Will I be … glamorous?

I’m more of a tank-type T, built big, built rough. Never likely to look neat, pretty, sweet, colourful, … and never going to be glamorous. And I hate this outward me. Will I ever be what I want? Would that I could be …. glamorous.

AP - bit close to the bone some of this. Hope it's worth putting up and reading?

Yet again I was in tears.

Was I going to fall at the first fence?

I had been so sure for so long that I was a girl, well, now a woman. So certain that with the right support and the right effort that things would turn out, um, right. That I would look like a woman. I would be as much a woman as I could possibly be. That I might even look like a woman.

And I took all the right steps – as I thought. I spent hours, days, weeks with psychos and shrinks –
And the clothes;
And the purges;
And more clothes;
And the outrageous outfits, the (by hindsight) really ugly-stupid gay-drag-glam – not a good look.

Because I didn’t want to be a fake – I wanted to be a woman. That’s what I told myself – that what I told them.

And I wanted the pills.

And they did the work I wanted.

My skin grew softer, my hair more lustrous, my breasts arrived and my bodyshape altered. I’m sure it did.

And time has passed.

And I was wrong.

I knew much of it was body-dysmorphia. I knew sometimes it was difficult to tell between this and some client’s feelings about going transgender. Notice the word ‘going’ rather than ‘being’.

All this didn’t make enough difference.

It wasn’t that I was or was not interested in sex. I really was uninterested, disinterested, not interested. I had never actually used my penis for its official male function – I don’t mean writing in the snow.

I was now a virgin in my mid-thirties with a body I still didn’t think was right for me.
And I don’t know what to do next.

How much of the process should I reassess? How much of it was pretending? Was any of it real?

--------------------------------------

Was I really just a boy, man who didn’t fit in. But over the years I had, I really had, I really thought I had changed that to ‘I needed to change what did exist so that I did fit in!”

No. It didn’t feel like that.

I didn’t feel that was the answer.

No. I didn’t need to change ME.

I didn’t want to change ME.

I just needed to change what people saw when they looked at me.

So that the outside was the true reflection of the inside.

And my inside was not that of a typical man (whatever typical might mean, ha).

Yes, this meant some change in body-language as well as maybe body too. But the me-underneath – I knew, I know, that’s female. Not shemale. Not transgendered. Not transvestite. Not trans-anything. Not as far as I am concerned.

I have to use the T-words for other people. But ME – ME is a woman.

ME was a GIRL – but I’m now an adult.

ME was and is and will be female.

ME was and is and will want to display as feminine.

Even if the ME wasn’t and isn’t and will never be physically so.

I can’t give birth – I’m not alone in that.

No periods. No contraception. No pregnancy. No birth. No abortion. No cracked
nipples. I’m not alone with that.

Maternal feelings – sometimes – Again – I’m not alone either with having that or not having that.

--------------------------------------

I was with yet another shrink. And this was still pre-op of course. I was beginning to think that if I could be content as a ugly misshapen middle-aged sufficiently-woman then I might not need the op. Part of this was balancing internal-me against the money. I'd already lost most of the components of my previous life. And much of that made me sad, some made me mad, and taking the step to say ' I, Me, Woman' made me glad.

“So you’re finding out what it is to be a real woman. It is what the real-life test is about. We all know that it’s pretty ugly to take a scared boy or man, however much they ‘want to become the girl they know they are’ and have them actually presenting as their female target months before they have the skill, confidence let alone body-shape to do so reasonably. But it has to be done. The powers that be, ‘They’, say that it shall be so.”

“Sure the glamour and glitz happens once in a while, but then after the glamour and glitz are gone, what is left? The mundane and the routine.”

He made it sound so easy – and we both knew that was a lie.

“When you get home, listen to this video.”

So I did. I wanted it to help. To give me new insight. To stop my whirling brain in its wrong body. And I expected it to be ‘just another video’ indicating fleeting possibilities but actually going nowhere

“Are there things the ‘new-girl’ should find easy? Exciting? Horrible? Weird? Completely different as a daily routine than as a one-off by choice? Oh yeah – that last one!! Like being bitten by yourself. If you were a vicious piranha – the wounds still wouldn’t be as deep as the casual sneers and snipes from the haters.

“Let’s take a look at Makeup – however you spell it - women always find that doing makeup, day after day, gets old, there are times we just say to heck with it and do the minimal job. Sure it is nice to be glamorous, but doing it everyday just gets tedious and tiring. Putting jeans and a T on is fine by most women, and going naked as far as makeup goes becomes something to relish. That is one thing we admire about the males, they have to do almost nothing in the morning than the three S's. Yes I know shaving is a drudge, but how long does that take with respect to us women? We usually spend more than ten minutes putting on makeup, another 10 to 15 to doing our hair (if we aren't having a bad hair day), figuring out what we need to wear for the day, and after all that, we usually have to wake up the master, get his breakfast and clean the house. Then we can think about going to work.”

“You think the men would appreciate all this, but they just take it for granted and complain it takes us to long to get ready. Pfffpppt!”

“So is this different for new-girls?” asked the screen-girl (and now I wasn’t quite so sure about her life story.)

A series of paired photographs slid across the screen – about ten pairs maybe in 15 seconds. Two girls in similar clothes. Some looked good in their outfit while for others it clearly didn’t work.

“What did you notice? Point One - there were 7 new-girls in those pictures. And that set was chosen so you’d probably answer 10 out of 20. Not so. Some girls don’t choose their clothes well. Mind you, some TV-TG-TS people haven’t learnt vey much in their years of need.”

“This video is one attempt to show you that a great deal can be learnt without enormous effort or pain – so that you can look ordinary, comfortable and reasonably female.”

The video went on for a while and it was interesting. Then it said ‘We COULD charge you for the next sessions but we won’t. Even though there are some of you who won’t see any value in what we offer unless you pay something. For those who feel that way, we ask that you contribute the cost of the next garment that you DON’T buy. That’s almost as if learning from us costs you nothing.”

I rather liked this approach. I did feel that not many people would pay – but then I had not paid for a lot of online guidance. I’d looked at the free sites, and some of them were good. And I had, once or twice, perhaps gone onto the pay-sites and, mostly not been impressed.

If the supplier had a good product then it would sell and us Ts would buy T-suitable things if we could find them. A lot of what others had learnt was clearly from word of mouth and so on. But my only contact was my shrink. I hadn’t actually met a single person who was T. So word of mouth wasn’t happening. Social groups weren’t happening. I surely wasn’t alone in my problems – but I knew nobody to share with.
There really are so few stories about those who get close to the big decision – to cut or not to cut – that sometimes I feel even more alone.

Even more so, I see few stories about the girl who has the need to dress but will never be convincing. I mean, every time I looked at my real body – the one I didn’t want – I saw a number of truths.

I’m over six foot tall. I’m big, wide, and have played rugby a long time. My nose has been repeatedly broken and is lumpy, bumpy and bent. I have cauliflower ears – o think it hurts more to get these pierced (but how would I know). I am a large, generally cylindrical 16 stone of ex-rugby player. I know of no way without heavy hydraulic equipment and much leatherwork to get any sort of feminine shape. If I wear a bra on top of my man-boobs then it has to be an DD or E – heavy, man! My tree-trunk legs and my torso have responded to no diet, training regime or hypnosis of any sort. So – I’m a big bloke who looks like a big bloke in a dress – when I do get dressed.

Do you want to know some of the things I’ve heard shouted, screamed and sneered at the Ts like me. I’ll start with ‘Hey, look a pervert gorilla’ …. And so many worse.
And they say words cannot hurt. Oh yes. Enough of them can. They cut, they stab. They damage. They abuse. I know. Some of you know. Lots of them know.

How can apparently normal, apparently nice people react like that to something which has no real impact on how they live their lives? Am I making them want to wear a dress? Am I threatening their home, person or their sex life? Oh yes, sorry, I’m a threat to how comfortable they feel in their safe but actually ugly cocoon. Oh, aren’t I the wicked one?

Ok, ok, ok, so I am griping, but it would be nice to see someone writing this into their stories and make people realize there is more to being a woman than just looking pretty for everyone.

Does any of the non-T world out there actually think we would make the choice to come out of the cosy, quiet, unnoticeable closet in order to risk everything. Generally the overt and public T will lose our family, our wife, our children, our life, our job, our house, our friends, our money just to pretend to look like a woman. Really, you think any sane person would do something so mega-damaging? Huh.

We do this because we must. We do this because a future as a pretend-man is no longer possible for us without going mad, mega-depressed, possibly suicidal or worse. We can see no alternative. And we have to persuade normals that our choice is clear, certain and acceptable.

Everyone of us who has reached this stage of being out in the open and talking to often-helpful doctors and shrinks – we all know that we have been pretending to be a male. We have walked the walk, talked the talk. Often we have indulged in the most macho activities – sports or even joining the services – but it has all been a pretence to keep our little lady quiet. And the pain. And yet some still keep going with the pain because they have family who they do not want to hurt – so they keep on with the pain inside. And, yes, some take the departure option. And some take the other departure from outward-apparent-male to inward-apparent-female. And that hurts too.

Can anyone with a reasonable attitude and even the faintest idea of tolerance believe we ‘do it so that we can go into the ladies toilets.’ Good grief. What sewerage must be inside their brains that that is the only retort they can come up with.

We willingly have inflicted grievous bodily harm – so that we can go into the ladies toilets!

We generally lose every component of our previous male lives – to listen to women peeing and see them do their makeup.

How astonishingly stupid are our haters and our opponents.

Sadly, how astonishingly successful they are at damaging us and our private wishes.
And most of it is just about how we dress.

Ah me. Wouldn’t most of our haters be amazed if they studied the history of fashion. Who first wore velvet and lace – men. First with long curled hair – men. First with wigs and makeup – men. First with stockings – men. First with corsets – men, I think.

Like I said, we don’t do this for any other reason than that keeping the inside-lady hidden is no longer acceptable. The mental pain, the near-schizophrenia – it’s too much.

But once we have our eyes opened – and we say out loud we want to be the lady – and we certainly have no way to stay quiet after that. So then there are choices. There are always choices.

And I look at these choices – Stay hidden, Death or Gloria- and I still want to wear a dress, and panties, and a bra, and shoes with heels, and stockings, and pretty blouses with frills and lace and I don’t care (sometimes) that I look no better than a ‘tarted-up tank’.

I’m me – and I would give everything I have to be a little closer to my wish. And I know my deepest wish to be a fairly attractive, middle-aged woman is not going to happen. I will never be anything approaching glamorous. But I can still try.

In my head I can sometimes be the girl I want to be. Gloria (the faintly unglamorous).
But now just that little bit more content.