It's My Life.. or Something Like It aka Chaotic Organization
Blogging about the good times and the bad ones while I make my way through this crazy life as a daughter, a woman, a sole/single mom and a student.
I'm a mixed bag type blogger. I blog about my life and the things in it.
I'm a parent of two amazing earth bound children (a boy and a girl) and two little angels in heaven.
I am owned by cats, dogs, a rabbit, and a tortoise.
I am LGBTI friendly. I can be selfish at times.. impatient.. vindictive.. motivated.. intelligent.. manipulative.. stubborn.. loving.. caring.. flirtatious.. I care about more about my children then about anyone else.. it will always be that way..
I cannot carry anymore children as I had a hysterectomy due to 'cancer' in 2003.
My past isn't the best, but it has shaped me into who I am. You will probably end up asking a question where the answer lies in my past and you may not like the answer you get.. just remember it's my PAST, not my present or my future.
Today I am thankful for the friends that have stuck with me through all of the ups and downs over the past decade. I am thankful for the family I have. I am thankful for the newer friends I have made in the past two years.
I believe that my parents would have understood if I had
told them, but I was too afraid of what their friends and family would think of
them to say anything. Then, after my son was born, and I was finally of an age
where I could finally be ME, I felt even more ashamed of who I really am. I
felt like becoming ME would be looked at as selfish and I couldn’t do that to
him. After years of feeling like a freak for growing huge boobs, I wanted them
cut off. I was finally given the chance to get rid of them at 18 because they
were causing back and spine problems. I tried to talk to the guy I was with, my
son’s father, but whenever I started the conversation, he would give me a look
that made me crawl back inside myself. So, when the doctor and I were alone,
and I could have asked him to remove them completely, I did what would make
everyone else happy, and asked him to keep as much as possible.
For my son’s
sake, and to keep my parents from being shamed by their friends and family, I
had to still look like a girl.
How could I make my son lose his mommy? How would he be
treated if people found out he had two daddies, one who gave birth to him and
used to be a girl. For more than 25 years I have known I am a boy. From the time
I started school, I hated being with the girls, I hated that I had to sit to
pee, that I didn’t have my own penis. That I wasn’t allowed to play rough and
tumble games with the other boys. So I overacted as the girl. I played up the
fact that I was forced to be a girl. I flaunted these things that grew on my
chest. I kissed the other guys to get the
girls to react.
I have hidden who I really am. I have kept my hair longer; I
have made an effort to wear girly clothes. I even bought makeup, and learning
how to wear it to make me look girly. I wore fake nails too, to wear nail
polish on because I hated growing out my finger nails like a girl is supposed
to. I wore clothes to cover up the girl parts. I tried taping down my breasts
when they got bigger, that resulted in ripping parts of my skin off when I used
duct tape to do it once without a bra under it because the bra made them stick
out more. My brilliant solution to this was
to wear mainly jeans and t-shirts or wear leggings and long baggy tops. I took the tops from my Daddy’s closet. They
were the closest things to boys’ clothes that I could get away with and still
be my Daddy’s Little Girl.
Those three words make me cry. Every single time I read them
or hear them. My Daddy’s Little Girl is
a boy. How could I disappoint him? I wonder if he knows. I wonder if he knew
all of this time. I have played the part of a girl for most of my life. I’ve
done to girly dress for prom, the white wedding dress and looked beautiful. I
have married males because that is what a GIRL does. That is what is expected
One of the few friends that I have been open about this with
stated “But you are a mom, you had children! How can you be a boy?”
I had my children
because I got pregnant because I had sex. I love sex but it has never felt
quite right. I was always too dominating, too envious that they had the penis,
that it wasn’t MY penis sliding into them. I was cursed by the female anatomical parts my
body had grown instead of the male ones that would have made me complete. I had
to endure bleeding from a vagina I didn’t want, had to grow breasts I’ve hated
since they started developing at 11, and clothes that never seems to fit how I
wanted them to until I starting buying men’s pants.
If given the choice between being forced to look like a girl
or be who I am and look like a boy, I wear the boy clothes. In March 2003, I
was given a blessing that also broke my heart. Aside from losing the son I was
carrying; the uterus and cervix, that I hated so much because they were part of
what forced me to be a girl, was removed from my body. Inwardly I was so happy;
it was a step towards becoming ME. One more part of the girl was gone! Then I
realized that the only way for me to have more children was with those girl
body parts. I could never truly be the boy I am inside and still be a parent to
any future biological children. That part still breaks me down to a teary,
I spent my 20s playing up the girl to the outside world. I
thought that if I could only get enough money to pay to become ME, I could
leave this city and my girl life and start over as who I am. When I finally had
the money to do just that, I took my daughter and moved to a new city, where
almost nobody knew us and where I could start over as ME. Then I looked at my
10 year old daughter and saw how much of a girl she is. My heart was torn to
pieces. She needed her Mommy, even if her Mommy is a Daddy on the inside. For
my daughter’s sake, I buried the real me deep down inside and I kept playing
It is only in the past few months that I have been
comfortable enough with ME and who I really am to admit it to anyone. It is
only in the last few weeks that I have been able to almost talk to my husband
about me, about who I am. Do I fear that he will leave me if I took the steps
to finish becoming me? I worry about it every single minute that goes by and I
keep myself inside. Would I cut off the rest of my hair? In a heartbeat, if I
could. Would I stop wearing makeup? Get me a garbage can so I can throw it out
now. Would losing my breasts damage me mentally? I don’t think it would as I
have never enjoyed them.
Now the part where the ones that have read this far close
“How do you know you are a boy?” Since I was 3 years old I
have felt this way. I can feel my penis.
It’s not physically there, but I can FEEL it. I can take my hand, and wrap it
around the air where my penis is and feel my hand stroke the shaft, the
sensitive head, every inch of it. It’s not a long or fat penis, it’s only about
5” long when erect and my forefinger and thumb tips touch when my hand closes around
it. I feel where in runs through my body, where my scrotum hangs and gets
pinched between my legs if I sit wrong. It is why I could never cross my legs “like
a lady does” without being in pain.
In senior kindergarten
my mom forgot it was picture day and I am wearing brown pants, and a brown striped
sweater. In Grade Five for school pictures, I wore men’s dress pants, a button
down shirt, and red bowtie, with my girly hair tied back in a bun. I was trying
to show them who I AM. Sadly the other kids teased me about looking like a boy
and when I screamed back that I AM A BOY, they teased me even more. So I went back
to pretending to be a girl.
That is what was expected of me; after all I do have a
vagina so I HAVE TO be a girl. If you look at every picture of me when I was in
elementary school and dressed in dresses to look like the girl my body says I
am, I look miserable. I fell in love with one of my best friends and suffered
for years because I couldn’t tell her how I felt about her as I was trapped in
this girl’s body. To this day I haven’t told her how I felt about her or that I
am a boy inside.
“But you look beautiful as a girl, why can’t you be happy
how you are?” Being beautiful on the outside is a matter of makeup and
clothing. It’s looks that society says are beautiful. It’s all bullshit. It’s
all an act. I am happiest in a pair of track pants, a baggy skirt, no makeup and
my hair cut short. I was happiest growing up when I was doing “boy” things like
playing in the dirt, riding my bike through the mud, picking up bugs and snakes
and other animals. When my Daddy would take my fishing and camping and just let
me be ME, a little boy!
There are hardly any pictures of me as an adult because
those pictures do not show ME, they show the girl I am supposed to be, the girl
I HAVE TO be because I am a parent. I am supposed to be the MOM, which means I
HAVE TO BE a girl.
I keep who I am inside of me because I am so afraid to
disappoint the ones that I love and who I believe love me. I have played the
girl for so long that I am afraid to be ME. I carry huge amounts of guilt because
I allowed an amazing man to fall in love with the fake me. The girl that I have
to be to be accepted my society, by my own child and by my family. I sit here
and I look at my husband and I wonder if he could still love me as a man. I worry
that my parents would not love me anymore if I became ME on the outside
too. I worry that his family would not
love him anymore because I physically became ME, the male, and he still loved
me. Would they still love me too? I wonder how my own little girl would feel
about me. I worry that by being ME, I would be disappointing her.
The closest acceptance I have had to really being me is being bisexual and that many people incorrectly spell my given name, Renée, as Rene and look for a boy.
Some of you are probably sitting there thinking that I am
writing this for the attention. That I am sick and perverted in some way because
of this sick thing I am writing about. That there must be something wrong with
my head and that I need professional help. You are right.
I am writing it for the attention but not how you are
thinking. I am writing it due to the fact that people like YOU make people like
me, the ones trapped in the wrong gendered bodies, feel how we do. That we have
to hide, or that suicide is the only way to be rid of the guilt caused by
people like you to us, to our families, to our friends. I am sick, and tired,
and angry that society has people like YOU that degrade and look down on people
that don’t fit into what YOU think is proper. There is something wrong with my
head. It looks too much like a girl for me to be ME because I have to hide ME
from people like YOU.
Yes, again you are right, I DO need professional help. I
need a doctor to do various surgeries. A vaginectomy , to remove my vagina, a mastectomy
to remove my breasts, a scrotoplasty using my labia majora to form my scrotum
with prosthetic testicles, and a phalloplasty to give me my penis and in the
process lengthen my urethra . All of these would finally make me whole for the
first time in my life.
To my friends and family that will still be there for me
after reading this;
Please know that I love you all, and I hope that you will
all stay beside me through the next few years because I am done with trying to
be the girl that I am supposed to be. I am taking the steps to be ME.
You know the type, the "what if I had done this instead of that?" "What if I had only had the courage to tell him that I loved him, all those years ago?" "What if I had just let go of the bad ones me trusted him?"
While I am happy for him, it's made me realize that I have spend half of my entire life trying to make it work with the wrong people by giving up pieces of me and have discovered that I have very little left of me left and that I am very unhappy with my life.
Thankfully, I have taken steps to change that.
I am registered for school again. This time with full support of my family and friends in a city that they can help me out if I need it.
I have been eating cleaner.
I've gotten on to waiting lists for family doctors.
I have made the choice to spent at least a few hours each week with friends.