I debated whether to post this as a short story, or blog entry. While it was conceived as more of a short story, I can't in any honesty call it fiction in any way shape or form. So maybe it's best put here.

Anyone who has looked will notice that my blog entries have been few and far between...I believe this is the second in over a year's time...so I doubt they'll become any kind of regularly recurring thing. My life is too boring to bother.

Sitting in the stands it seemed like the wind was going to rip through you, it was so cold. Not that they noticed on the field. They were too busy playing football and that’s the way it should be. That didn’t do anything to change the fact that the poor spectators were quickly turning into Popsicles.

I was one of those poor spectators. I frankly don’t care that much for football, but my son was playing for his school’s Eighth grade team and my wife and I were there to offer our parental support. That might seem like a strange thing to hear from someone who has worked as a sportswriter, but it’s the truth. As the game dragged on, I was having difficulty maintaining my attention toward it.

Every time I would let it, my mind would wander to that place I tried ever so hard not to let it go. Many years ago I made a decision about my life and for the most part I’m happy with how things have turned out, but once in a rare while I find myself thinking about ‘what ifs’. This was becoming one of those times.

The decision I had made has to do with the fact that there is a conflict within me. My body tells the whole world that I am very male, while my brain and soul whisper that I’m actually female. In part because of the extremely masculine nature of my appearance, I decided many years ago not to do anything to resolve this conflict. Oh, I will occasionally give in to temptation and dabble in things feminine, but most of the time I maintain the façade of being completely male. The success with which I project that façade varies in both consistency and degree.

I remember the exact moment I made my decision. I was putting on makeup, which I’ll be honest is not something with which I’ve ever had much skill, and suddenly I looked at my face in the mirror and said, “What are you doing? Nothing you ever paint on is going to make you look like a woman. It’s stupid to even try.”

I then found myself offering the counter argument, “What’s wrong with this? Do I look good enough to go around as a woman? No, but that doesn’t stop me from deriving some sense of comfort from the act of trying, does it?

As I continued to stare at my reflection, I reached my decision. “I know that no matter how much I may wish otherwise, I’ll never be a woman. I simply don’t have the features or body to be able to make it work.” Finally I made it official, “I’m just going to have to figure out a way for me to find some comfort in the skin I’m in.”

There may be those who would say that I took the easy way and I don’t argue that point one bit. I readily admit that I took the easiest path available to me. Would I have been happier had I tried a different path? I don’t know. All I know is that I have a family that I love dearly and that loves me. And if becoming the woman I still long to be means losing them, then I can’t do it, period.

Those thoughts had to be put aside as my son ran onto the field for a few plays. He didn’t make any game changing plays out there, but he was working hard and enjoying himself. What more could a parent ask?

Returning to my meanderings, I took a moment to remember where I was before continuing. Even though the debate over whether or not to transition had long since been resolved, there were still inside me questions that flitted about, leaving seeds of doubt wherever they lighted. Questions about how I could keep from losing my mind thanks to the ever-present ache to succumb to my feminine self?

Truth is, I’ve not done all that great of a job at that. I’ve battled extreme depression most of my life, coupled with periodic binges into things feminine. Not really clothes all that much. Just having interest in things women generally prefer. There’ve been times when my tastes ran so incredibly feminine that family members, who would normally just ignore things, could do so no more and had to make it known that they’d noticed. When that has happened, and believe me when I say we’re not talking about something terribly rare here, I’ve tried to pull back the reigns so I could continue to fly under the radar, so to speak.

Of course, it isn’t just family members who’ve noticed these things. I recalled an incident where a friend and I had to go to a hardware store to pick up some things for a project we were working on, once made a comment about how we were doing something that ‘manly men’ do and without thinking I said, “There’s nothing about me that’s terribly masculine.”

His reply was, “Yeah, but there’s nothing even remotely feminine about you.” Little did he know! There I was on the verge of giving away my deepest, darkest secret and he ignored it completely. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or insulted. I suppose in truth I was a bit of both.

Of course, maybe he was more aware of my situation than he thought. On more occasions than I sometimes care to think about, I’ve said something obviously feminine in nature, to which his comment was usually something along the lines of, “You have got to be the ugliest chick I have ever seen!” These situations usually caused me to be mortified and thrilled at the same time. So maybe my cover hadn’t been blown completely, but it sure had some cracks in it.

I was jolted back from my daydream by a roar that shot up from the crowd. I looked at the field just in time to see my son’s team score a touchdown. We all whooped and hollered in celebration for a moment, then once again I found myself drifting away from what was going on around me.

Returning to the question of how I maintained my sanity in spite of the decision to not succumb to my greatest desire, I’ve found that writing stories for Big Closet has helped. They give me the chance to separate myself from the real world for a while and drop into my own alternate universe where I’m allowed to be the woman I want to be. Maybe that sounds corny, but that’s the way my world works.

As the game neared its end I made an effort to focus on the field. That task was much easier when my son was out there playing, which he was toward the end of the game, so I managed to follow what happened fairly easily.

When the game ended his team had lost 20-6, but at least he played well, tried hard, and had fun. Asking anything more would be unreasonable, so despite the sadness that permeated the entire stadium I couldn’t help but feel proud of how he had done.

As my wife and I left the stadium after our son joined us, I struggled against the pull of my private little world but found I was able to resist drifting away again as I remembered that I would have the chance later to be Jillian again, if only in my heart and mind.

Maybe this is more information than anyone ever wanted about me, but it was something that felt like I needed to commit to written form.