Sigmund Freud

Dreams. They are bits of mental fluff, decorating the inside of an otherwise unused mind (sleep state) or they are indications of desires, fears, ambitions etc, or, if your more into the metaphysical, they are portents of things to come.

Mine are disturbing me lately. Last night I spoke with my mother, dead just a bit over a year now. It was not a bad talk, just a talk we had and, no, although I put my life up here like some kind of whore for all to see (wait, no, like a slut, a whore at least has the dignity to charge for this service) there are a few things I am not willing to share, the conversation between my mother and I being one of them. Suffice to say I miss her so damn much. I was lucky, my parents, divorced though they were, were wonderful. And I was a schmuck, for not listening to the simple words they told me “Honey, I just want you to be happy” That was mom and “This above all: To thine own self be true” Daddy, yeah, he had a flair for the theatrical, God rest his soul) And I was afraid to tell either of them they had a late-onset trans sexual for a son, former son, a daughter.

I just typed the word “trans sexual” it has taken me a year to admit it, it took me a few months to admit to trans gender before that I was simply a cross dresser. After reflection I realized my life was headed towards full time femininity. So it was not a huge leap to say “Trans gender” that gave me an out. A TG wasnt all the way a sell out, didn’t totally abandon his/her gender, just switched as necessary. But I want. I want hormones, I want FFS (Feminizing Facial Surgery) I want SRS (Sexual Reassignment Surgery). That last one is scary. not because I have a fear of castration (are you kidding me ? Did you read my last entry ?) But it means ALL the marbles. I am calling my own bluff here. And I have nothing left to put in the pot.

I have NO clue how I will ever achieve the $22,000.00 US it will take for the surgery, but I will do it. everything that was past IS now past. I may dress as a boi for work, but very few people buy it. God in heaven knows I no longer do. Yes, they stare at my nails, and my nails are beautiful, why shouldn’t they stare? They look at my hair and compliment me on it, women and men. And I have to admit, when men compliment me on it I get a small thrill. When women compliment me it validates all that I am doing so far.

Chapter two, I prefer women, sexually. But lately, again, dreams. Last night in a dream I had a very homo erotic session. And it wasn’t that I was fellating a man that bothered me, it was my attitude. It felt okay. It felt like it was absolutely the right thing to do at that moment. I remember the couch we were sitting on, a brown herringbone pattern love seat. Seemed very comfortable. He was wearing blue denims (well, at least to his quadriceps) and a white T-shirt. He had no underwear on. And he got very hard very quickly. If I remember correctly he had about 6 – 6.5 inches. Not terribly thick but a fair sized penis when erect. I was wearing nothing, As I put my head down into his lap, I saw my breasts. Again, not overly huge, about a lovely C cup. Firm and round. Pretty even. I don’t remember if I had a penis or not. But I was enjoying myself immensely after a few moments.

When I woke up I was a little disappointed. My lover of course was not there. I lay in bed for many minutes and mused about my recent dreams. The talk with mother. Okay, what we talked about was me telling her she had more than just the one daughter. We will leave it at that. And again, regrets for not telling her. I could allow people to shoot at me with live weapons and return their fire just as easily. I could stare down an entire chapter of a national motorcycle club ( I did but you wont believe me so consider it just said and leave it at that) but I did not have the courage to introduce my mother, who loved me VERY much, to her newest daughter.

And confusion, excitement, thrill ? I dunno, the dream with the male lover, especially with me in a very submissive position, had me confused. Is this a direction I am heading, interested in heading,  where I will be ? what ?

The psychic apparatus habitually represses wishes, usually of a sexual or aggressive nature, whereby they become preserved in one or more unconscious systems of ideas. This was a theory of Sigmund Freud, the father of psychoanalytic psychology. Following this, was my dream an unconscious desire manifesting itself as a dream ? Or, was it, as Freud said of a cigar,

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar”  *

I am not a smoker, so, I guess I need to go talk to the shrink. But, in a way, I am happy this has happened, because at least I have an idea of what may be to come.

*No actual evidence proves Freud actually said the above, but it is usually attributed to him.

We all have a few we either have done (hand in warm water, Vaseline on the doorknob etc) or others we have heard about (mercury in a tire – doesn’t work as well as you think it would by the way) and the list is endless, sort of, I think there are web sites devoted to listing anything from simple and harmless to stupid and deadly. ANYWAY…

My practical joke is simply this. God, in his infinite wisdom, decided to make me a boy at birth. And, for some twisted reason, also gave me a girl’s heart. Right next to the boy heart he put in there. Ha ha Jehovah, now enough is enough. Unfortunately God hasn’t decided to let me have the punch line yet.

All right. I am a big girl (6 ft 220 lbs for those counting – and yes, I am a 14 for those considering buying me a nice Anne Klein for my birthday, size 11 Christian Louboutins, no peep toes or sandals please) I can take it. I am not even going to shake my fist at Father. He has his reasons, I have mine. Mostly, we agree, when we don’t, he shows infinite patience and allows me to make up my mind, and when I am done screwing up he helps me figure it out. (I do love God, really, but he really trusts me far too much).

At issue here is a uterus, something I do not have, Well “DUH”, you say, “You were born a boy, you got a penis and a pair of testicles instead. Arent you enjoying that” ? Fact is I did enjoy it. It has brought me a lot of pleasure in the past. It has also cost me. Long sad stupid story, I’ll write it down on another blog someday. But back to my point.

I do not have a uterus because I was born with male anatomy. But at 3 yrs old (yes I remember further back than that even. Even to when I was 18 months old when my baby brother came home from the hospital) I knew I was more comfortable in a dress. Later, as I grew older, I was comfortable taking care of babies. By age 8 I watched them, babysat. As a teen I was recommended by others for watching mostly kids, but had a special knack with infants. They calmed around me quickly. I sang to them, cuddled them, changed them and felt something I was ashamed of. I felt feminine. I felt, motherly.

Okay, yeah, this should have told me something, but all it told me was I was probably a fagot. I was raised in a different era, where boys would be boys and if they were girls you were allowed to beat the shit out of them and they deserved it. Enough walking down memory lane, for now.

I wanted to HAVE a baby. I wanted to feel a little life grow in me, give birth to and suckle this young life at my breast. But, physically it wasn’t going to happen. So, I helped make babies. My first one, I was excited, I was seventeen, her name was Millie. She was beautiful and pregnant she was ethereal. The baby lived a few moments after birth, then died. A piece of me died that day as well. As a father, and being unmarried, and in the military, there was no time for mourning or anything. Besides, not a mans job.

I have hated myself for that. 30 plus years, and it still sits there, my first child, dead, a baby lost. And tears in my heart. Oh, with other wives I had other children. None of the marriages lasted but the kids have. They turned out really well too. I was there for the births. I helped. But that first child, born to only die within moments helped to secure in me that feeling that has haunted me for so long.

I will never be a mother. The one part of a woman I so longed to be, can never happen.

So, genetically born females out there, when your period comes around, I don’t wish to hear your complaints. I will happily get you a heating pad, make you tea or otherwise aid you in relieving your pain and discomfort. But do not complain to me abut being a woman, and I will not complain to you about never being able to be a mother.

Peace

Okay, the past couple of times when I got my hair cut I didn’t give a rats about how fem it appeared when I was dressed as a male. I cut my bangs where I wanted them (to hide my gargantuan foreslope, I mean forehead. Does that mean if I bump my head and remove skin I am giving myself a circum…never mind) I essentially wore a bob, and it looked awesome. When I dressed I simply hit it with a quick touch of the curling iron and off I went.

The last time ? We went through a catalog of styles and I decided on one that took advantage of my hair to curl naturally (I have a BUNCH of body to my hair and that makes it fun for my stylist to play with) we layered, cut and generally femmed my hair out. I go out in boys clothing for work, but I wear my bangs and my curls proudly. I have gotten many compliments on my hair from many women and a few men as well. Hmmmm, interesting.

So, long bad day at work. I am in “stress” mode. I am trying to decompress any way I can and all of the sudden it hits me “A mani” ! DUH !

I go to the local walmart (yeah, if it is going to backfire I don’t want to pay too much for them) and proceed to get VERY noticeable french tips. At first, this is a real challenge, getting my credit card out ( “Would you please grab the pink card, yes, thats my Visa, it matches my phone, which, coincidentally is in my jacket pocket, see”? ) having to go potty and work a zipper (oh give me a break, they were MORE than fem enough, my best pair of butt hugging Sevens thank you very much) with nails – whoa – talk about learning curve. And, here is the BEST part, driving home in a one ton Chevy truck with a manual tranny (pun intentional) No, *I* am not Manuel, I only WISH I were Hispanic, my God, a natural tan year round ? Every time I go to grab the shifter I smack my brand new HUGE nails against the shifter knob. My nails keep hanging up on the turn signal lever and turning the wheel for parking. If I could accurately describe it one in four girls reading it would pee themselves. Me included.

I get home. I find out the secret that those smug little low-life GGs NEVER reveal about getting tips for the first time. YOUR NAIL BEDS ARE FREAKING SORE FOR HOURS AFTERWARDS !!!!!! They use a damn DREMEL tool to remove the top layer of nail so the product sticks properly.

Apologies to ALL GGs. excuse the low life remark, but the GG that went with me didn’t warn me about that until AFTER I was admiring my new nails and the cute little pink butterfly sticker I had put on my right index nail. She indeed qualifies as a low-life. She is a C word and my buddy. She has NO problem setting me up for these nasty surprises and giggling insanely about them later, but, should I wind up in jail for doing something incredibly dangerous, stupid and really really fun, she wont throw my bail because she will be sitting next to me in booking saying “What a RUSH”.

The point is I have learned how to use them finally. I already grabbed one man by the throat firmly and warned “I can always show you how good my grip is, and these nails don’t break” Needless to say, he politely declined the demonstration. If someone has an itchy back I have JUST the tools (10 of them) that can cause a Bengal Tiger to purr like a kitty cat. And, if I am feeling down, I simply give myself a shampoo. Okay, admittedly that doesn’t sound like much. But until you have given yourself a scalp massage with long hard nails, you have NO clue what pre-orgasmic really really means. You will understand the meaning of life. trust me on this.

So, nails, why didn’t I do it sooner ? why didn’t I toss out all my guy skivvies sooner ? Why didn’t I tell everyone way back in my early twenties “Screw you guys – I’m going fem” ? (do that last quote in Cartman voice and it is almost funny). Simple answer ? Fear.

And that, is why I tell EVERYONE, including strangers “These boy clothes aren’t really me, the nails, the hair the pretty earrings – thats who I am and the butterfly on my nail ? That’s who I will eventually be, I am just in transition. A work in progress.

Feel free to check back later.

Okay, I love Evanescence. I know it is so two years ago and the follow up album supposedly sucked (I still listen to it, am not looking for approval here baby) but it is the music I love.

Amy Lee of Evanescence

Amy Lee, lead singer and front man(!) for the group, is haunting me when I hear her voice. But more than that, her messages are so simple and exactly the same things I have to say often. To my psychotic ex  “Call me when your sober” to myself  “Good Enough” etc. She did a video called “Little Lies” that simply brought me to tears because I understood the feelings of the video. I know the feeling of looking in the mirror, hating what you see and having to continue living the lie (work requires me to dress like a boy, I dont feel like a boy so my workday is all a lie)

I also know what it is like to have others say how beautiful you are, how lovely you look, great outfit etc. While inside me I feel like a pile of trash with a bad makeup job. Anyone else out there wish to chime in ? I mean, am I the only girl on the planet who doesn’t, at one time or another,  like her…

a) Weight – either too much or too little ?

b) Height – either too much or too little ?

c) Hair – eitherm awww screw it, you get the idea.

Simply put, listening to “Good Enough” makes me wonder, if I am good enough for you to love me ? Any why should that matter, if I am good enough to love myself ?

Looking at it that way, I am the perfect weight, height and my hair is fabulous. If I am not good enough for you, at least I am good enough for me. I may have to tell myself this a lot before I really apply it, but until then

I am Good Enough.

Kisses dear reader

Kynthia

First off, a HUGE thank you to ALL veterans of ALL wars. I would  not have the freedom to write what I write today if not for your gallant sacrifices. And to the men of Pearl Harbor on that sunny beautiful December 7th morning, I will never forget your sacrifices nor allow anyone else to, either. Rest in Peace brothers.

Yep, Dec 7th, a day which will live in infamy.

Okay, enough history lesson and this is ALL about me, Kynthia. And why shouldn’t it be ? I tell you, I love everybody and everything (wait, no, not into scat, everything else is open to discussion)but I have to take time for me or destroy the very fragile life I have had the pleasure of enjoying this past year.

This time last year, Peter (umm, you may have met him, he is a pig but he is MY pig, so be kind when you talk about him, he got me this far alive)sat down at this very same keyboard and began pounding out gross amounts of poetry.

Very descriptive, emotionally charged and accurate poetry.

After writing the bulk of it he stopped writing. Then he read what he wrote.

Peter began his life’s journey as a boy, a very attractive boy with a great personality and a charm that helped him win people over easily. He had a talent for reading a situation as long as it did NOT involve him. He was the oldest boy, his Fathers first, and enjoyed a favored position as the eldest male but he shared it somewhat with his elder sister (5 yrs his senior) and she shared much with him.

Okay, this is NOT to be a tale of perversions and eroticism. So if your reaching into your pants, may as well stop now, this is a confessional, of sorts, but I ask you, dearest readers, forgive me not, for no sin has been committed, as of this moment, you may wish to reconsider that plea later on in this missive, but for the nonce, enjoy a sin free text.

See, Peter, for all the boy he appeared to be, had a secret side. He loved womens clothing. From the earliest he can remember (he remembers when he was 18 months old, not everything, but a lot, and it was all good) at 3 years of age he began to find his sisters clothing and wear it. Not because he got a sexual thrill of it but because in womens clothing, he felt good. he felt “right”. But, he also knew he was not allowed to do it, especially after he got caught.

No beatings, no being pilloried, just told how wrong it was and then released to continue his playing in another direction, preferably Lincoln logs or toy trucks and tractors. Just not dressed as a girl.

This continued throughout his life. Dressing, hiding and then, okay, here comes the sins, he compensated.

Big time.

Although he preferred reading and arts (such as music, dance, poetry, acting and singing etc) he would do sports, violent sports, rugby, football, boxing, tae kwon do and others involving the physical abuse of his own and others bodies. As long as there was a core of violence and danger to it, he went for it big time. And as he progressed, during the Vietnam period he volunteered for the United States Army (accepted) volunteered for the Infantry (accepted) and volunteered for every screwed up, dangerous and stupid assignment he could possibly get in to. As long as it involved him possibly getting hurt or killed, he went for it.

And he did get hurt, he even got himself killed, once, for a brief time, came back, re entered the military and continued his abuse of self, his compensation for being a fagot. A dress wearing sissy. A she-male, a pervert, a freak, a piece of shit.

You can forgive now, if you so desire, if that is your want, or read on and determine if forgiveness is deserved of such a prodigy of failure.

He was a bouncer, a boxer, an outlaw motorcycle club security goon, a cop, a husband four times unsuccessfully, A father of three living and one dead child, and a body builder (oh yeah, steroid abuse for sure) He even transported illicit steroids across the border for others to share his misery.

And, finally, after 51 years of trying to prove what a man he was, his feminine side screamed, at the top of her undeveloped lungs, ENOUGH, JACKASS, I DON’T WISH TO DIE YOU STUPID MOTHER FUCKER ! I NEED TO LIVE TOO !

He sat at this very keyboard, he wept bitterly and openly as he wrote line after painful line of poetry, he sobbed in agony, great gut wrenching body wracking sobs as every aspect of his secret life poured out onto a very public poetry site and became public property, for all and sundry to read and digest.

And when it was over, it was over. His life, now shattered and empty, began to ebb. He felt a death of sorts. There was no more hiding, there, in those lines of poems, were his secrets. Was the evidence of a life not lived. The death was not an enemy though, not the sudden violent death suffered in a motorcycle crash those decades ago, no, this death was welcome, it was freeing. All that pain and suffering he lived with, was now being lifted.

As he accompanied death along that final journey, he looked back, and he saw her. She was beautiful. She was not angry, she was sad at his death, but happy he no longer had to suffer the pain of self doubt and the misery of discovery.

She smiled, blew him a kiss and promised to remember, remember the big goon who helped her make it this far alive. She also shed a tear, knowing he could never come back from that journey, no one ever truly does.

And she went on her way.

So today, Dec 7th, she remembers him, and wishes his soul well, and if she could, she would take his face in her hands, kiss his lips, and thank him.

Thank you

Kynthia.

All right, a bit heavy on the R. Lee Ermey but it gets the point across.

“What do I call you” ? Do I call you a shemale (not if you wish to survive this encounter with YOUR testes intact boy) or a cross dresser (uh, do not do that, seriously) or what ?

Yeah, if you are headed down this road you hear it eventually. of course, the whole “gay” thing rears its head and serious, no, really, WHY the fuck would ANYONE care besides you and a person who obviously is interested in you sexually ? Sexuality is difficult enough, when hormones have been replaced and life has turned totally upside down, a little companionship would be nice. Male or female or otherwise, even if it is just hugs in a quiet and dark bedroom, sex ? Well, if it happens, but more important is snuggling into that nice warm body and feeling loving vibes coming back. No strings, no conditions, just comfort and reassurance that even though you were made to feel like a freak this ugly and difficult day, that this, too, shall pass.

Call me by my name, please. Even if it is my old boy name that I rarely use any longer. Or, if that doesn’t work, call me ma’am. I am 51, I have earned the right to be addressed as Ma’am. And I will respond MOST favorably to politeness and courtesy. I would probably be happy to respond in kind (unless you are a Sir then I will respond appropriately, you deserve it as well). I am not a Givenchy, or a Christian Louboutin (although I wear both) so a label is totally unneccessary. Labels belong on clothing, not on creations of God.

If you wish to score points with me, refer to me as a woman. Please ? would it kill you, or destroy your moral fabric to address me in a fashion befitting the clothing and gender I present ? I do not think so. Try it. I love to smile. I love to be very attentive to persons speaking to me. I like to make a person who addresses me feel as though they are the ONLY thing in the universe that matters at that instant. And we can best both achieve that by being polite and friendly. Be polite with me and I will go out of my way to make you feel important and respected.

I do not look at a man and refer to him as a gay, bi or straight. I prefer to look at him and see why I respect and/or admire him. And it doesnt take much for me to admire someone. Did he just stop what he was doing (computer, newspaper, cell phone call etc) and ask his young child what they wanted and respond to them in a supportive and loving manner ? Ten out of ten points for being a perfect role model for the next generation. Did I see that young lady give up her seat because the person who got on the bus was elderly, or physically injured in such a way as to make standing difficult ? Ten out of ten points and a teary eyed smile. I will willingly surrender my seat to her for her act of kindness and selflessness. Those are my labels.

Father

Compassionate

Caring

Understanding

Yeah, call me any of those, or not. But first, ask yourself, before you label me or others…

What label would a stranger hang on you ?

July 7th 2009

Okay, my little boy, aged ten years, traveled back home from Las Vegas to TN. This meant I had to escort him to the gate and have an agent take over custody of him until he arrives at his destination and his mother (upon presentation of proper state or federal issued ID) takes him home. I got to Las Vegas early, got a shower, fixed my hair and realized “I have no boy clothing” Oh CRUD ! I have to go through the gate, be searched (usually by x-ray, only my bag) etc like I was going to be flying but because I will be in the passenger area, I have to go through all that screening. All I have is girl clothes (pretty ones, but girl clothes none the less) so this means, quite like the character in To Wong Fu, My clothing says “Fabulous” my ID says “Drabulous” Yes, I look like a girl but my ID is all boy.

The horror stories I have heard about other TG/TS/CD in airport searches is going through my mind. I am starting to scare myself with the thoughts of an extensive search (please come with me, SIR, you know whats going to happen) outrageous rude questions, waiting to be asked what I am hiding in my bra and having to show them my very small developing breasts or trying to explain WHY I am wearing two pairs of panties, one fairly normal enough looking and the other resembling a gothic torture device and trying to explain why I am binding my testes and penis in a very tight pair of panties. By the time I drive up to McCarren Airport I am shaking. I am trying very hard to keep my prettiest smile and happiest demeanor about me (I am a wonderful actress, if I say so myself, BTW) and we go to the southwest baggage check in.

My son and I are immediatly escorted to the front of the line. We are then taken in side to the ticket counter, where again we pass probably 200 people standing in line for thier tickets and my son’s ticket is issued instantly. I then ask if I may speak to a TSA supervisor. I want to see if there is going to be a problem with my ID not matching my look. Well… Long story short. I go to the gate, I take off my boots, place my purse and boots in the bucket and send it downline through the Xray. The agent looks at my ID, looks at my face and I ask “Any problems sir” ? He smiles, says “none at all Mrs Rilea (wearing my wedding band) and waves me through. Every once in a while, Someone, somewhere, in great power smiles down and says “No problems for you today, it’s going to hurt bad enough when your boy flies off, I’m going to give you this one”. That may or may not be what happened, But for my part, I like to think of it that way.

No greater enemy than our own fears, huh ?

Love

Sindee.

Okay, a week ago ( I know, I have been remiss in posting) I get a couple of phone calls from my GPs RN (uh, English, okay, my General Practitioner’s, a MD,  Registered Nurse) She tells me I have been referred to the Palo Alto VA for an endocrinologist. In other words, the Doctor who can prescribe hormones. After a bit, I get an email from my other Dr at Stanford who tells me my referral is in the system at the VA (meaning I am) and my referral to the shrink in San Jose is already in the works.

It is happening, finally, my path to feminization.  I have waited so long to admit I was a woman at heart, now I can try and get some of my body to catch up.

Does becoming more feminine make me happier ? The idea does, but what makes me happiest is I finally am no longer waffling back and forth, trying to keep one foot in masculinity and the other in femininity. No, am putting both feet in the feminine ring and strolling forward. No more backwards efforts.

Creator did not make me with eyes in the back of my head. He put them in front so I would look where I was going, not where I have been.

Creator is awfully smart that way.

Sindee

No prob, everything seems to be working again, wheee. Had an interesting event today. I will tell you in my own words here.

I get out of my bath, face shaved and hair washed and conditioned. Now, I have to go to work as a guy, a guy from the 1880s precisely so am dressed in my pants, shirt, vest scarf guns etc. VERY butch. My hair, still wet, is combed straight back and I tie everything in back into a pony tail to keep it out of my way. So far so good.

I get on set and begin to make up ammo for the day, this takes over an hour but its okay, it is my morning ritual and I enjoy it, gives me time to think. I finish and have vermiculite (A soil extender) and black powder all over my hands. Despite how I am dressed I am very girly and desire, nay, NEED, to wash my hands, they are filthy !

I go across the street and go to the mens room to wash my hands. The guy coming out of the bathroom looks at me very oddly, I shrug it off and go to the sink, turn the warm water on and soap up. I am washing my hands and look up into the mirror.

Peter is NOT staring back at me !

There, in the mirror, with her bangs covering her forehead, a few strands decoratively lining her face, is Sindee NOT Peter. Peter is nowhere to be seen.

I swear to God honey, Peter was completely lost this morning and Sindee was walking around dressed as a guy. I quickly yanked out my pony tail, shook my hair down and pulled it behind my ears and tossed my bangs back and hustled out of there. No wonder that guy looked at me strangely, He saw a girl coming into the mens room…

That was my day, how was yours ?

Loving, living and laughing

Sindee

As you might know by now, or not, I am an actor. I work Stage not screen so you probably have not seen me in anything you talk about around the water cooler. But I am addicted to the stage, the opening night jitters, the closing night elation followed by immediate blues (its why we have cast parties after the last show) dying inside when you think you will NEVER get the huge soliloquy memorized in time and finding out you really know it in your sleep forward and backward etc.

I love the stage.

I was in a play, set to open in two weeks. Getting down to the wire. Hell week was next week, I love hell week, the extra rehearsals, the panic, the nerves the absolute chaos that becomes a final play. Well, not this time.

I resigned.

I cried as I wrote those two words. I am still crying, thank Goddess for spell check cause I am going to need it later. I was working in a hostile work environment. The troupe I was with was very supportive, a bit taken aback but supportive, my director was a peach and a gift from Goddess herself. But the bar owner, the guy who schedules these things, has a problem. See, from the back (and if you add 50 pounds or more at the ass) I wear the same hairstyle as his wife, but I spend a lot more time and money on my appearance and on my clothing. I am no “Jeans and Tshirt” kind of girl. I have upbringing and role models who would have shrunk at the kind of clothing she wears to work.

That being said, this idiot was told I look like his big mouthed wife from behind so he gets upset, at me, for coming into his bar en femme. His wife gets very abusive verbally and tells me “Your costing us money, I thought we were your friends” Much to my astonishment (I, little old me, is responsible for the entire bottom line of your bar ? Wow, I must be powerful) so I cannot go through the bar to get to the stage without my stomach turning into a huge rock and getting dizzy on stage thinking about the negativity I feel when I walk through the door. The very thought of going through there and receiving the hostile stares of the bar owner and his wife (only open door to go in during rehearsal) and hearing the negative comments makes me want to vomit I am so nerve wracked.

I resigned.

Dam, that hurts, seriously, I never resigned from a stage play in my life. I missed one show when I had a migraine so bad I threw up every time I moved my head, I was the central character (in every scene) in that play and simply could not have faked it. Only show I ever missed. And now I just resigned from a play I really wanted to do, and from a Director I really admired and respected.

I guess I could dress like a boy, act like a boy, talk like a boy and quit acting like a little girl. I could assure every ones happiness by simply being what THEY wish I was. I could quit wearing women’s clothing like a little faggot and grow up and be a man.

I could die, too, then it wouldn’t be a problem. Oh yeah, I damn near did when I tried being someone I wasn’t, until I found out I was truly Sindee, I damn near did myself in a few times. So I guess the easiest thing to do is simply resign. Resign myself to the fact I live in a state where TG women have NO rights under the law. Where the state does not recognize harassment for any but a few protected types (women, gays and minorities, none of which I apparently fall under) Okay

I resign.