Squirrel Cage (35 page)

Mike would call me in a few minutes to check in and make sure that I was alright.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Yes, Mike.
I’ll be fine” I replied.

I
didn’t
go into work on Friday.
My head still hurt. I was physically banged up. I had a real mess to clean up in my home. I was not depressed. The vision of clarity I had the night before was true. I would not die by my own hand. I knew that now. Never, never again would I feel so down and so alone. I knew it. I vowed that I would always call a friend or my Mom and Dad if I had an inkling that I was getting depressed.
For the rest of my life, I have kept that promise I made that day.
I had been saved.
I knew what I must do. I must go on.

The dinner with Mike and Cindy on Sunday was very nice. She was a very good cook.
And it was so nice to play with their little girls. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon with no cares to worry about.
We talked and played little girl games with the kids. They were so gracious, kind, and so loving. I was so happy for them. It was a comforting time.
It was the right place to be that afternoon.

S
o
,
life picked up for me where I had tried to leave it. I still had the same disgusting problems. I still had the crappy job. I still did not have any money
… a
nd I sort of knew that Charlene would
still
give out my address
for the asking
.
I decided to not read any more letters unless
they were from my family or her
.
I
f a letter indicated that it would pull at me, I would cease to read it and save it for a time when such thoughts would not hurt me.

Charlene was getting married. It hadn’t even been a year and she had found someone to love and cherish.
I was absolutely thrilled for her. I was contemplating what this man was like. I knew his younger brother and he was a very good man. I figured that Charlene’s new husband would be like his brother. I knew that my little ones would have a daddy to grow up with. I was so happy for them.

And then it hit me. I would no longer have to pay alimony. Perhaps the financial problems that I had would work out after all.

Every Friday night a few of us benders would get together at Trish’s place.
We’d watch Elvira Mistress of the Dark.
We never got tired of those terrible old black and white sci-fi movies where she would interrupt and make some hilarious valley girl comment.
She was a hoot and she was a doll.

I can remember that Charlene once told me “Well I hope that you all have a good time sitting around in your high heels watching TV.”
She was very close to the mark. We weren’t wearing our high heels but everything else was right on. Way to go Charlene! We did have a great time. Thanks! We’d have pizza and sodas and we’d throw in our own valley girl commentary. I had friends from work and in my personal life in the LA area. Two of them would become life long friends. What a treasure is that? Who can tell me that they have life long friends? I’m proud to call Trish my friend. Thanks Trish.

Work was tough. It really was. But there was nothing that was going to stop me. I helped bring that little business unit to profitability in 13 months. We had made enough to bring the entire company profitable.
It had lost money for 15 years.
I was proud of my accomplishments.
They could not deny my results. I had done the work, the research, and managed that little business to make money. I had done it legally with impossible odds with a president that who tried to fire me every week.

My
one year mark living the
full life test was draw
i
ng near.
I would have everything ready to go.

During my early years, during my transition, the worst thing that could ever happen was to be clocked. All of my efforts and most of my waking hours were spent in trying to pass effectively as a woman.
I would take note of every nuance of every look and glance to discover any doubt from the onlooker. During this time in the late eighties, transsexualism was not accepted anywhere. The public was not ready to accept someone “dressed in drag” as a woman. My dilemma was exacerbated by the fact that I lived in Salt Lake City, one of the world’s most conservative metropolitan areas.

I had problems in rest rooms; purchasing clothing, groceries… you name it. An odd look or a comment heard would send me home with tears in my eyes. I perfected my craft over the course of years. Electrolysis was the greatest help in improving my passing skills. Once the permanent five o’clock shadow was removed, my face was at last presentable.
The hormones that I was taking helped ever so slightly but it was a change I most welcomed.
I still had the Adams apple and voice problems to deal with.
Although my legs would never belie me, the opportunities to walk around in heels and short skirts were few.

The changes, my work, my skill, and my craft improved.
Before I moved from Utah, I had perfected the craft well enough that I was seldom clocked. In fact, in unusual situations, people were quite surprised to learn of my
situation
.
I felt confident that I was doing well.
Still, I worried often of my abilities to pass. I did not want anyone to think of me as a weirdo
…
a transsexual.
It is also worthy to note that many transsexuals are murdered every year. This was extremely dangerous stuff.

After my move to California, I lived in a household where transsexualism was a common thread of existence.
My friend, Trish, welcomed everyone to her home. And we had some very unusual folks over to be sure. We attended a group session every week in Santa Monica together. After group session, all would retire to a local restaurant for coffee, or something to eat.
I would feel ill at ease in the restaurant but felt some security knowing that a group of us were there.
But I could see how the other patrons would look at us, some in disgust.
It was a very uncomfortable feeling.

Living with Trish was difficult in this one respect.
She could not pass well.
She still had very firm masculine traits and a deep bass voice.
Additionally, some of her friends had similar difficulties in passing.
She had offered me a place to stay when I had no where else to go when I moved to California.
And here I was, embarrassed to be seen with her. She could not understand my hesitation to go out shopping together. I felt ashamed for betraying my friend.

The problem grew worse when I started working. I would not allow calls from her or anyone else from the group of friends I had. I did not want to be exposed by some “guy” on the line who insisted he was a “she”.
I was paranoid of being discovered. I was trying to build a new life for myself and remnants from my unconventional past were always in tow.
I could not get rid of them.

My paranoia of getting clocked became such an issue that Trish invited me to one of her sessions with her therapist.
I learned that night that I had a new problem to contend with. Trish had a crush on me. The disclosure of this was repulsive to me. Trish was my friend and I could not see her as a sweetheart. I told her and her therapist this. Trish started to cry and her therapist tried to calm her explaining that I might not be able to love in return. The repulsion that I felt was natural where no attraction existed. This revelation further compounded the problem that I had being seen with my friends.

Every day, I faced this problem.
I looked forward to the time when I could afford my own place and get away from my perceived cage of automatic detection.
I honestly felt that if I were seen with them, I would be one of them in anyone else’s eyes.
These chains that I had been able to break with my own ability to pass were now shackling me again. I wanted to be a woman, not “one of those” transsexual people.

Of all the things I have done in my life, my self centered life, these feelings and my resulting actions were perhaps the most despicable. I had lied and betrayed my family, but at last I had revealed my secrets to them. I had been making progress in coming to terms with them and working through my relationships. But this thing with Trish and my other transsexual friends truly pulled at my moral threads of compassion and love.
This was not me. I was experiencing a socialization problem that I just wished would go away. Hypocrisy is a harsh mistress
when it makes
you deny and forsake your very own.

Trish and I would be able to talk about our relationship. I could be honest about that. It was a painful subject for her and made all the worse because I lived in the same household. But I could be upfront and clear with her.
I was not interested.
The other problem was much more difficult.

A mutual friend of ours would come spend weekends at the house. Laura grew up in Chicago and had become a genius with chemicals and drugs. She had been on hormones since she had been a teenager and enjoyed many of the benefits of not fully maturing as a male. She had no facial hair and other aspects of her physique were completely feminized. She had her gender reassignment surgery (GRS) some time before I met her.
Laura felt like me. She did not enjoy being seen in public with other transsexuals. My GRS was yet to come but Laura did feel perfectly comfortable with me in public.

Here we were, two transsexuals, who r
efused to be seen with others. O
h, there were times when we would give in and go to various events, but when it came to normal life, we would avoid every situation. Trish felt left out and rightfully so. Laura and I were acting like children of course. We knew it. But there were serious real life consequences at stake. I could lose my job if discovered. Laura was trying to develop heterosexual relationships with her men friends.
For me, I could not forget the constant threat of violence. It was not a passing thought. I had experienced some terrible things. The threat was all too real.

We would get together on Friday nights to watch television or a video.
Of course we would end up talking about the new thing: being seen in public together. We were often hurtful to Trish. We didn’t mean to do it but we knew what we were doing was cruel. We did not argue or yell at each other. But in every case, we stomped on Trish’s personal feelings. I could see that it was painful for her. I was tearing myself up inside for the pain that I was creating.

I thought that when I left my home and family in Utah that the pain of personal relationships could be left there.
I thought that everything would be fine from that point forward. There was nothing that I wouldn’t be able to deal with. But, here, again was an unexpected turn of events. Here was a serious flaw in my personal skills that I could not come to terms with.

We attended a barbeque picnic sponsored by the Santa Monica group one Saturday afternoon.
I wore clothing appropriate for the event, jeans and a tank top.
Members of the group, including persons with a variety of gender conflicts, attended. Many of them dressed nicely as if to go to church. They did look nice, but they were entirely out of place at the park. They were also people that I would not normally socialize with in public.
I felt safety in the large group.

I spent a few minutes introducing myself to members I had not met before and saying hi to those that I did know. I then set about to figure out what I would do for the next several hours. I talked to Dr. Thomas for a while. She always was a stimulating conversationalist. But she soon moved on to get involved with everyone there that I was too good to be chummy with. Now don’t get me wrong. I have always tried to be nice to everyone. But even at an all gender dysphoric happy fest, I was still hesitant to be seen getting too friendly with
just
anyone.

I noticed an attractive young woman sitting alone at the end of one of the picnic tables. She definitely looked attached to the crowd, but like me, could not feel a part of it. I sat down opposite her at the picnic table and introduced myself.

“Are you here with anyone?” she asked me.

“Yes, I have friends who are part of the group,” I said, not understanding that I had just separated myself intentionally from them.

“I’m Sarah,” she said as she smiled and extended her hand in a
gesture
of friendship. Sarah had accompanied a friend to the picnic. She was undeniably GG (
slang we used for
genetic girl) and felt very uncomfortable with the strangeness of it all. We didn’t talk about the group or anyone in it. We traded stories of work and favorite movies for 45 minutes or so until dinner was ready.

We both retrieved our meals and sat back down in the same place to resume our conversation. Trish also joined us and introduced herself.
Sarah was very gracious but held back a bit. She did not know how to act with Trish at hand.

“
Cindi
and I are both going through transition together,” Trish announced.
The statement didn’t bother me.
After all, everyone here knew who was who.
There was nothing to hide at the picnic.
Sarah’s eyes opened wide and looked at me.