My dad wasn’t horrible, he was mean when I was younger, but he mellowed over the years. But for him I was a boy, so he treated me as a boy. This isn’t his fault; it’s mine for fearing him so much I never told him I’m not a boy. My fault for not pressing my mom, after briefly telling her I wanted to be a girl. I detested going to the department store with my mother, who would take me each year for school clothes. I was led into the boys section, a man would help my mother pick out pants and shirts and then I was to go and try them all on. She would ask me how they fit and if I liked them. I never liked them. They were not what I wanted to wear. It wasn’t the clothes; it was that they represented the opposite of what I felt. I was made to wear a big sign that said, “Here is a boy, let no one dispute this, for he is a HIM and never to be mistaken for she, her or girl!” I was made to stand there, embarrassed because I was in the boys section being pinned down as what they wanted me to be, what they thought I should be.

I have made a few steps lately, small changes for most, but big leaps for me. And I think I am ready to stop hiding in my skin. I’m calling the therapist for an appointment. I kept putting it off; I kept thinking not yet, that there are other things to spend money on. I have to do something; I am just playing house right now, dressing up at home and not actually living my life. So tomorrow, I am calling the therapist so that I can get some help on my journey into transition. Sounds grand right? It’s a long, hard slog I know, but it will never be over unless I start.