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I got barked at in another blog, so I quickly resended what I said, and decided to make my own.
For me, my emergence into womanhood was extremely unlikely and quite disorderly. There was always the inner desire to dress. The deep psychological need to return to my very early childhood, though by my teens, I could not remember it consciously. It started with Magazines I masturbated to, then to cross dressing, then to all sorts of things until I began to fear that I was a sexual addict. It began to dominate my life and I started to fear what I might do. For me all the prayer in the world did not stop it.
Then came that fateful day in Africa when I stood before a congregation, "preaching the name of Jesus Christ". An old woman stood up there and proceeded to tell me that I was evil, and adulterer, and was going to hell. Everyone apologized for her; saying she was crazy but within a year of my return from Africa, my life began to crumble.
My inner desire to be a woman, my masturbation, and my cross dressing had begun to make my life so miserable. Then came the fall and the broken back and the loss of my job. The mind altering drugs and pain killers made my life a black nightmare. I feared my testosterone driven lust would get out of control and secretly made an appointment to get a castration.
My plan was to stay with my family and live out my life as a eunich. Well, things blew up and in less than a month I was living on my own, devorce papers filed, and I was utterly crushed. Went ahead with the castration, but I was such a shy and inept male that I knew that I could not make it in a male world. Now, I am remembering my complaining to an old country doctor in the late 50's about how my thing would get hard and I did not like it. He told me that with just a tiny bit of work, he could end that for me. Later, when I told Mom, she said she'd whip me if I ever talked to him about that again.
I felt like I was in a plane that had crashed into herd of dairy cattle; who knows what would come of it?
With the castration, the masturbation stopped very soon. I felt like I could once again breathe. The operation soon followed to make me feel more "right".
These days, I don't look back at the utter hell in the past. I am living a very happy life now with good friends. I can't explain it and there were many times I wanted to give my flesh back to God for recycling. I don't understand how I got from there to here. It's like someone threw a cow, a case of eggs, a vanilla tree, and stick of dynamite out of the back of a speeding pickup and lo a Milk shake!
Some try to moralize about masturbation and autogynophila, but I know that those who do probably have the problem worse than I did.
I love my life! If I could just have a nice husband ...
Comments
Thank You, Gwen
There's nearly always a reason for how a post is phrased.
Because of your beliefs, Gwen, it is very possible for you to see your journey as a "progression" from fethisher to post-op. I apologize for thinking it was an affront.
The sixties' song "Little Boxes" was about America's move to conformistland, the suburbs. However, its overall message is applicable to our discussion. It's comfortable to put people, including ourselves into boxes. Central to the gender struggle is the acknowledgement that a world of just two gender boxes does not exist.
Yet, those of us with our noses pressed firmly in the aromatic argument keep right on stuffing eveyone into those cartons.
I take offense at discussions which seem to cast all cross-dressers into the arena of fetishers. Not so much because I find fetishers offensive, because that would be absurd in a struggle to find acceptance. Moreso, I'm upset by this wholesale write off of cross-dressing as a sexual pursuit because it makes it so darned understandable. "They do it so they can wank!"
It would be nice if that were the case, but it isn't remotely that easily explained.
The core of what I find so offensive is the failure to acknowledge the validity of the battle fought by the cross-dresser.
It is tempting to say that we need more boxes. A box for fetishers and non-fethishers cross-dressers . . . and maybe a dozen or so smaller boxes for the hybrids surrounding those two boxes. That line of thought quickly becomes silly and without merit, because each of us is complex and belongs in a myriad of boxes depending on the circumstances. Each of those boxes has its set of challenges and pain. No box is superior to others.
((Uhmmmm. It seems to me that teenage boys of my era referred to the vagina as a box. Coincidence?))
Not to be too Biblical, but I remember something said about casting stones that seems applicable. We are all human and must deal with that condition first -- all other matters are mere asides.
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)
I say this respectfully.
I do so dislike labels. If I was 14 today, they'd say I am learning disabled or something. It doesn't matter. I had a good life.
Today, I am Woman as far as I can tell, at least I have to wear a bra and sit to pee. If someone just like me wants to be transgendered, fine, and I'll defend her right to do it.
There are so many classifications out there. Anyone know what the hell Cysgendered is? I met a little person not long ago who'd had his balls whacked off my his folks and was given Estrogen, LSD, E and about anything the doper parents had around. It calls its self an it. As far as I can tell she is a beautiful young woman with a crew cut.
I don't think any one of us has the right to be critical of anyone else. I personally don't like stories where revenge is the main driver, but I don't say anything. I just don't read them.
A friend of mine recently refused to read my stories; saying that she didn't read that stuff. Now that hurt me like hell. I cried.
No apology nessessary, but since you offered it I graceously accept it. :)
Khadijah