Kidmageddon: Day 3

Today was incredibly scorchio: some say it's the hottest day of the year so far, with temperatures well in excess of 30 deg C. Which to me, as a South African, is pretty fricken hilarious because every day was above 30 deg C for 8 months of the year when I lived there, but here in the UK we also have ridiculous levels of humidity to deal with so it's much harder to deal with that kind of heat.

Anyway, I started the day by heading to the gym nice & early, again to avoid the worst of the day's heat. I needn't have rushed, because there was an odd mist in our area today that didn't lift until lunchtime, and it kept things nice & cool at the gym. Of course, once the mist did lift the temperature skyrocketed very quickly indeed, and when I disappeared out to our local corner shop towards the end of the afternoon it was so hot I thought my eyeballs might melt.

Ahem. OK, so another hour of lying to the recumbent bike at the gym allowed me to burn another 300+ calories (yay!) but I decided to undo all that good work later on in the evening by having not one, but two scones with jam & cream. Well, it's my summer 'holiday' and I am the boss of me, so I decided I needed the treat.

Of course, when I got up this morning it had been announced that the Duchess of Cambridge had been admitted to hospital in labour, so I turned on the telly and had a good laugh at a bunch of talking heads standing outside buildings where nothing was happening, saying "Yes, the Duchess has gone into labour, but it could be hours until we hear anything! Over to Sian in the studio". Sian: "In case you haven't heard, the Duchess has gone into labour and we're going to talk about nothing else all day. Over to Joe outside Buck House" and so on & so on as they passed the story between each other, trying to drag it out for all it was worth.

It reminded me of Clarence Keyter's infamous coverage of Nelson Mandela's release from prison. Poor old Clarence was an Afrikaans newsreader who was roped in by the SABC to stand around outdoors for several hours, trying to talk to the world about the momentous event of Mandela's release from prison, when he really didn't have a great deal to say. It was really, really awkward to watch because there's only so much you can say about the old scoundrel; and I could be wrong but it didn't look like Clarence had done enough homework to be able to fill about 4 hours of talking about one man. (Heck, I doubt anyone could do enough homework for that!) It was cringeworthy stuff, and so was the performance of the British media today. I did have to LOL though when people started tweeting & texting the BBC to tell them to report the other news of the day instead of bumbling around outside the hospital with nothing new to add to the story; the Beeb's presenters took it on the chin and responded with good-natured humour, which was more than Clarence managed.

Anyway, I didn't watch a movie per se today, but instead I logged in to 4OD and finally got round to watching My Transsexual Summer, the documentary series I missed last year but that has had a lasting effect on my life. A lasting effect, that is, because a lot of trans* people watched that particular documentary last year and as a result they finally came out to their families & approached their doctors to begin their transition... leading to a massive backlog of patients that the Gender Clinics in the UK are still struggling to get through. They've been inundated with new cases, which not only makes things difficult for all those new people trying to get in to see someone, but it also makes things difficult for existing patients who are now having to wait longer & longer between appointments, because services are just so stretched.

Not that I begrudge those people for seeking assistance at the same time as me. It's just unfortunate and inconvenient that we're all competing for the same limited resources at the same time, which is causing us all to have to wait unacceptably long times to get on with the difficult business of transitioning.

It took me just shy of four hours to watch the whole series and I could relate so much to what almost everyone on the show was saying. I also had a couple of triggering, teary moments, such as when Sarah explained how she'd always been uncomfortable with cameras or mirrors because they show an image of her that doesn't agree with how she sees herself. I so understand what she means there: this has been a problem for me for more than 30 years now and one of the reasons why I'm looking forward to medically transitioning is because I'd love to be able to look in a mirror or even look at my own body when I bath myself, without feeling like I want to burst into tears because of what I see there.

Hmm... so after that light entertainment I spent a couple of hours playing games on my iPad, before making a stir-fry for my evening meal, once again washed down with just enough wine to take the edge off the day, then I turned on the telly to hear that the Duchess of Cambridge had delivered a son. Yay! So then I got to have a good laugh at a bunch of talking heads standing outside buildings where nothing was happening, saying "Yes, the Duchess has had a baby boy weighing 8 pounds 6 ounces, but it could be some time until we know his name! Over to Sian in the studio". Sian: "In case you haven't heard, the Duchess has had a baby boy. Over to Joe outside Buck House." and so on & so on as they tried to drag out the story by repeating the same details over & over again. I think you'd have to be a Teletubby - or perhaps Dory from Finding Nemo - to enjoy having the same details repeated every few seconds, each time by a different talking head.

Then I spent some time playing on my iPad before scribbling down today's blog entries.

Anyway, congrats to the Cambridges. And congrats to the Queen who doesn't have to worry about them trying to squeeze the name 'Diana' in there somewhere. (I rather suspect he'll be named George).

Kidmageddon: Day 2

So on Sunday, the second day of my kids' holiday without me, I woke up nice & early and decided to take advantage of that opportunity to go to the gym early in the morning before the sun heated it up to unbearable levels. I dunno what the problem is at the gym, but they seem allergic to using their aircon system so it often gets ridiculously hot in there, making it difficult for me to exercise.

Well, it turns out that the gym is not only blissfully quiet at 8am on a Sunday, but it's also nicely chilled. The cheap bastards seem to be using their aircon at last (pity it takes a heatwave to convince them to turn it on!) so I spent a nice, relaxing hour perving over Quinto on Heroes on my iPhone whilst cycling on a recumbent bike. For this particular workout I have to lie to the machine, because the Fat Burn workout I do is based on a certain percentage of your maximum heart rate according to your age, but if I tell it my real age there is absolutely no challenge to it whatsoever, to the point where I might as well sit on the sofa eating bon-bons for that hour. So instead, I tell the machine that I'm 19 years old so that I can work up a sweat without getting out of breath, and after an hour at that level of intensity I feel like I haven't been wasting my time.

After the gym I went home for a couple of hours before popping out to do a spot of shopping. I got some laundry done and did the dishes (yay! domestication!) and then spent the afternoon trying to figure out whether I should sleep, play a game or watch TV. TV won out when I found The Rocky Horror Picture Show in my DVD collection and decided to watch it.

I'll never forget the first time I saw Rocky Horror; I was 13 years old and had slept over at my friend's house the night before. Her parents are a bit weird* - ok, her whole family is a bit weird - and they'd hired Rocky Horror on video because (I think) it had just been unbanned, but anyway they wanted to watch it and they didn't have any problems with their kids - or other families' kids - watching it too.

So poor, innocent little me sat there at age 13 watching this incredible thing on the telly. To be perfectly honest, I didn't quite make the link between the trans* stuff on the screen and my own trans* feelings (mainly, I think, because all the gender-bending stuff in the movie seemed to be about yearning to be female), but that refrain from the song at the end - "Don't dream it... be it" - made a huge impression on me and I stored it at the back of my mind for many years, where it would eventually come to haunt me. Huh, as I recall, later on that day whilst still reeling from the hypersexuality and genderbendery I'd just seen at my friend's house, I slammed my left thumb in the car door, severely and permanently damaging my nail. Yeah, that was a very memorable day all round.

So anyway, I watched it again on Sunday night - as a fully out, transitioning trans man. I cried at certain points, and found other points very inspiring. All-in-all, it was like visiting an old friend.

By the time I'd finished watching the movie it'd become too late for me to have a snooze, so I made pizza & washed it down with some wine. Then spent the rest of the evening chillin', watching crap TV until I eventually went to bed.


* Her dad was a pornographer, and her mother was a Nana Mouskouri impersonator. Yup. I had some awesome childhood friends.

Kidmageddon: Day 1

Okay, so Saturday 20 July was the first day of Hubby's holiday with the kids, but without me.

Both kids came to my room and woke me up to say goodbye. I'm pretty sure I got a cuddle out of each of them, but to be honest my brain was pretty frazzled (on account of it being ludicrously early, and of me having had a suitable amount of wine the previous night to help me cope with my rather significant distress). They asked whether they should text me and I asked them to do so every day, then I wished them well, asked them if they'd packed all the important stuff, and they went on their way.

So-called Hubby didn't bother to say goodbye to me. Probably because he feels so guilty about what he's done that he can't stand the recriminations he so richly deserves. (As an aside: he said that he'd spend the entire week with the kids pretending to be happy & enjoying himself so that they wouldn't see how much it's upsetting him that I'm not there. Yeah. Well, arsehole - you should've thought about that before organising a holiday without me, shouldn't you???)

So I've resolved to do as much as possible for myself to try to keep my spirits up while they're away. On Saturday, I caught the bus into town (remember that mention of having drunk wine the night before? Hic!) and spent a couple of hours mooching around town, mainly looking for birthday presents for one of my daughters whose birthday is around the corner. I found her a couple of nice things, and then I spent a bit of time buying myself a couple of nice things.

I bought a couple of LGBT T-Shirts from American Apparel (and fuck only knows where I'm going to stash those so that they don't get Hubby's panties in a bunch when he comes back; my Gay Pride flags have been in the boot of my car for a month because I haven't figured out where to stash them in the house); I had a nice lunch at a posh eaterie that my kids always resist visiting because they're such picky buggers; and then I went to an - ahem - adult shop where I bought a few adult things to play with, because isn't that the most fun you can have when you're on your own and the kids aren't around the house? Apart from walking around in your undies, that is (and yes, I've been doing that too!).

Then on Saturday evening I relaxed by watching Beetlejuice - a movie I loved as a teenager but haven't seen for several years. Then I retired to enjoy the treats I'd bought for myself during the day.

So yes, I managed to do a couple of nice things for myself on Saturday. After all, nobody else is treating me like a human being, so I might as well do it myself, mightn't I?

Insult to injury

I've been struggling to cope these past few weeks.

After Hubby's little bombshell about taking my kids away for a family holiday to which I was not invited, I had a nice little breakdown. It got so bad that I became suicidal and the police were actually called to restore some calm & sanity into our household. I just can't cope with the fact that the fucking arsehole I married is deliberately trying to take my kids away from me. It's perfectly clear that he thinks I'm no longer suitable as a parent (because being trans is so embarrassing, and nobody wants the poor kids to suffer the awful fate of being embarrassed, do they?) so he's lining himself up to be their sole parent, supported by his own parents.

I'm made to feel like a complete & utter outsider in my own family; like I'm no longer welcome in my own home. And to tell you the truth, he and my children have been making me feel this way for a whole year now, non-stop. How long can anyone cope with that kind of trauma before something has to give?

Well, something did give. 

I'm due to have (probably) my most promising Gender Clinic appointment in a few days' time, in which I'll finally get to see the doctor who will prescribe my hormones and refer me for the surgeries I so desperately need. I should be looking forward to this, and I am looking forward to this... but my family has cast a huge, enormous, unnecessary shadow over the whole thing.

To help me prepare for this appointment my Gender Therapist asked my GP to perform a huge series of blood tests a couple of weeks ago, to give the GIC doctor a set of baselines that he could use as a comparison when checking my hormone (and other) levels after I start testosterone. Well, one of the results - prolactin - came back ridiculously high; so high that my GP rang me and asked me to come back for another test, because prolactin results that high are usually indicative of a tumour.

I did some research because I was pretty darn worried about what might be happening in my body... and it turns out that high prolactin levels are usually caused by one two things: a) a tumour of the pituitary gland; or b) severe depression, which can cause dopamine levels to drop (dopamine keeps prolactin levels low - if you're not producing enough dopamine, your prolactin level will rise).

So I went home that night and had a heart-to-heart with Hubby, telling him about my dangerously high hormone level and that it might be either cancer or depression... but either way, I really needed the family to cut me some slack for a week or two until I could get my levels re-tested, so that we could figure out what's causing it. You see, my family has been picking on me relentlessly, making sure I know that it's absolutely not acceptable for me to be trans and that I deserve to be punished for throwing their lives into disarray by attempting to finally live my life truthfully and correctly.

To their credit, the family did cut me a bit of slack for a week or so, apart from the odd little slip, and as such I felt almost normal again for the first time in several months. My mood lifted, I found it easier to cope with life's little niggles, and for the first time in ages I didn't feel generally down. I had my prolactin levels retested... and wouldn't you know, after two weeks of not being picked on my my family my prolactin level halved.

My doctor and I were hugely relieved. This indicates that I probably don't have a tumor, and that it was just depression causing this. OK, severe depression is not to be sneezed at, but at least it isn't a tumour! So I told Hubby that night that I was in the clear for cancer but that I'm clearly so badly depressed that it's showing up in my blood chemistry, so I need the family to do whatever they can to stop making me feel so goddamn awful on a daily basis.

As a result, my kids were going quite a bit easier on me.  Most of the really vicious attacks I suffer tend to come from my eldest daughter, who is at a very difficult age. Somehow she managed to rein in most of the bile, and my life actually seemed to be getting a bit better. I was hopeful that if we could keep this up, we could actually return to some measure of normality in our lives... and my brain chemistry could start correcting itself so I don't have to feel so fucking suicidal all the time.

But Hubby wasn't done tormenting me yet. Oh, no - not at all. He had yet another major trauma for me, just because he felt like being a fucking dick. That's the point at which he revealed that he wanted to take my kids away from me for a week, without my consent or prior knowledge.

He's doing this deliberately. He's doing everything he can to alienate me from my own family and it's tearing me apart. I hate him so much now, and I deeply, deeply regret having been stupid enough to marry him. I should've just used him to get the kids and then kicked him to the kerb when his behavour started to deteriorate... although in all fairness, if I'd done that I wouldn't have had my second child, because he started being a dick during my first pregnancy. When I first met him he seemed like a nice guy, but he's turned into such an oxygen thief over the years that I can no longer stand the fact that he's on the same planet as me.

So after my breakdown I was surprisingly OK for a couple of days. I seemed unusually calm and unemotional, and it took me four days to figure out why I've become so calm about the whole damn thing. It isn't that I've accepted it; rather, I'm just using the tricks I learned growing up trans to compartmentalise & push aside the deep pain I feel about this situation, so that I can just ignore it and attempt to live as normally as possible. Isn't it amazing what sort of tools you can gain because you grew up having to hide your gender dysphoria and the pain that it causes you?

He took the kids away on Saturday. And they're having a fantastic time. Without me. Fucking A.

I don't want him back in my house again.

When 'family' doesn't include me

So last night, completely out of the blue, Hubby decided to drop a bombshell on me.

Before I describe said bombshell, I'd like to point out that we have tentatively agreed to continue living in the same house until our kids have left school, which will be several years from now. We agreed that it might become difficult for us to remain sleeping in the same bedroom, let alone the same bed (to which I helpfully suggested that he's welcome to sleep in the shed any time he likes!) so there's a very good chance that one of us may move out within the next year or so. But we agreed that that person would move somewhere close by so that we can continue sharing joint custody of our kids with as little disruption to their lives as possible. The bottom line is: we're trying to continue functioning as a family unit until the kids leave school.

With that in mind... imagine my distress last night when Hubby announced out of the blue that he'd decided to book a family holiday in a couple of weeks' time... but I'm not invited.

Let those words sink in. A family holiday. With one very important member of the family deliberately and specifically excluded.

To say I was furious would be the understatement of the century. I was absolutely incandescent.

This is the third time he's done something like this to me, i.e. arranged something special for the family whilst deliberately excluding me. The first time was last Xmas, when he announced that he'd be taking our kids to see his parents on Xmas morning but that I wasn't welcome to accompany them. The second time was over Easter, when he did exactly the same thing. The third time's the charm though, and instead of simply being hurt like I was the previous two times, I turned my pain outwards and pushed it back towards its source: him. 

I tackled him on various levels:

• That it is completely unacceptable, especially in light of the fact that we're doing our best to function as a cohesive family unit, for him to exclude me from a family get-together.
• That I'm utterly astonished at how he can think it's OK to treat me in this way, considering how upset I was at Xmas and Easter when he did something similar. He is repeatedly hurting me in exactly the same ways.
• That he really hasn't thought this through and hasn't considered the big picture, because I'm furious beyond belief at his decision and how does he think our kids will react to the news when they see how hurt and angry I am at the way he's treating me? (it's impossible for me to hide this)
• That he has absolutely no right to make unilateral decisions regarding our children and then inform me about them after the fact (or more commonly, for me to find out from the kids themselves). I am as much their parent as he is and I demand to be consulted on all important decisions.
• That he has put me in an impossible situation, because although he requires my consent to take the kids anywhere for an extended period (such as on holiday), he's made it impossible for me to withhold that consent without looking like 'the bad guy' in front of our kids. Because if I do so, I'm the one who ruined their holiday.

I told him that it isn't rocket science: all he has to do is talk to me before making any decisions regarding the kids. That's it. Simple, eh?

A year ago I would've just adopted the victim mentality: "Why does he always treat me this way?". But what's interesting about last night's little extravaganza is that I had the courage to call him on his bullshit and make him take responsibility for his actions. In the end, after calming down the kids, he said to me: "Boy, I'm really shit at this, aren't I?".

To which I could only - wholeheartedly - agree.

London Pride 2013

Warning: one of the pics might be slightly NSFW

On Saturday 29 June, I travelled to London with my friend Jayne and her dog, 'Poopie', to march in the Pride in London Parade, along with half a million other LGBT people & our allies.

From left to right: Jayne, 'Poopie' and FTM Diaries.

There were some incredibly diverse groups participating in the parade. Amongst them were big corporations such as Google, Tesco, BP, Microsoft and Facebook; public organisations such as the British Armed Forces, the Environment Agency and ambulance, fire & police services; and religious groups including Christians Together At Pride, Imaan (LGBT Muslim Support Group), Keshet (LGBT Jews) and not forgetting GALHA (LGBT Humanists).

The atmosphere was wonderful: everyone was in a good mood, from the participants, to the stewards, to the police, to the people who turned up to cheer us on. And the people who were cheering us on were wonderfully varied. Sure, there were plenty of LGBT people of all ages, shapes & sizes cheering us from the sidelines... but there were plenty of people from other walks of life too. My favourites were an elderly (straight) couple cheering enthusiastically as we passed them... and this wonderful Muslim mother in a hijab whose son was covered in LGBT stickers, including two LGBT Humanist stickers (if that doesn't give you hope for the future of this country, I don't know what will):

Hope for the future?

This enterprising participant found a unique answer to that age-old question of 'how will we find each other in this crowd?' (his partner was dressed similarly):

How to spot someone in a crowd...

And this character was the living embodiment of an old South African expression of surprise from back in the 1990s - "Oh, my fucking hat!". Yes, those are dozens of inflated condoms:

Love that hat!

The theme of the day was 'love and marriage', because many of us have been pushing the British Government to fully legalise same-sex marriage. So for me, the absolute highlight of the day was when a lesbian couple with whom we were marching got engaged during the parade. What a perfect day to propose! I'm sure they'll remember it for the rest of their lives.

We had a great time walking through London for several hours, and what really astonished me was the huge numbers of people who took time out of their day to stand at the sidelines and make us feel welcome. It was a brilliant day out and I'm looking forward to my next Pride in a couple of weeks' time.  

But one thing struck me when I got back home: my family was a little put out by the fact that I'd gone off & spent some money on something entirely for myself. I haven't told them exactly what I was doing in London (although I think they might have guessed) because of the hostility & negativity I encounter when I do anything to honour my LGBT identity. London was such a refreshing change from the casual malice I tend to face at home. 

Isn't it strange that I needed to travel more than 100 miles, and be surrounded by hundreds of thousands of total strangers, in order to feel at home - and when I returned to the place where I live I felt like an outsider again?

© All pics & text copyright FTM Diaries 2013.

Supportive Parenting for Trans* Kids

Growing up transgendered back in the 1970s and 1980s was an absolute nightmare. I've told a couple of current teenagers & young adults what it was like to grow up in a completely hostile culture, and they seem bemused by the fact that any of us managed to survive. Whilst the current generation of trans* kids certainly have their problems, at least they're growing up in a society which has heard of trans* issues, so many of them are able to seek help. In some rare, precious, heart-warming cases, they're even getting help before the ravages of puberty get the chance to damage their bodies with the wrong secondary sexual characteristics. Good for them, and long may this trend continue.

But whilst some kids are lucky enough to have supportive families, many more trans* kids face rejection, humiliation or even violence from their families. Indeed, this was the case with my own upbringing: I first came out to my mother when I was 5 years old, having realised much to my distress that there were distinct social, behavioural and expectational differences between boys and girls… and that I was being lumped in with the wrong group. But this was in 1976, when pretty much nobody had ever heard of a 5-year-old girl telling her parents that she's really a boy, and actually being correct. So my mother dismissed me with an exasperated wave of her hand and declared that I was just 'going through a tomboy phase'. She assured me that I'd grow out of it and would eventually get back to being her pretty little girl again. She let me have a few small concessions, such as cutting my hair shorter and wearing (girls') shorts & t-shirts instead of dresses (except on special occasions where I was forced to wear dresses) but she left me in no doubt that these were only temporary indulgences and that I would naturally get back to being a girl in due course.

Well, that never happened. It's true that most tomboys grow out of their tomboy phase and become happy as girls and eventually women. In many cases this happens during puberty, when burgeoning hormones make most girls start taking an interest in boys…. and because of that, they start experimenting with being more girly so that they can attract those boys. But I never outgrew my 'tomboy phase'. And the confusing thing is: my own burgeoning hormones certainly resulted in me becoming attracted to boys, but as much as I wanted them I was never comfortable with them wanting me as a girl. The boys I could attract as a girl were not the sort of boys I wanted, as I realised aged 15 when an unattainable boy I was hugely attracted to came out as gay.

So puberty was extremely traumatic for me. Not only did I have the usual confusion about physical changes, emotional changes and my budding sexuality, but I became more & more horrified with each step my body took towards becoming more feminised. I felt betrayed by a body that was doing everything in its power to deny my identity and my attempts to pass as male. I could no longer convince the neighbourhood kids that I was a boy because everyone could see my curves, so I went into a period of wearing dark, extremely baggy clothing to try to hide what my body was doing to me. 

In the meantime, there were several occasions in my childhood and adolescence when I repeated to my parents that I didn't feel like a girl, but each time I did so my mother in particular just became more exasperated with me. It felt as if she was blaming me for not growing out of my stupid tomboy phase already. Why couldn't I just get over this ridiculous, childish infatuation with being a boy and start being happy as the pretty girl she saw me as being?

But I couldn't. I've tried so, so hard for many years to figure out how to do exactly that, but I just don't have it in me. I can't be happy as a girl because I never actually was a girl, despite what my chromosomes might say. But all along, I grew up feeling I was the one in the wrong; that I was different from other people but more importantly that I was to blame for being different.

The awful fact is: this isn't just my experience. Mine is just one of many voices in the LGBT community telling of the severe damage caused by non-supportive parents. According to research (referenced in the document linked below), the way families respond to a child's 'coming out' can have a profound effect on that person's health - both physical and mental. 

According to these studies, it's not unusual for unaccepting parents to try to force their LGBT kids to conform with hetero- and cisnormative behaviour. In other words: some parents try to bully their kids into being straight, thinking it's in their best interests to do so. They're worried that their kids are going to face difficulties in life if they're LGBT, so they try to force it out of them. Unfortunately, gender identity (like sexuality) is an innate part of a person's identity, so when parents engage in this kind of behaviour, the child can see it as a rejection of themselves as a person. This can lead to low self-esteem and self-harming behaviours. As a result, LGBT youth are almost 8 times more likely than non-LGBT youths to have actually attempted suicide, and are 6 times more likely to be depressed. I've suffered regular bouts of depression since the age of 7, and my first suicide attempt happened when I was 14... and it certainly wasn't the last.

Is it any wonder I felt such overwhelming despair? My parents were extremely dismissive of my identity from a very early age, and that led to many, many years of self-esteem issues. My parents and teachers left me feeling that I was in the wrong, and as a result I questioned my own worth as a person. It made me question my own identity, my sanity, my right to exist as a human being. And the more they fought against me, the more I bottled up my feelings deep inside, because I was a vulnerable child in a position of weakness, and they were in authority over me. But I just couldn't change who I am, no matter how much they wanted me to. All I could do was try to hide myself away until it was safe to come out.

So, if by any chance you're a parent of a gender-questioning child and you've happened upon this blog whilst trying to find out more info, please be very careful with how you respond to your child. You might think that you're acting in your child's best interests by trying to force them to be 'straight' or 'normal, but your child can't choose their sexuality or their gender identity any more than they can choose their race, or height, or favourite flavour of ice-cream.

Please remember that whilst it may be difficult for you to understand or accept what they're saying to you about their gender identity, it is vitally important for you to reassure your child of your love and support. Supporting your child does not necessarily mean agreeing with them (although that can be enormously helpful), but it does mean providing a safe, secure environment in which they can explore the truth of who they are. So please don't make them feel any worse than they do already. And please give this a read: Helping Families Support Their LGBT Children

Mrs Botha

When I was in High School, I had a Biology teacher named Mrs Botha who was the epitome of what South Africans call a 'plaasmeisie': an unsophisticated Afrikaans country girl who grew up on a farm and probably doesn't have all her own teeth. How she got to be a Biology teacher is beyond me, as I will soon explain.

Anyway, Mrs Botha used to wear frumpy, flowery dresses teamed with sensible shoes (a plaasmeisie staple), way too much make-up, and her hair was fussily curled into the sort of style you might get if you wanted a 1980s bubble perm but couldn't afford one, so you had to do the best you could at home with your hair rollers every morning. She had the appearance of someone who tries really, really hard to look 'fancy' but fails miserably because they're essentially a backwoods hick. 

Heh. Enough bitching about her appearance: I'm starting to sound like a girl. ;-)

She was also what South Africans call a 'kwaai tannie', which essentially means a dragon or a mean old broad (even though she was quite young; in her early 30s I'd imagine). She was a stickler for rules and everything in her class had to happen by-the-book. She was, in actual fact, a fairly decent Biology teacher, all things considered.

Anyway, we once had a week of outdoor lessons, sitting in the hot African sun in our school grounds because the Science block was being fumigated (well, it was Africa, after all). Due to the less formal surroundings, one of the girls in my class complimented Mrs Botha on her appearance -  rather sarcastically in my opinion - and asked her why she goes to such lengths to look so 'good'.

The answer surprised me, coming as it did from a University-educated careerwoman.

Mrs Botha revealed that she showered every morning, then spent an hour and a half getting dressed & putting on her make-up so she would look as nice as possible for her job. She said we should all go to such lengths, because a woman has a duty to always look her best around men, and that includes at work. I felt like Marty McFly, transported back to the 19th Century, to a time where delicate ladies powdered their noses and deferred in all things to the men around them.

So we asked her whether Mr Botha appreciated the efforts his wife went to so that she could look so good at work. She replied that Mr Botha had never seen her in her work clothes… because after she left work in the afternoon, she'd go straight home, start preparing his evening meal, and then take another shower to remove the day's grime. Then she'd dress up in her best, put on fresh make-up and do her hair, so that she'd look perfect by the time he got home. He'd come home to find food on the table, his newspaper next to his plate, and his wife looking a million dollars (cough - Zimbabwean dollars - cough). Because, she told us, it is a wife's duty to always look her best for her husband and keep his home nice & tidy so that she can keep him faithful to her.

Great Scott!

That was a pretty telling insight into the state of their marriage, if you ask me. 

Anyway, whilst she was more than happy to answer those questions, she became annoyed & refused to answer the question I asked her next: "What does Mr Botha do to make sure you're happy with his appearance?".

That's not an appropriate question, you see. Mrs Botha was quite happy to reduce herself to the status of an object, and she believed it was her duty to teach the teenage girls in her charge to do the same. But we didn't dare expect any form of equality. According to her, even if we achieved a University education and forged a career for ourselves, we should still expect to be chattels.

Sheesh. It felt more like 1885 than 1985. Fire up the DeLorean!

Being ladylike

"That's not very ladylike!"

I was 8 years old. By this age, I've been refusing to wear dresses for several years, and was dressed in my usual summer T-Shirt-and-shorts combo.

I was sitting on the stoep* (verandah, porch) of our house with my feet on one of the steps leading down to our garden. My legs were spread wide open with my knees sticking out to the side. I've always sat this way (I still do today); I'm slightly knock-kneed which makes it uncomfortable for me to sit with my knees together, so keeping my legs spread open puts a lot less strain on my knees. Also, I just happen to like sitting like this. Is that so wrong? My mother had seen me sitting in my usual, comfortable way and decided that it Simply Wasn't Good Enough for her standards of what a little girl should do. So for the umpteenth time in my life, she told me off for not being 'ladylike'. 

Because you see, simply being comfortable rather than constraining yourself to certain standards of behaviour is wrong. Wrong for little girls, at any rate. Apparently, it's 'not very ladylike' for a little girl to sit with her legs spread wide. Because we all know that girls keep their private parts between their legs, and everyone thinks they have a right to dictate what females should be allowed to do with their private parts. My brother was never criticised for sitting the same way I do; despite the obvious bulge of his genitalia it was never 'not very manlike' for him to spread his legs for all to see. 

So… what did I learn about being 'ladylike'? I learned the following:

• Being 'ladylike' means being forced to conform to standards of clothing, hair, make-up etc. so that other people can be happy with your appearance, irrespective of what you might want. After all, your main purpose as a 'lady' is to prettify the place for other people's benefit. Apparently.
• Being 'ladylike' means never burping, slurping, farting, picking your nose, licking your fingers, or doing any of a huge number of perfectly natural things that human beings do. Nor should you ever discuss any of these bodily functions, because that sort of talk isn't 'ladylike' either.
• Being 'ladylike' means being berated every time you use strong language, because 'ladies' aren't supposed to swear. (I remember one time I was working at a company and the IT guy was in the room. My computer crashed, so I said "Shit!". He had the nerve to say to me, "Wow, watch your language, young lady!" to which I replied "I'm sorry, did I say 'shit'? I meant to say 'fuck'!").
• Being 'ladylike' means comporting yourself with grace at all times. You have to be very careful how you get into & out of a vehicle, especially if you're wearing a skirt, because it wouldn't be very 'ladylike' to flash a bit of thigh or underwear.
• Being 'ladylike' means shaving your legs and armpits religiously, because god forbid anyone should ever catch a glimpse of hair or stubble on you. They'll be sure to let you know about it if you neglect to keep yourself smooth as a baby's bottom (my husband used to bully me for years about my hairy toes. Now I'm quite proud of them).
• Being 'ladylike' means accepting second-best of anything on offer, and not making a fuss when you realise that this is all you're going to get. My brother was treated to private schooling and university education simply because of his XY chromosomes. I was pretty much abandoned because, according to my parents, a lady doesn't need an education because she'll graduate school, get a little job, and then marry the boss who will support her and her kids whilst she stays home & bakes cookies. Yeah. Thanks parents, that one worked a treat: I'm the main breadwinner, subsidising my husband who earns about half of what I do. But when I complained to my parents about the disparity of their investment in their children, they were up in arms that I'd had the audacity to expect that is should be treated as my brother's equal.
• Being 'ladylike' means biting your tongue when someone tries to 'mansplain' something to you. You may well know a great deal more on the subject than they do, but heaven forbid you should ever let them know that. Nobody likes it when some broad outsmarts them. 

Ugh. You can probably tell that I feel quite negative about a lot of the aspects of being 'ladylike'. That's because my parents, teachers and other adults used many manipulative and bullying tactics to try to get me to conform to their expectations of how a female should behave. But it's completely unnatural for me to behave like a female, so this caused me a great deal of distress over the years. Particularly the 'mansplaining' bit; that really used to get my goat. Well, OK, it used to annoy me, but I'd never let anyone get away with it. I'm not here to polish some other guy's ego. If I know more on a subject than he does, I've always been more than happy to let him know that fact. If he doesn't like it, then he should do his homework next time. 

If I had a penny for every single time in my childhood that my parents or some other 'authority' figure told me off for not being 'ladylike', I'd be able to buy Necker Island off of Sir Richard Branson and retire there today.

* If you know me from that well-known trans* support board, my current avatar pic is of me sat on that very stoep, albeit in a more 'ladylike' fashion than I might prefer. The reason? Just before taking that pic, my mother had yelled at me to pull my knees together so that I'd look more 'ladylike'.

The loss of my fertility

I'm due to start taking testosterone next month.

I've been attending a Gender Identity Clinic for the past couple of months and things have been progressing very well there. They have no doubts that I'm suffering from Gender Dysphoria and would benefit from further treatment, so they've made me various appointments to see various people so that I can start hormone therapy and get booked in for some surgeries. Hurrah!

However, that does bring up the rather pertinent question of what, if anything, I wish to do with my remaining fertility before I start taking testosterone (which could permanently fry my ovaries) or have 'bottom' surgery (which would include a total hysterectomy).

I already have two children: two lovely daughters who are a joy and a delight in my life. In this I am more fortunate than many transsexuals, particularly some male-to-female transsexuals who yearn to be able to carry & give birth to their own children. One of the advantages of being born female-bodied is the ability to carry children, and I am grateful that I have had that opportunity. But my joy is tinged with an immense sadness: I was denied the opportunity to parent them properly and in a way, I was made to feel like a surrogate, or perhaps like someone who has lost custody of their children for some reason.

My tale of woe begins back in the mid-1990s, when I first met Hubby. We got together and things were pretty rosy for a while, and he soon proposed marriage. I was head-over-heels in love with him; he seemed such a kind, genuine, decent guy. We'd talked extensively about our plans for the future: we both wanted to travel, we both wanted to marry & buy a house together; we both wanted children. We even discussed the number of children: I told him that it had been my life-long dream to have three kids, the first two in my twenties and the third in my thirties. He was perfectly happy with all that, and on that basis we got married.

Whilst we had planned to have children some day, we hadn't planned to have them immediately. Our plan had been to first get married, then buy a house, then have our first kid a year or two after that when our finances had recovered. But fate had other plans. To our shock, I wound up pregnant a month after we were married, due to contraceptive failure.

So all of a sudden we had to rush our plans forward. We needed to buy a house pronto as the rented house we were living in didn't have enough bedrooms for our expanding family. We then had complications regarding the pregnancy – it turned out that I was carrying identical twins but one hadn't formed properly and was threatening the life of the healthy twin, so I spent a lot of time with consultants and ultrasound scanners and travelling to specialist hospitals for expert opinions, so all-in-all it was a very stressful year. Luckily the healthy twin was born just fine... but the stress of getting married, buying a house and having our first child all within the space of 10 months put a massive strain on us.

Then Hubby put extreme, immense, severe pressure on me to return to work a mere 3 months after the baby was born. This was because that would be the date when my higher-rate Maternity Pay would run out and I'd go onto a much lower rate. He pushed me so, so hard to go back to work when I was nowhere near ready to go back (and when my baby needed me) simply because he didn't want to take on the responsibility of bringing in the extra money we'd need to make up the shortfall whilst I was on maternity leave. 

The day I returned to work – and handed my beautiful baby over to my mother-in-law – was almost like handing her over for adoption. I was utterly devastated at the thought of handing over my child to someone else at such a tender age. It was far too soon, for both of us. Mother-In-Law would look after my daughter during the day whilst I worked long, 8-hour days slaving over a hot computer... and then I'd return home, exhausted, to spend about 2 hours with my daughter before collapsing into bed. The only time when I'd get a substantial period of time with my daughter would be on weekends. So really, it felt like I was part of a divorced couple handing over my child to my former spouse for the majority of the time, but then getting visitation rights on weekends. It made me feel very alienated; it almost felt like my daughter was my Mother-In-Law's child and I was 'borrowing' her for the weekend.

It was heartbreaking, but I did it because we were going to have another two children, right? Surely I'd be able to spend a year off work with at least one of them? Well, as it turns out... Hubby decided he'd found the circumstances surrounding our first child so stressful that he didn't want any more children.

After much convincing (i.e. I said I'd have to leave him if he went back on his promises) he reluctantly agreed to have the second child. Very, very reluctantly. He let me know in no uncertain terms throughout the pregnancy and the first two years of our second daughter's life that he hadn't wanted her at all. She's a lovely child and he eventually warmed to her as a person, but he kept constantly reminding me that she was the child I had wanted, not the child he had wanted. Again, he put immense pressure on me to go back to work when she was 3 months old, and again I had to hand her over to my Mother-In-Law. This was even more painful than the first time, but I let it happen because there was still one child to go, right? There's no way in hell I'd allow the same thing to happen again!

The cracks in our marriage continued to widen over the subsequent years. This went on until 2010, by which stage I was nearly 40 years old. My biological clock was ticking very loudly now: it's widely agreed that pregnancy after the age of 40 is Not A Good Idea, and anyway, we'd agreed to have Baby No. 3 whilst I was in my 30s. So in 2010 we had yet another discussion about the various problems in our marriage and Hubby once again refused to work on any of our issues. I realised that he had broken every single one of the promises we'd made to each other and the plans we'd come up with before getting married. We were never going to get anywhere... so I decided to divorce him. But whilst I was planning that, tragedy struck: Hubby suffered a stroke that left him brain-damaged and unable to fend for himself.

What could I do?

I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances: I stood by his side and supported him through his illness. As angry as I was at him, and as much as I needed to move on for my own wellbeing, I do love him and he is my kids' father, so I stayed primarily so that my kids could keep their father.

He slowly recovered - no thanks to the NHS, which has been hugely dismissive of him from day one - and this year he has finally started to claw back some sense of normalcy. He's not 100% like he used to be before, but he was about 40% immediately after his illness and has worked his way back to 80%, so that's pretty good going. But despite my best efforts, the cracks in our marriage are still there. In fact, they're worse than before, because he's had some damage to his frontal lobe and as such he's completely unable to empathise with other people, so he's become quite heartless and cruel.

I deserve happiness in my life, and I'm not getting it with him; I haven't for a long time. So now that he's able to live independently again, I came out to him and decided to transition. We had major dramas around this subject, and the bottom line is that because he identifies as straight, he won't be able to stay with me through my transition so we'll have to split up. So now I'm back to planning a divorce, dividing up the assets, and figuring out how we are going to co-parent our kids. Just like in 2010. But with one crucial difference.

One crucial, awful difference.

Over the past six months my periods have become erratic and I've been getting hot flushes in the afternoons. At the same time, the Gender Clinic asked me to consider whether I wanted to do anything about preserving my remaining fertility before I go on testosterone next month. So I consulted with my GP... and she has essentially told me that my chances of having another biological child are almost zero. At my age my eggs are pretty much scrambled, and the symptoms I've been experiencing over the past few months suggest that I've probably started the menopause. There is a possibility that some eggs might be harvested, but that procedure costs £2,000... which is exactly £2,000 more than I have available at the moment. Plus unfertilised eggs have a very short lifespan; they'll only be viable for less than 4 years, at which time they'll be thrown away. The best way to preserve them is to fertilise them, but Hubby will definitely not volunteer for that job and there's no way I can attract a new partner in a very short space of time and before I start testosterone, nor can I attract one whilst appearing female! So I'm up the creek without a paddle.

I feel so angry with Hubby that he went back on our agreement to have three kids. I feel so angry at myself for allowing him to dictate my fertility. I feel so angry at the universe/fate/sheer bad luck that he fell ill three years ago, right at the time I was planning to leave him. This may make me sound horrible, but I deeply, deeply regret staying to help care for him during his illness.

Because doing so has cost me my chance to fully enjoy being a parent. And his unwillingness to pull his weight made it impossible for me to enjoy it whilst I had the opportunity.

The Granny Test

I don't know what it is about people. Maybe it's natural curiosity, maybe it's the Jerry Springer effect. But for some strange reason (perhaps because transsexuals are relatively rare), people seem to think it's perfectly OK to ask totally inappropriate questions of any transsexual they happen to meet.

In an attempt to remind them of their manners, I like to challenge such questions by asking the questioner to consider what I call 'The Granny Test': basically, if you want to know whether your question is appropriate, just think about whether you'd ask that question of some random elderly lady you bumped into in a supermarket. If it's OK to pose your question to Granny, then it's OK to pose it to any stranger, including me. If Granny would take offense, there's a good chance that any stranger would take offense too. Simples, eh?

Here are some examples of questions that pass The Granny Test:

"Excuse me dear… sorry to trouble you, but I was wondering whether you had the time?"

"Pardon me, but do you know when the next bus is due?"

"Do you know where I might find the Marmite in this shop?"

Do you see what I mean? Those questions are completely inoffensive and Granny will probably be only too happy to answer you. So it's unlikely that anyone will take offense at being asked them. Feel free to ask me those questions any time you like.

And here are some questions that would fail The Granny Test so badly that she'd probably whack you about the head with her handbag for asking them:

"Excuse me dear, but I'm very curious… just how exactly do you have sex?"

"I was wondering… do you actually have a vagina?"

"I know you've asked me to call you Mrs. Smith, but tell me... what is your real name?"

See the difference? Those questions are impertinent, overly familiar and none of your damn business. If Granny wouldn't like to answer those questions, who on Earth would? Why should someone who happens to be transsexual be happy to answer them?

Please consider this if you ever meet someone who reveals to you that they're transsexual. After all, transsexuals are just ordinary, everyday people who deserve as much consideration as the next ordinary, everyday person. Otherwise, you might find yourself getting whacked about the head with somebody's hand/man bag.

So… a lot has happened

Since my last post, I've been struggling to keep on top of everyday life. It's been a bit of a rough ride.

After seeing my Community Mental Health Team (who once again declared me sane: how many people can say that?) I was referred to a large Gender Identity Clinic (GIC) to commence the next stage of my treatment. NHS Guidelines state that I should see them within 18 weeks of referral, so I sat back & waited for my appointment letter to come through.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

After the 18th week had passed and I still hadn't heard from the GIC, I decided to call them up to make sure they'd received my referral and that it was progressing nicely. They confirmed that they had received the referral (five days after I'd seen the Community Psychiatrist), but that they hadn't processed it yet because they have a backlog of cases due to a shortage of admin staff. OK, fine, they have it and they'll get around to it. So I waited some more.

And waited… you get the picture.

Two months later, I still hadn't heard anything back from them so I called them again. This time, a very stressed-out staff member admitted that they hadn't processed it, they had no plans to process it in the immediate future, and they couldn't say when they would get round to processing it. It might not even be this year. 

She admitted that this particular clinic has been inundated with new applications because there was a wave of transsexual documentaries on British TV last year (such as My Transsexual Summer), which led to more people plucking up the courage to approach their doctors & start transition. I was unfortunately caught up in that wave and they just couldn't cope with the enormous workload that resulted from it. (I have since befriended an existing patient at that clinic, and she says their treatment is so slow, particularly over the past year, that she's been with them for four years so far and she still isn't on HRT). 

I was distraught. There's a good reason why we're supposed to be seen within 18 weeks: transsexuals are over 30% more likely than the general public to attempt suicide, because living with a body/mind mismatch is utterly unbearable in ways that cisgendered people cannot even imagine. I'd been sitting there patiently waiting to be seen, even though I wanted & needed to be seen yesterday - because let me tell you, by the time a transsexual has finally plucked up the courage to approach their doctor and start their transition, they've reached a point of no return in their lives. In many cases, we spend many years fighting against our innermost feelings, trying to deny our identity just so that we can 'fit in', but then something happens that makes us realise that we cannot continue living the way we are so we finally approach a doctor. After years of torment. So being made to wait even longer is inhuman.

I remembered from my appointment with the Community Psychiatrist that there are two GICs in my catchment area. I'd asked him at the time what the waiting times were at each, and he'd said they were pretty much the same. So I'd gone for the big GIC because it's famous and has all the resources on its doorstep, whereas the other one is a bit out of my way. But now that I'd learned I probably wouldn't be seen at the GIC this year I needed to rethink my options. So I thought it might be worthwhile calling that other Clinic & seeing what their waiting times are like.

I asked the friendly, relaxed lady on the other end of the phone how long their patients generally have to wait before seeing the Community Psychiatrist and getting their first appointment at their GIC. She told me that the wait is generally one month. I burst into tears: I'd already been waiting seven months for the other clinic and no appointment was on the horizon; could I have seen these people around six months ago if only I'd chosen them?

She heard me start to cry, and said "Oh, no darling, please don't cry… if you're really desperate, we can see you within two weeks!"

Oh hell. Which, of course, made me feel even worse, in a way. So I told her I'd already been waiting seven months for the other clinic but they haven't processed my referral due to an admin shortage; what would I need to do to change my referral to their clinic? She told me the steps to go through, I thanked her… and immediately started taking those steps.

After much letter-writing, phone-calling and diligence on my part, two weeks later I received an appointment at that clinic for the following month. I have now seen them and am officially on my way towards full transition: they hope to have me on HRT sometime this summer if all goes well.

I cancelled my referral to the original GIC and have made a formal complaint to their governing body because they didn't even try to stick to NHS Guidelines of 18 weeks. Transitioning is extremely hard… does it have to be made even harder because certain parts of the NHS can't get their act together?