Among the things in my life that I considered normal were:
My mother gave birth to me when she was 15. At that time, my father was 22. They did marry, but divorced when I was eight months old.

Another year would go by before my sister was born as a result of a relationship without the benefit of marriage.

Several years after that, my mother would marry the man who was sexually abusive. I do not recall one pleasant, or heart-warming memory about him. Overall, when I think of him,...fear is the only thing that comes to mind. During those years, I had two babysitters,....my mother's and my step-father's. My mother's babysitter was a very large woman, whose family were hog farmers. She was a mean and ugly woman, who disliked me immensely. My step-father's babysitter was a beautiful, young woman, who treated me kindly (and my step-father with an extra special kindness). As one might imagine, those sorts of dynamics do not remain static for long. I still recall the grating of tires upon the gravel road, as my mother came to a harsh stop outside the home we lived in, which was under construction. During those days, we lived in the leaky basement, as there was little else above it. With my mother was the hog farmer's daughter. Huddled inside with my sisters and brother, we could hear the shouting outside, as the four "adults" exchanged profanities,...my step-father holding his rifle.

One would have thought this was a rare thing for us,...but only the year before in my old home, I was awakened to the sound of my mother and step-father fighting. I recall being so frightened lying in my bed with the covers pulled tightly around me. So tight were they that I couldn't move, nor did I dare. I didn't want them to know that I was awake. I heard my mother screaming, and the sound of flesh striking flesh. Through the doorway, which was open, I saw her reach for one of the CutCo knives, my step father was selling door to door. I remember very little of that night. In the morning, I awoke to see the house a wreck and my mother with two black eyes. To this day, I have a fear of being confined with my arms at my side, and panic at the thought of being in a shrinking box. Such was the increasing insignificance that I felt I was.

When my mother left him, she went off to California with another man. My sister was sent off to live with her father she had never known. I went to stay with my grandmother. My other sister and brother remained with their father. After a year had gone by, I was sent to California. There, I lived for 5 years. That was when the step-father beat his son with a 2x4 so badly that he was bruised from the lumbar region to the popliteal area. He was arrested and given a minimal sentence. My mother flew back to gain custody of my other siblings. While there, she met another man,...divorced the Californian, and sent for me. I again moved in with my grandmother, along with my sister. As to my step-father's children, he retain custody and moved out of state.

For the remainder of my childhood, I lived with my grandmother while my mother stayed with the new man, who was an alcoholic and physically abusive. My sister only lived another year. In time, my mother was diagnosed with MS, and was unable to move her body at all. The boyfriend lost interest in her except when he was drunk and needed sex. He would break into her home, and against her will scoop her up and carry her to the bedroom. Before forcing himself upon her though, he'd pull her foley catheter out. These rapes stopped when he first saw me in my police officer's uniform. I made certain to palm my gun in the holster when he came to send a subtle message that arrest wasn't an option.

I grew up during the age of the women's liberation movement. I was bombarded with messages about how terrible men were, how we were chauvinist pigs, that girls could do anything boys could do but better, and boys were made of snips and snails,...and girls of sugar and spice,.... I hated being a boy. I hated girls for making me hate being a boy. My parents' decisions on behalf did nothing to make matters better. My mother, finding a new man ever few years, and every man being the very beast that I feared becoming. My mother even went so far as to refer to them as knuckle-draggers. Wouldn't you know, that my first real girlfriend was much like my mother, who reinforced the inferiority I felt as a male. She told me that males were genetic errors. I believed her because she was older, and (I thought) smarter than I was. After all, I was nothing but a dumb boy.

After that, I sought reasons to be offended. I looked for perceived injustice against men,...from issues of reproductive choice, divorce and custody proceedings, and even how many stores in the local mall catered to women and how many catered to men. I was angry. I lived like that until that age of 42, when I wrote my psych. paper. Suddenly, I became open to the feminine side of me. I still hated being a man,...still do in many ways. But, now I feel a sense of balance,...or am working towards it. Certainly, my wardrobe options have increased.

In my discussions with my therapist, she notes all of these traumatic events and abuses, makes notes of my history of starting fires, explosive anger issues in the past, and an inability to regulate emotions.

I have worked as a police officer, tractor trailer driver, draftsman, bar bouncer,...all in attempts to reclaim and feel good about being a man,...but no job ever worked out. I always felt out of place, uncomfortable, and resentful of the men with whom I worked. I have been working in healthcare for many years now, and feel quite comfortable there. Nursing is a good choice for me.

None of my children know about any of this, and my wife has a hard time dealing with it. It upsets her greatly. Yet, my 6 year old son, since age three, has insisted that he is a girl, or wants to be a girl. He alters his clothes to make them look girl like. My wife now must consider that to reject me is to reject her son. All of us have a long road ahead of us. I have no desire to transition, but I want the freedom to express myself as femininely as I wish. Perhaps it is because of my terribly childhood that stories of younger boys becoming girls or being accepted as girls has such an emotional connection to me,...why I change the names. Someday, I would like to write my own stories. I really don't know how,...and while in nursing school am far too busy. Still, it is a goal of mine, and would appreciate any tips from some of you fine authors.

Best wishes,
Melody