Frustrations

Warning: This rambles.

I'm sorry.

I'm tired - I've slept about 12 hours over the last 3 days. 9 of them last night.

I've been involved in arguments about this, that and the other for years. I've provided my opinion on all and sundry. And what I have is - a couple of communities that hate my guts, a corporation or two that wishes I would just go away, the loss of some so-called friends, a sense of futility and a desperate desire to be American.

I'll try and address all of those things.

But I'll start with the American bit. Not for any particular reason; it just happens to be the easiest. I want to be an American citizen. I want to be able to participate in America's political process. It's a messy process. It's an uneven one, and it's never fair - never mind high-minded! It is a process unlike any other in the world. I want to be a part of it. And due to some errors, blame attributable on a rotating basis, I am not. Yet.

I do love this nation, though. Make no mistake about that.

Okay, the other bits. They're a bit harder.

I hate the easy thinking that goes into "I am a woman", and the resounding applause that affirms "yes you are, if you say so". Need I point out this is lazy? It is the same thinking that lets some claim "cis" is not offensive - because those who use it say it isn't.

Excuse me?

The claim "I am a woman" has many thoughts behind it. Well, it should - but it rarely does.

I'd love to be a woman. I really would. I spent more time than is decent thinking of billowing sheets, and clothes, me in a frock, tending to the household and bearing child. I desperately hoped for divine intervention (there's an irony for you...) so I wouldn't be the 5 foot 11 inches I am. And quite hairy to boot. In 1976 I was hoping I would stop growing. In 1978 I was getting desperate. In 1977 I was trying to prove I was one of the guys. A budding Alan Shore, before he was invented. In 1980 I realized the truth - my dream of being the lass I saw was not to be.

I've been dealing with the aftermath ever since.

It was not to be - I was born a chap. A male. A guy. An object with a penis.

At some point in the early 80's I realized that I'd never be the daughter I wanted to be. I would always the son. My Mom asked "Are you gay?" "No", I said. Honestly, as it turned out. The question and the answer made me profoundly sad.

And then I met a girl. Oh, I'd been out with girls. Quite a few, as it happens. I'd never thought of going out with guys. Not because of some cultural thing - men just didn't do it for me. Friendship, sure. Going out with them? Yuech! Kissing them? I just beat the 4 minute mile. With 3 minutes to spare.

One of the most difficult decisions I ever made was not putting on a skirt for a lass I was seeing. She was hot, really hot, for some guy to put on a skirt and make out with her. Heck, she was Hot. I decided that satisfying her sexual proclivities was not in my best interest. Why? I don't know. I just know that it wasn't a good idea. If she had been someone else, I might have done it. But with her? I don't know.

[Deleted] You don't need to know that story.

Fast forward a few years.

I really don't know what gender I am. Perhaps I'm male. Perhaps I'm female? I look in the mirror and a man stares back.

If I went for SRS, or whatever the currently politically correct term is - would I be me? Or would I be someone else? A fantasy, perhaps? Or would I be Germaine Greer's "ghastly parody"? I have little doubt I would look like Greer's parody. I also know that I would not be a woman. I would be as close to a woman as I could get. But I would not be a woman.

It is, frankly, insulting to women to consider that a male could become a woman by either declaration and/or surgery. Becoming "not a man" via surgery does *not* make you a woman. Trying to say you are a woman because you opt to live the "life" of a woman - does not make you a woman. How the hell did we get into a prick-measuring content with people who either don't have them, or want them removed?

Yeah, yeah. I know current gender thinking negates what I say. I also know it makes me a bigot, and a pariah and even transphobic in some eyes. You know what? I don't give a damn.

Which is a heck of lot stronger than the inane "I don't give a fuck".

For the last 39 years I have battled with religion and gender. I am an atheist, and I am a man.

And before any Christian lunatic runs eagerly, shouting about my being cured - sod ya. I am "not cured". I met a woman whom I value beyond myself. That's all. She knows I'd rather be her wife. She wants a husband, and that's what I will be. I value her more than I value my life. (Don't ask. I do not make that claim lightly.)

I wish I could say "I am a woman, and an atheist". But the order is what it is. It is also regretful. I wish, sincerely, deeply, wish I were a woman. I don't play those "what if" games - but I am clearly not entirely happy as a man.

I beat severe depression without drugs. Hell, I beat a hospital staff. When you're locked up, somewhat voluntarily, and you know the world is simply out to get you - one of the few instances in my life where the world really was out to get me - you learn a new set of skills. Fortunately for me, those skills were developed long before I ever met the staff of Bellevue.

Wall St taught me many things. Confidence was one. Not the confidence of a Navy SEAL, or a British SAS soldier. I've met both, and I worked with an SAS guy. Heck, I was once taught some valuable survival skills by an ex-SAS chap. Wall St develops a different confidence - this is something the thriller writers neglect, or simply don't bother with. I *know* I am no good in a physical fight. (That doesn't stop me, however. Much to the chagrin of my wife.) No, the confidence Wall St gives you is different. It's a little more abstract. You want an international network? Capable of email, database queries, and other corporate stuff? I can do that. You want to move a zillion people to an undeveloped space, and provide for the technical future of your firm? I've done it, I know what is needed. (Which is why I demanded $180,000, not too long ago, for a similar project. It was rejected.)

Could I take on a half decent soldier? Heck, I couldn't take on someone rejected from basic. I was honest with chap I met last year - I told him I'd never won a physical fight. But that didn't stop me. (He was a Special Forces soldier, and he laughed. He appreciated my candor.) Likewise, I doubt a Navy SEAL would navigate the shoals and sheer inanity of a Wall St technical fight without frustration. He would, undoubtedly, wonder about the priorities of those involved. He would be right to. He would also be annoyed to find that "team" doesn't contain "I", whereas the mantra should be " 'I' doesn't contain team".

You know the worst of this? Most of my story would elicit cries of sympathy from the transgender community. If only I agreed with them on the important things. But I don't, and my experiences are subjected to ridicule. When I fight back, I am called a "bigot", a "transphobe" and other such words. I don't mind. No one has ever called me insincere.

Of late, I've alluded to a recent "debate". This individual decided it was reasonable to insult me, in a private email. She did not - and does not - have the courage, nor the strength and decency of character to apologize. She is so akin to so many within the transgender community.

Those so-called friends, the ones that asked to hang out with me. While I was popular for a moment. The couple I helped move; lugging heavy furniture because I wanted to help. Simply help. The few I said "let's go get drunk" to, and we did. I often paid. Fair weather? Try bright sunshine and hot temperature friends.

I don't need those friends. No one does.

Beware the friend you see in the mirror.

Once upon a time, I was beaten up for being friends with a black kid. It wasn't a severe beating; preteens simply can't deliver a thorough beating. I do remember a teacher telling us about growing up. He stood in front of a large group of teenage boys and told us that our days of futile fights were ending. We were developing into young men, and could do real damage to each other. I witnessed the damage men can do when I walked into a group kicking the crap out of some pure sod. Literally kicking him to death. They obviously thought I might recognize them, because they all ran, leaving this poor sod crying on the floor. I got a local landlord to fetch the ambulance. And I drank a pint.

It was a tough town.

It still is.

The cops barely interviewed me - the man lived, and that was that. Call it what you will. It was life. It was nigh on 30 years ago.

That's a milestone, perhaps.

I grew up hoping to be a housewife. Oh, I didn't have any interest in men. Never have. Probably never will. I just wanted to be a woman. A girl, initially. Between 6 and 15, I think "girl" counts. After that, we'll stick to "woman" or "young woman", as required.

Desperate glances at the girls, wanting to be one, and wanting to be with one. Oh, my. Little wonder I'm so confused.

Losing my virginity happened in one of those blazing moments the young love, and the older than try to cast in the best possible light. She was beautiful; the last I saw her - she still was. I laid there, hoping (for some strange reason) that she wouldn't look under my bed. Where I kept a velvet skirt and a satin top. Both pinched from a local store. Why would she look under my bed? Who knows? I was not exactly being logical. I'd just had the greatest orgasm of my life! I was, well, you don't need to know. [Although you can probably guess.]

One time, my parents came home - unexpectedly. I was wandering the back garden (it was a walled garden), and I heard them walking up the path. It was far longer from where I was to the front door, than they were. I not only made it to the door before they did, I was, erm, totally naked, too. I begged that I was getting a bath. I'm not sure the evidence was in my favor. A skirt, a pair of heels, stockings, panties, a bra and a blouse. Shoved into the first place I could find. Which happened to be the first place Mom looked. And she wasn't even looking. Oh well.

Here I am, 20 plus years later. Okay - 30 plus years later. Remembering some of the more awkward moments in my life. I do not forget the years I spent trying to be a man. I was quite good at it. I fooled myself for a long time, but not forever.

It was a little different, back then. The Internet had been invented a few years prior - I actually had an email address! (I could tell you how, but it's not relevant). I was trying out all these new things - smoking, getting laid, starting to drink, learning how to be a lad. It was quite a time. It was also tempered by this undying desire to be a girl. I desperately wanted to be a girl. Desperately.

I have no idea why I am telling you this. If I have any readers, most simply read to find something to be mad at me about. The rest don't really care. Some do care, but my guess - they are in the minority. It's cathartic, I guess.

I certainly don't write this story to be "liked". I've had enough of that. I still hate the lazy thinking that goes into "cis". I still despise the thoughtless arrogance that goes into "I am a woman".

I write because I do. Because it helps me figure out "stuff". I ride a motorcycle for the same reason. You ride across those endless plains, and see if your ideas hold. Most ideas won't, as it happens. There's something about the plains that encourages thought. I don't write about all the trips I take - I see no need to do so. But you get on a bike, face an uncertain but implacable enemy (that would be "car and truck drivers"), ride and ride and ride. And ride some more. Camp, on your own, with nothing but you, your tent and your bike. And a meal. :-) If your ideas remain relevant - good luck.

Get out there.

And think. Figure out what's important in your life. You're forced to, when no one else is around.

What a stupid way to end this post.

Carolyn Ann