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Part 4 - Contemplation

The blankets on the floor were not really blankets at all but more like a prickly stiff lining material, not dissimilar to what we used to use for lagging or weather proofing old pipes or to insulate old water boilers with during winter freezes.

Not only that but when I say they were filthy and warn-out you'll have to trust me when I tell you that they were so grimy that they were matted with dirt, sweat and other filth. Having so many rips and holes in them as to render them virtually useless. Not that any self respecting person would go within six feet of them, let alone use one. I'm not exaggerating at all when I say that these were without doubt a health hazard!
Likewise the floor was a wash with dirt, bits of toilet paper, filthy matted pieces of the blanket material and God only knows what else.

Feeling as if my skin was alive as if crawling with bugs I pulled my legs up onto the seating ledge, wrapping my arms around my knees. Gazing down from my not so detached nor safe vantage point I managed a slight giggle as I thought to myself; "Gosh, maybe this is some kind of divine karma for not tidying my room when I was a kid!"

Different kinds of cell!

I pondered how I was still able to comfort myself with a little humour at my worst of times and wondered whether or not it was some kind of coping mechanism? More likely it had been learned from my dad who'd had the most wonderful dry yet funny, quick sense of humour. It most certainly ran in the family as my own sister had also inherited the 'family gift'. Often she too could leave me rolling with laughter with her quick dry wit.

Mind you... my own ability to use humour to self sooth had very much ebbed away with each passing dyshoric and subsequent nervous breakdown. Only returning back to me again once I'd finally entered treatment and support for my gender incongruence and had learned to accept my true internalized gender awareness.

To finally be set free from the mental anguish and imprisonment of such an internalized contradiction is so wonderful a gift after so many years and after so much inner agony. I personally can only liken it to having been in pain, hiding away scared in a darkened cold room with no hope of escape. Then to suddenly find the doors and windows of your heart, mind and soul swung wide open, allowing warm welcoming light to finally lift your heavy burden and dispel the darkness and agony. It's almost as if cool spring air had at last entered my lungs as my inner cell doors swung forever open. After so long at last I was led outside to finally be free and authentically me.

Humour aside though, It was becoming obvious by now that I might be suffering from levels of shock. Not surprising either when one weighs up the events of the day so far. On top of this I also had apprehension over what nightmarish delights still awaited me in an American prison filled with both Texan and Mexican guards and inmates, non of which being exactly renown for their compassionate stance on transgender or LGBTI equality.

Befuddled, glassy-eyed and slightly cuckoo'd!

I've always been quite fascinated with how the mind travels along thought patterns that lead us from one train of thought or topic to another, which especially happens within our conversations with friends of course. For example...

Past chats with girlfriends often start out arranging something as simple as going for coffee and so quite naturally move on to which coffee shop makes our preferred cup? (For me it's Costa in the UK and Dutch Bros in America... Just in case you were wondering!) From there the conversation might gain momentum and switch to whether or not the African, Asian or the more dependable South American coffee bean gives the more appealing aroma and blend to our 'not so expert' pallets? Which in turn begs the question whether Brazilian blend is favored over Argentinian of course?

How we get from South American coffee beans to whether or not the British were justified in our warring and conquest over the Falkland islands just off the coast of Argentina is a mystery even to me! Yet still manages to trump itself further as the conversation extends to a political discussion over South American Marxist movements and the life and times of Che Guevara! Or is that just me?

Either way, my mind was now busily doing something very similar, running over and over the day's events thus far and quickly moving on to my own nightmarish forecasts over likely outcomes. From there it tinkered anxiously with ridiculously over embellished fears and notions of extreme prison life, such as; "What if I become some Mexican mafia boss's bitch?" Ensuring that if I carried on, I'd likely end up a total basket case well before getting even as far as climbing on to the prison bus!

Finally, realizing what I was doing to myself I tried to shake out of it. If I hadn't done so I recon within another hour or two I'd have been pacing up and down the cell or sat on my ledge rocking back and forth with knees in hands.
Oh... wait a minute... I did in fact do both of these things at various points which must have looked not dissimilar to a scene from 'One flew over the cuckoos nest'!

The air once again seemed charged as it had earlier that morning back in our apartment. Only this time it was charged with anxious expectations instead of excitement, causing my nerves to flick and jolt with every sound going on about me. What a site I must have been! Thank goodness nobody was watching me.

Good grief... hardly!

What if the 'writing on the wall' was spelling out deportation for my mistake? The mere thought of such a thing caused me to feel horrible levels of grief just at the possibility. If this indeed was to be the case then I was facing losing everyone I'd grown to love over the last couple of years while living in the States and I might be forced 'yet again' to start over! I tried to calm down by reassuring myself that even if that was to happen I'd soon be back, yet knew deep down that because of the nature of my exit it may take quite some time to work out the legal spaghetti before that was likely to come to fruition.

What of my job and of poor Gigi who i'd been employed to care for in her old age and who i'd now grown so very close too? She too had grown to trust me and I'd so adored not only providing her day care but her company even more so.

I'd been so blessed to have gotten to know her and looked forward to every visit each day. In many ways she had even reminded me of my own wonderful grandmother who had passed away only a few short years earlier and who I'd loved and missed so much. Only now was I realizing just how close I'd grown to Gigi as she'd become so much more than my job but was now very much my friend.

I feel we quickly went beyond employee/employer relationship and Gigi would treat me so very kindly, offering me friendship gifts of craft that she had made which I still have. We would not only do what was required but would go beyond. I'd manicure and paint her nails, style her hair and we would go together and pick out her clothes. She would teach me little craft and sowing ideas and we would laugh together either watching re-runs of old TV series, do puzzles or wade through wonderful family photo albums, which made me feel so privileged. During the holidays we had sung Christmas songs together from the radio in the kitchen. Sometimes when heading out from the kitchen we would sing "We're... off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz" and would skip as best we could back into the lounge.

As I sat there remembering all of this I couldn't help but feel very upset for Gigi too. If I was indeed to be sent home now over such a minor error it would not only be my life it effected, but Dahlia's, my closest friends and Gigi's too.

Now Gigi would once again have to learn to trust someone new and suffer the loss of what we had come to enjoy. It's not easy for the best of us to allow someone into the deepest quarters of our homes let alone into our heart's. It's also very true to say that the older we get the harder such things become for us. As such it can be a real trial of anxiety and stress. The thought tore me up inside and although there was absolutely nothing I could do to prevent putting her through this I nevertheless felt guilt.

Gigi not only had the same warm love i'd always enjoyed from my grandmother, but also possessed a similar sense of humor as well as gentle apologetic nature. I so adored listening to her life stories, her successes, losses and witnessing her tender love for her lovely family and late husband. Gigi, her daughter and her daughter's husband had not only welcomed me into their home, but also into their hearts. Always showing appreciation for my care for Gigi and even telling me I was very much a part of the family. For me Gigi had not only been a genuine and very close friend, but had unknowingly given me an extension of a grandmothers love which I'd thought was lost to me forever. Now it most likely was... and it hurt... Badly!

Vacation or destiny?

I'd come to the US by invite to stay with friends during the painful proceedings of my divorce and following the utter upset of losing my home and children. It also came on the back of a very destructive nervous breakdown, caused through many years of ignored mental and physical gender incongruence.

While still in England, right after my nervous breakdown I'd been put under the care of a mental health team, gender specialists and several doctors. All of whom had agreed that under such extreme circumstances it might be prudent if I gave serious consideration to medical Gender Transition. Especially if I was to stand any real chance of a full recovery and avoid future mental collapse, as had always previously been the outcome and final result of my condition.

If I might be honest here... Even just the sheer notion of living through another collapse such as that final one is an utterly terrifying prospect for me. During the deepest and darkest days of that final nervous breakdown it had effected me so severely as to render me with slow speech and seriously reduced cognitive thinking for a while. The darkness of that abominable place seemed so thick as to be blacker than the deepest cave and so repugnantly evil as to almost feel frighteningly tangible.

It had seemed clear enough to all involved and to my health team that I'd been presenting in the incorrect mental sex and gender, which had proven to be incoherent with me on just about every level. That having done so for so long had not only proven to be destructive but was obviously detrimental to any physical or mental equilibrium. Nothing I didn't already know of course but it's kind of comforting to hear medical professionals speak about your condition and situation with such knowledge and understanding. To put it how my Mental Health nurse had said, referring to me being both intersex and transsexual; "You're the real thing dear, so it's not going to go away. So let's sort this mess out and get you right once and for all". These words, coupled with those of my aunty Hazel who had held me all night one night during recovery and had told me how 'I needed to do and face this for me', were the reasons behind how and why I'd found the courage to move forward, assuming I'd have the support.

Transatlantic respite

nce over in the States and true to their word my wonderful friends had more than kept their promises to take care of me while I very slowly gained strength. For weeks after arriving I'd barely left my sick bed and both Vanessa and Dahlia slowly but patiently nursed me back to health. Back home in England i'd never been given the opportunity to even start the long recovery process after the breakdown before things fell apart and all hell had broke loose.

I may well have only known some of my new US friends for just short of two years but we'd all had ample opportunity to get to know and support one another during that time, which had obviously left me with a strong bond and genuine love for them all. Now I might have to leave them all behind for a good while and all on an error!

The thought of having all these wonderful people suddenly ripped away from me and out of my life after already losing so much now felt utterly painful. Scary too, as every single friend I'd gained there in the States was in some way or another working in the caring or nursing industry, from nurse practitioners, to nurses, to hospital manages and even directors. Specialists, advanced level nurses and care workers. It really was quite amazing and as such I would find departing from them all a very vulnerable loss after such care during recovery.

The practical realities

On top of this of course there was now the very likely prospect of losing my SRS/GRS surgery as well as not being able to finish off some intersex gonadal tissue correction which had been causing me regular bad pain. How the hell was I to cope if that was to happen? Gender Dysphoria had already caused me to suffer so badly prior to starting full medical gender transition and in a very real way I'd only just survived its destructive onslaught as it warred against both my mind and body.

From being little and as far back as memory serves it had been a cause of struggle for me, as I knew full well in my heart that although what was between my legs suggested I was a little boy, my conscious awareness had always come back to me that this was simply not the case nor the truth. That alone is a heavy thing to carry on the heart and shoulders of someone so young, not to mention being cripplingly confusing!

Throughout every part of my life the struggle had been no less severe... in fact increasingly so! Resulting in insecurity, brokenness, depression and horrendous levels of gender dysphoria.

The months and weeks leading up to my surgery had lent me increased relief from all of this, simply through the sheer expectation and belief that I'd made it to the end of transition and almost out of this dysphoric nightmare. I knew without doubt that for me this surgery would indeed make me so much better as well as far more whole and at peace. What would it all do to me now to have it snatched away so violently? The sheer notion alone was proving to shake me to the very core!

Waiting for a bus!

I'd now been there in this roadside processing centre from 7am and it was now currently around 4pm. I'd not eaten anything more than a few morsels of glucose based food during the last day and a half, as I'd been instructed to clear myself out with pre-meds before leaving Tucson and 48 plus hours before my surgery. On top of this I had only had one cup of tea and a glass and a half of water which I'd had to beg for. I'd also had no sleep for 36 plus hours and had no access to any of my daily medications. It really wasn't any wonder I now felt so weak, emotional and more than a little shaky!

I sat there for another hour not wanting to be a burden nor make a fuss, assuming that as suggested I'd soon be called out of this god awful cell and put on to the bus. Not that I relished the prospect, nor looked forward to navigating everything I'd have to go through in the prison of course but currently I felt so claustrophobic here in this terrible place. On top of which I now had the worst headache through upset and dehydration. All of this wasn't made any easier by the fact that I was currently in the middle of my monthly cycle tummy cramps which had greatly increased since the commencing of my full hormone therapy, this also being one of the reasons for my surgery.

So feeling really quite poorly I knocked on the door for a drink and hopefully some pain meds... Nobody came. I knocked again but harder... nothing! I shouted and banged "Excuse me, is there anyone there please?" Still nothing!
So feeling light headed I went and sat back down but this time on the opposite side of the cell. Looking up I noticed a camera in the far left upper corner. "So much for nobody being able to see me" I thought to myself!

I'd now begun to sweat, I guess with the pain and claustrophobic panic etc and so although rather embarrassed to do so I tried to catch someones attention by waving my arms and beckoning towards the camera. Almost immediately an officer I'd not seen before opened the door and asked what the problem was? Result!

I asked him, "had you not heard nor seen me knocking?" He ignored the question. I explained to him how i'd not eaten for many hours and that I was feeling shaky. I also explained why I was in pain and could I please have some pain killers? He asked me if I was diabetic or had a similar condition that required me to eat regularly? I replied no but explained again how and why I had not eaten at all for way to long. He then explained how they were not authorized to administer meds and that I'd get both something to eat and medical attention once I arrived at the prison and with that abruptly left.

I wasn't surprised at the refusal of medication to be honest but was nonetheless shocked at the lack of concern. Once he had left I remembered that I hadn't asked for a drink. "Damn it!" There was no way I was going to bother them again so went and sat back down. Looking about the cell I noticed an orange/red container with a kind of press down tap (faucet) on it and wondered if it might contain drinking water. I sidled over to it hoping for a change in my luck, but the lid was off and had been used for a waste bin and was stuffed full with what looked like toilet tissue and other junk. Besides, once again it was utterly filthy and clearly had not been cleaned or used for water for a very long time.

Next to the orange container was a short wall and behind the wall was a toilet. Oh my gosh I nearly threw up! The strong stench of pee hit me as I drew near and the metal toilet was totally grimy, with piles of discarded toilet tissues along the side and behind it. I just hoped it was unused tissue! For the first time I almost felt grateful that I was in fact dehydrated, as there was no way on God's earth I was going to use this unsanitary, germ ridden nightmare posing as a toilet!

"Maybe I didn't actually come over the border and back into the US after all?" I thought to myself amidst my disbelief over my surroundings.
"Could this really be the US?"
I felt almost detached from reality as if playing a character in some novel that saw me caught up in a third world prison somewhere!
"Maybe i'm in a classic British movie like Bridget Jones's Diary?" My mind was tangenting again now!
"Maybe I could convince them that I had been smuggled over the border and into Mexico against my will by Hugh Grant?" I chuckled out loud.
"Maybe Mark Darcy was to be the British Consulate who was coming over to set me free?" Another giggle.
"Well, If it was indeed him on the phone then his voice had most certainly changed!" This time cackling out loud.

The toilet had a tiny sink and what looked like a water fountain on it, but again it was filthy and just the thought of using it for drinking water made me want to gag. I curiously pressed it anyway and a tiny dribble of water ran pathetically down the faucet opening and into the metal basin below.
"Goodness me", I proclaimed out loud "I'd have to breast feed on the bloody thing to get anything out of it!" I laughed one final but desperate guffaw before giving up and returning to my elevated retreat above the mess of filth on the cell floor.

Privacy... what's that?

Not long after I began to feel increasingly cold and shivery, obviously due to lack of food, fluids and sleep, yet not helped along either by the over eager air conditioning vent in the ceiling which had just switched on above me. I gazed up at it with spiteful hatred as its remorseless avalanche of freezing cold air gushed down onto me. "Why on earth is this stupid thing set with its temperature so absurdly low? It's March and freezing in here for heaven sake!" I glared at the camera in the corner of the cell as if in some way a deliberate act of merciless torture designed to break or punish me further had begun.

Staring down at the raggedy foul blankets on the floor, I wished so dearly that I might be able to wrap myself up in one, but even feeling this cold I just couldn't bring myself to do it! Instead I lowered my exhausted head down on to the narrow hard ledge and curled up into a tight ball trying to preserve what little body heat I had left. Through emotional exhaustion I closed my eyes, only to be instantly met with a deluge of painfully terrifying realities, thoughts and images that teased and harassed me.

I began to weep again... gently and quietly at first. I tried my damnedest to hold back the torrent of grief that was threatening to gush free from deep within my heart, feeling not dissimilar to the walls of an inner dam cracking and giving way under tremendous pressure. Inwardly I began to groan, which caused me to question whether or not I'd ever felt quite so scared, in pain or alone before? Inwardly I knew the answer well before the question had even fully had chance to birth in my mind. Of course I had! Several times before in fact but it never gets any easier!

Throughout my early childhood there had been times I had soaked my pillow with tears of frustration and confusion over my situation. A very tiny child with shortish blonde hair, in boys t'shirt, jeans and shoes. How could it be that I could see myself dressed as a boy in the mirror, yet clearly within my heart, inner self and mind feel otherwise? In all honesty however, other than the obvious appendage and shortish blonde hair, I really wasn't very male looking at all and was often mistaken for a girl, which continued to happen throughout life or at least into my twenties.

I would often wrestle my mind and soul in an attempt to coerce it into some kind of obedient submission. To truthfully and honestly feel inside what my eyes saw on the outside. Or more accurately, in an attempt to be good, to do and feel what is normal and right. To no longer feel evil for being freakish. That coercion and feeling never came! In fact, trying to do so only ever served to make me feel even more frustrated and even more evil and freakish. Now that was pain... that was lonely... and that was very fearful at times too!

Also, as already mentioned, before finally being advised to medically transition I had suffered two major nervous breakdowns and one slightly lesser one through the mental torment and agony of Gender incongruence. Each time it had left me ravaged and terrified and the loss and destruction that resulted through each fall over the years had been much more painful as this I currently endured.

Then there was the loss of my family and children because of the same. It should never happen to a parent for such reasons but of course within this set of medical conditions... it often does!

There is a day in my life that will haunt my soul forever. It was a day that under no circumstances a parent should be made to endure. The day I was told to leave my own home and kiss my children goodbye because I had this massively misunderstood and socially difficult medical condition. If I was just a little weaker (or stronger I don't know) I might have chosen death instead and believe me I am not proud to say it has come close at times. Yet the only thing that held me back on those days was not wanting to hurt those who I love and who still love me any more. Also by holding on to that faint glimmer of hope that one day I just might see and hold them again.

Boundless agony

So although maybe not the most painful day i'd seen or so far had to endure, still... here... now... in this cell heartache had suddenly taken a hold, moving me away from what small level of restraint remained and on to abysmal despair. This time the sobs came from deep withing and were so strong that each one shook me as if convulsing.

Ever since my final nervous breakdown I have had a peculiar reaction to seriously stressful times. When things have gotten really bad I kind of almost pass-out. Not dramatically or literally but I feel a sudden need to lie down and an overwhelming heaviness seems to render me all but unconscious. It almost seems as if it's my bodies defensive mechanism has kicked in to prevent me from suffering any further mental harm. I recognize the signs now whenever I start to feel these effects coming on. It happens mostly with dysphoria but can also happen under serious stress of other kinds too. So I lay my head down on the dirty ledge and just like that..... I was gone!

When this happens I can be gone for anything between an hour to 36 hours, waking only when forced too for a sip of drink. Here, on this hard ledge I remained asleep for well over an hours and when I did finally wake it was with such a discombobulated start! Suddenly remembering where I was I sat up quickly which caused me to go light headed.

"Oh bloody hell please no!" After saying how glad I was to have so far not needed to use the loo, now I badly needed to take a wee! I got up and edged my way very reluctantly toward the toilet, almost as if it were some kind of sleeping demon. There was about one third of a roll of toilet tissue left on top of the short wall, so I used half of that to line the urine stained seat before sitting down. Once seated I looked up and noticed how high the camera on the ceiling was and feared that maybe they might be able to see me. No sooner had I had this thought when the door swung open and an officer led a Mexican guy in to the cell. I cried out "Oh, what? No!! Seriously? I'm on the toilet here!" He quickly apologized and explained how he'd thought the cell was unoccupied then swiftly left with the now sniggering detainee. I just put my head in my hands and cried out "What the hell next?"

I waited in that cell for at least three more hours and needed to use that god forsaken piss pot twice more before the cell door finally swung open and a large portly looking officer walked in;

"Ma'am, you need to turn around and put your hands behind your back".

I knew this was coming of course but your first time in handcuffs is never going to be easy. I felt a quick, short searing pain across my wrists and thought to myself how I'd never have expected them to hurt. I was marched out of the cell and down the short corridor that led back to the processing office.

There at the end of the corridor stood two Mexican men, one of them the guy who'd sniggered at me while on the loo. I figured they also must be waiting for transport to the prison and begged my God that I'd not be processed as if a man when getting there, so winding up in a cell with guys like these.
Unlike myself they seemed almost nonchalant about the whole thing. Neither did they seem remotely vexed as I currently felt, looking almost 'put out' to be so messed about in such a way as this!

Not knowing what to do nor having been instructed over where I should be stood I moved close to the two Mexican men. Everything in me wanted to scream or run out of the door but of course you do the British thing, stay put and remain polite and compliant. Immediately I was pulled away from the men by a passing officer who firmly grabbed my arm steering me back to the opposite side of the corridor to where the men were. Then, still restraining me he yelled at the guard who had come to fetch me out of the cell and reminded him never to put females with males. The two Mexican men laughed together with cocksure arrogance, turned and shot me an egotistical grin that made my skin crawl. Not wanting to show I had been perturbed by them I pretended as though it were meant merely as a friendly gesture and quickly looked the other way.

To be continued...