T
Thelonius
Member
- May 19, 2020
- 11
I'm 43. I'm transgender. I came out to my wife last year, after my mother died and realizing life is short (she contracted and died of cancer within 6 months). Had a turbulent childhood. Hid who I was. Abandoned. Beaten. Raped. Molested. Never talked about it because I didn't want my mother to leave again. After she died, it all came out. I couldn't repress it any more.
I used to have hope that some day I could physically be who I was mentally. I used to have hope that I could stop pretending to be male, that stupid things like lavender, nail polish, stuffed animals could be normal and expected. My wife destroyed that. She told me, "I didn't know what I wanted." "I didn't know what I was feeling." "This was just a phase." "There's no woman in you." "You just want to fuck men." "You just want to be pretty." "You're just a cross dresser." She ignored the lifelong details I provided. That my father beat me when I was five for putting on a dress and telling him I wanted to be a girl. (Not just a beating. Savage, with the belt buckle. He later gave me the belt because he said I was more afraid of it than him, and that wasn't how it should be.) Dad was physically and verbally violent. He beat my brother once for hours on end to get him to say Uncle, but he never said it. He just bled. I have a funny memory of the world sideways, from when he threw me through a garage wall. He tried to beat my head in with this unicorn statue, blaming me for the divorce. I ran, he threw it at me, I can hear the whistle of it blowing by my head.
Being seven and wearing my sister's bra and feeling that everything in the world was right. Stealing bras, panties, dresses, t-shirts, make up. Wearing my sister's prom dress and dancing in the basement to "I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight" by Cutting Crew at 11. Being groomed by a pedophile that caught me stealing undergarments to suck his cock because he threatened to tell my father about my desire if I didn't, also 11. Finding freedom in the people who saw the Rocky Horror Picture Show weekly, then having that taken away by another abuser.
That emotional damage doesn't even include the two years where my Mom abandoned me and my older sister. When we lived on the street because my father had already tried to kill both of us, and we weren't going back to him. Or being thrown out of the house at 15, prostituting myself to men so I could afford my insulin.
Most of all that when I'm a woman, I'm not depressed. The sky is blue. I look at a woman and I feel lust - I identify as bisexual - but I feel so much more envy. I would never be pretty. If I started now, it's too late - the hormones wouldn't have a chance to form the appropriate body. But being a woman is about being more than being pretty. It's about intelligence, cooperation, empathy, emotions, the freedom to express yourself. And at least I could be happy, be who I wanted to be.
I can't stand to look at myself in a mirror, or photograph. I hate who I am, I hate who I've been, I hate everything about myself. Last year Instagram added a filter to show yourself as the opposite gender. I used that, and for the first time in my life I liked what I saw. I sat for hours staring at that photo.
My trust in my wife was shattered. I don't care what you are, I can love you. But to her I had to be male, and not just male, a typical male. What would she do if I lost a limb? Or was burned? Would she still love me?
I stayed because we've been married for a long time. Twenty years. But mostly I stayed because I have nowhere to go. I don't know how to leave. I don't know what to do, to leave. I have no friends. Acquaintances would be horrified to hear the truth; I live in a conservative state. The Court system would rip me apart. "How dare I show genuine desire and emotion?"
No one in my family put me ahead of them. No one said, "do what will make you happy." There is no one in this world who wants me to be me. Now my wife tells me she's upset, that she has to censor herself to avoid setting me off. I don't want her to censor herself, any more than I want to censor myself. This isn't a healthy relationship.
The crossover from despair to suicide was difficult, but it's been done. If I lived in another state, if I had a different family, if I had friends, if, if, if... maybe suicide wouldn't be a necessity. But I don't have any other option. And the next time I try it, I have to be successful. I won't go back into a mental hospital. I won't be chained up and forced to listen to generic sermons about "a better me" that ignore the actual underlying problem.
Any time I start to feel otherwise, I get reminded that I'm just a source of income.
My choice is the exit bag, powered by nitrogen. I'm going to form a chain of plastic zip ties that will attach my hands to my feet to keep me from tearing the bag off. If I fail there's enough mobility in that situation to grab a pair of scissors and free myself, and no one will be the wiser. I plan to go to a hotel room to do it. I have property in a rural area but I'm known to go there to get away. I don't want to be found. No note, after deliberations. There's nothing I could say. I've found a Velcro closure that has tape on the backside to attach to the bag, so I don't need a drawstring.
I'll be sure to leave my phone at home when I do it. Again, it prevents tracking.
I'm struggling with the nitrogen. My family is "sheltering in place" so it's difficult for me to come up with reasons to get away. I don't see a choice anymore. I wish I did.
No hope, no love. smile. We're all in the same boat, I know, but that's why I'm here.
Brie
I used to have hope that some day I could physically be who I was mentally. I used to have hope that I could stop pretending to be male, that stupid things like lavender, nail polish, stuffed animals could be normal and expected. My wife destroyed that. She told me, "I didn't know what I wanted." "I didn't know what I was feeling." "This was just a phase." "There's no woman in you." "You just want to fuck men." "You just want to be pretty." "You're just a cross dresser." She ignored the lifelong details I provided. That my father beat me when I was five for putting on a dress and telling him I wanted to be a girl. (Not just a beating. Savage, with the belt buckle. He later gave me the belt because he said I was more afraid of it than him, and that wasn't how it should be.) Dad was physically and verbally violent. He beat my brother once for hours on end to get him to say Uncle, but he never said it. He just bled. I have a funny memory of the world sideways, from when he threw me through a garage wall. He tried to beat my head in with this unicorn statue, blaming me for the divorce. I ran, he threw it at me, I can hear the whistle of it blowing by my head.
Being seven and wearing my sister's bra and feeling that everything in the world was right. Stealing bras, panties, dresses, t-shirts, make up. Wearing my sister's prom dress and dancing in the basement to "I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight" by Cutting Crew at 11. Being groomed by a pedophile that caught me stealing undergarments to suck his cock because he threatened to tell my father about my desire if I didn't, also 11. Finding freedom in the people who saw the Rocky Horror Picture Show weekly, then having that taken away by another abuser.
That emotional damage doesn't even include the two years where my Mom abandoned me and my older sister. When we lived on the street because my father had already tried to kill both of us, and we weren't going back to him. Or being thrown out of the house at 15, prostituting myself to men so I could afford my insulin.
Most of all that when I'm a woman, I'm not depressed. The sky is blue. I look at a woman and I feel lust - I identify as bisexual - but I feel so much more envy. I would never be pretty. If I started now, it's too late - the hormones wouldn't have a chance to form the appropriate body. But being a woman is about being more than being pretty. It's about intelligence, cooperation, empathy, emotions, the freedom to express yourself. And at least I could be happy, be who I wanted to be.
I can't stand to look at myself in a mirror, or photograph. I hate who I am, I hate who I've been, I hate everything about myself. Last year Instagram added a filter to show yourself as the opposite gender. I used that, and for the first time in my life I liked what I saw. I sat for hours staring at that photo.
My trust in my wife was shattered. I don't care what you are, I can love you. But to her I had to be male, and not just male, a typical male. What would she do if I lost a limb? Or was burned? Would she still love me?
I stayed because we've been married for a long time. Twenty years. But mostly I stayed because I have nowhere to go. I don't know how to leave. I don't know what to do, to leave. I have no friends. Acquaintances would be horrified to hear the truth; I live in a conservative state. The Court system would rip me apart. "How dare I show genuine desire and emotion?"
No one in my family put me ahead of them. No one said, "do what will make you happy." There is no one in this world who wants me to be me. Now my wife tells me she's upset, that she has to censor herself to avoid setting me off. I don't want her to censor herself, any more than I want to censor myself. This isn't a healthy relationship.
The crossover from despair to suicide was difficult, but it's been done. If I lived in another state, if I had a different family, if I had friends, if, if, if... maybe suicide wouldn't be a necessity. But I don't have any other option. And the next time I try it, I have to be successful. I won't go back into a mental hospital. I won't be chained up and forced to listen to generic sermons about "a better me" that ignore the actual underlying problem.
Any time I start to feel otherwise, I get reminded that I'm just a source of income.
My choice is the exit bag, powered by nitrogen. I'm going to form a chain of plastic zip ties that will attach my hands to my feet to keep me from tearing the bag off. If I fail there's enough mobility in that situation to grab a pair of scissors and free myself, and no one will be the wiser. I plan to go to a hotel room to do it. I have property in a rural area but I'm known to go there to get away. I don't want to be found. No note, after deliberations. There's nothing I could say. I've found a Velcro closure that has tape on the backside to attach to the bag, so I don't need a drawstring.
I'll be sure to leave my phone at home when I do it. Again, it prevents tracking.
I'm struggling with the nitrogen. My family is "sheltering in place" so it's difficult for me to come up with reasons to get away. I don't see a choice anymore. I wish I did.
No hope, no love. smile. We're all in the same boat, I know, but that's why I'm here.
Brie