I’m trying really hard to figure out what I am. I’m bad with labels, and I’ve never been good at self-discovery, finding myself, or any of that. I’ve just kinda been me, and life just floats through me like a fog. It happens, and I make decisions, and I go where I go without thinking too hard about what it all means. That all changed a few months ago, and now I find myself stuck, wondering who and what I am, with no introspective skills to really figure it all out.
Things I definitely know: I cross-dress and I love it. I really like who I see in the mirror/camera when I’m dressed in traditionally female clothing and makeup. For brevity’s sake, I’m just gonna call this “dressed like a woman” because yes, I get that anyone can wear anything, regardless of gender and all, but I hope you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt. I’m frightened by what all this could mean for my family life.
Things I think I know: I think I feel, deep down, more feminine when I’m dressed like a woman. I’m pretty sure I do. I feel like people who are androgynous slide in my perception toward the male side of the spectrum, or at least the “more male than me” side of the spectrum when I’m dressed like a woman.
Things I don’t know: What this means. What to call myself. What to do.
I don’t remember ever having dramatic, crushing, born-in-the-wrong-body crises when I was little, like the folks who write the articles about being trans. I do remember playing with my sister’s toys, and having no problem with doing so, but it was usually when I was playing with my sister. It didn’t get any kind of attention. Positive, or negative.
I remember trying on my sister’s bras. I’d fish them out of the hamper, stuff them with socks, and look at myself. It just felt like a thing. There were no revelations from the sky. No deep conclusions that “This is who I’m supposed to be.” It was just a thing. I always figured it was something everyone did. Thank goodness I never told anyone about it.
I got bullied a lot, especially in grade school. They called me by a feminine version of my name. Even my neighborhood friend called me ‘fag’. I remember it hurting. It makes me wonder now if this bullying caused me to push things down. To deny any kinds of feelings of femininity for fear of more ridicule. I don’t know.
I remember my sister coming out as gay in high school. I remember it being a big explosion in my house. I remember her stealing my hoodies to cover up her body. I remember being really angry about it. I remember her bout with anorexia. I remember not feeling much about that at all. I don’t think I understood the seriousness of it. I was still, frankly, pissed at her for being so terrible to me through high school.
I remember being in my 20s and being envious of women’s clothes. Mostly for the variety and choice of it. Women can wear flats or heels or sneakers or boots. Women can wear jeans or capris or shorts or skirts or dresses. I wanted that kind of variety. I was stuck in jeans, tee shirts, and hoodies in the real world, and khakis and polos in shitty retail jobs. And now I’m doubting whether or not it was about variety so much as the clothes themselves.
In my early 30s, I experimented with cross-dressing once. I knew nothing. I bought a bra and some makeup and a skirt and a tight shirt . I put on a silly blue wig I got at a Halloween store and took pictures of myself with an ancient webcam. I posted the photos to an anonymous message board, and was mocked mercilessly. I shouldn’t have expected any better from the internet. I put all those things in a bag and into a drawer and forgot about them for a long time.
I learned on a halloween one year that a friend of mine was a frequent cross-dresser. I thought “Good for him”, and had trouble figuring out what pronouns to use when. I didn’t even think about the clothes in my drawer.
I got married. I married a wonderful woman who made me feel good and safe and loved. I didn’t tell her about the cross dressing, though. Partly because I’d pushed it away, partly cuz it felt shameful.
I used the word “tranny” in front of my sister, and she got really angry. She had to explain why. I told her I used it because it’s what my friend’s wife calls him, because he cross-dresses. My sister explained why that’s not cool. I took it to heart, and never used that word again.
I got a little bit involved in a local kink scene. It’s nice. There are ups and downs, some made and broken relationships, but generally, it’s good. Kink stuff could be a whole other post full of history, so I’ll leave it there.
I joined an online community that fostered fantasies of bodily transformation. Being things that you weren’t or couldn’t be. Silly, cartoonish stuff, really. The internet brings crazy fandoms and common interests together. There was a disproportionate number of trans people there. I fostered an emotional relationship with someone there who presented themselves as a female. Then, one day, she told me she decided to present male instead. I was crushed, and called it off.
I began to get the suspicion that my cross-dressing friend was more than just a cross-dresser. She slowly stopped using her male facebook, and almost exclusively used her female facebook. When I think about her now, it’s always with her girl name. I say she/her when I’m talking about her.
My sister came out to me as trans. I now have a brother. I wasn’t shocked. I didn’t mourn. I was mostly worried about how this would blow up with my parents. It did. I thought to myself that my brother’s a lot cooler than my sister ever was. I figure that 30-something years of actively hiding who you are can wear on you and make me angry. In my head, nothing snapped into place. I didn’t even think of my probably-trans friend. I didn’t think of my online community. I didn’t think of the clothes in the corner of my drawer.
I decided to try on a female voice/name online. Nothing really changed. Everyone was just as nice and open and welcoming as they were before. Nobody treated me differently. They just called me a new name. I flipped between male and female voices. Probably half and half at the beginning, and slowly started sliding toward always-female. It was nice. I thought to myself that maybe people were nicer to me when I was presenting female. I couldn’t be sure.
My kid was born. A fantastic little kid.
I found a “main” kink top. She’s (still) amazing. The relationship grew very fast, and neither of us handled it well. It caused a lot of problems, and my marriage took a bad turn. We went to couples therapy. My wife felt like I was hiding things from her. I kind of was. I admitted it, smashed the brakes on the kink relationship, and things are getting better.
My friend is definitely trans, and even when she’s presenting male, I call her ‘lady’ and her chosen female name and I always tell stories about her, not him. She announced that her cosplay photographer wants to do a just-for-fun photo shoot, and anyone’s welcome. I asked her to help me dress up like a girl for some photos, and she agreed to help. She walked me through the steps of doing my makeup, loaned me some body parts (okay, boobs) and a wig. When I looked in the mirror, I said “I love you.” That’s not something I’ve ever done. It felt like a big deal.
Things started moving fast at about this point. It’s still so foggy and disorganized and confusing in my head.
My trans friend asked if the cross-dressing is a kink thing or an identity thing or what, and I tell her I don’t know. She insists that I do some thinking about it, and let her know. I did some thinking and I let her know that it’s somewhere fuzzy and in-between. It’s not just a kink thing. The thrill wasn’t a sexual thing. It wasn’t for my top so much as it was for me. It was an “I like who I see in the mirror thing”, but I was nowhere near any kind of “This is who I should be.” She got kind of cold and business-like in her reply, and essentially boiled it down to “I can’t help you with that. You should talk to your therapist.”
I did talk to my therapist, and to a close friend or two. The consensus is that it’s okay to be unsure and foggy and somewhere in-between.
I explained to a confidant that sometimes when I’m “attracted” to a woman I see on the street, it’s not because I want to have sex with her. It’s because “I want to just, like, steal her body and be in it.” She got what I meant, and understood that it wasn’t some kind of weird Buffalo Bill sort of thing.
I loved the photos from the shoot, and couldn’t stop looking at them. I shared them with my online friends, and they all said very nice things. I spent a bunch of christmas money on makeup and silicone boobs and a wig and clothes. I told my wife about it, and it was bad. In trying to explain my state of mind, I told her about the female voice I used online. It didn’t help. I didn’t have any words to make things right. To make her understand.
To her, this was just the latest surprise, and she wondered if it would ever end. She wondered about other things I could be hiding. She wondered if I’d ever stop ‘looking for more than I have.’ I told her I don’t know. We did a lot of work in therapy. Things got better, but it was hard and it left a deep mark. It made me very reluctant to talk about this stuff with her any more. Mostly for fear of damaging our relationship or straining things more. I really don’t like conflict.
I started trying on makeup and dresses and skirts more often when I had random free time. I was temporarily unemployed for a while, so I had a lot of free time. I shot a bunch of selfies and liked them. I shared with my friends online, and they still had nice things to say. It made me feel good.
This brings us to about the present. Where I am now. It’s probably even less organized.
I’m not androgynous. Getting even barely close to ‘passing’ is a lot of hard work, but I feel like that work pays off.
When I walk through the city, I look at women in their clothes, and I still feel a lot of envy. I want to be able to wear what they wear, but I know that most of the outfits I like wouldn’t flatter me. On good days, I see the girls who have narrower hips and broader shoulders, and I think “I could pull that off.” On bad days, I dwell on the fact that I’m built very much like a dude. I’ve read the fashion guides for the “wedge” body shape. Angelina Jolie, right? Sleeveless is out. Pencil skirts are out. Sleeves and A-lines are in. Otherwise, I’d just end up looking silly and top-heavy. The bad days are really hard.
I practice my “girl walk” when I walk through the gay part of town.
I try to imagine being out and about while dressed like a woman. It’s exciting and terrifying.
I contemplate my penis sometimes. I wonder if I’d be better off without it. I wonder if I’m just thinking that because I should.
I still don’t know what I am, or what to do about any of this. I don’t know if I’m trans. I’m pretty sure I’m some flavor of queer, but I don’t know if I’m bigender or genderfluid or some other thing.
I don’t know if I’m just latching onto what I think is the group of “cool kids” in my circle of friends who happen to be queer, and I’m trying to be more like them. More accepted by them.
I can’t tell if I’m mentally recoiling at all of the backlash that white straight cis-guys are getting, and this is my way of shying away from that group.
I can’t tell if fear of losing my family, my wife and child, are making me think around the things, and making me deny things, or if these feelings are really not there.
I don’t know if I just feel like I’m ugly and I think girls are prettier, and since I want to be prettier, then I guess I should be a girl. There’s more I don’t know than I do at this point.
I don’t have any kind of conclusion, beside just typing it out, shouting it out to the world, and trying to make sense of another day.
