully she had the good sense to see that enough was enough and left me. This is a pattern of behaviour that has repeated itself throughout my life and something that I am so ashamed of. It's hard to write down - but I did it, it was me and I have no excuse other than being a stupid insecure twat.
So that left me to pay the mortgage as I had to throw myself into work. I ended up in London and got into a relationship with a man who kind of accepted my cross dressing, but it was going nowhere fast. I wanted more as I knew I was a woman and a male/male relationship was not going to cut it, but within weeks there was another man although this time it was understood that I was more a female and he accepted me and treated me as one. I was still being male during the day, then I started to be the one who was being abused both verbally and physically, so that also went nowhere fast.
I hope i've given you some idea of my early life as a transsexual woman.
I will say I did marry, with 2.4 kids, dogs etc. - you get the picture! Still a fruitcake, although I am starting to sort myself out, and I am fortunate to have a person in my life who has helped and continues to help.
If you're reading this then you're giving the person in your life a chance - thank you!
Epilogue : Joanne died on the 9th Febuary 2013 aged 43 years, never fully having come to terms with herself. Joanne's story remains as she would have wished. If there is one thing she would say to you it's be true to who you are, and have the life you deserve. Joannes early history of alcoholism and inability to address her issues, has deprived her of a future, and all those who cared for her of her company.
© Joanne K for Transpartners 2008