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.

Okay, I married a young lady, much younger than myself, possibly too young, but I married her. When we met she was pregnant, alone and living on the couch of a friend and she had lost almost all of her possessions. We met, got together and well, things progressed from there. Progressed enough to where we eventually moved in together. I have talked about her being my best friend. that was dumb, she wasn’t even that.

Those were happy days. I was in heaven, yeah, she got on my nerves, I got on hers. I told her, from the beginning I dressed as a woman, she was fine with that. I thought maybe this was the one. I thought maybe I met the woman who was going to grow old with me, help me face the next years beside me and give me someone to cling to when things got tough.

Things got tough, and here I stand alone.

She went out, found a new boyfriend, brought him home and fell in love. I immediately get left behind or relegated to “friend” wow, does anyone really believe that is a good word to tell your ex that they are a friend, you may as well say “Your fucking poison and I detest you” definitely would be more truthful and a lot less hope would spring from your avoiding saying the truth.

Ultimately, I need to leave, I need to get out of here and put her so far behind that her self-centered ways no longer antagonize me, her claiming of my property as her own can no longer bother me. I probably wont even get my bed back as she and her boyfriend need it so they have a place to fuck like bunnies.

Basically, I need to leave this as a man, all my possessions belonging to her except my clothing, and am not sure I am even going to get that much. Sorry the bitterness is making it difficult to write like I usually do, you know, intelligently.

He had been professing his ardour to me, I had been getting nervous. I was born a boy, he was a US Soldier, an officer, nonetheless, and his admiration for me was growing. I always feel ugly when I am told how beautiful I am, it is an illness, this self deprecating and self effacing behavior, I am talking to my counselor about it because I do not wish to continue doing this. But for now, when told how beautiful I am, I shrink.

I also feel it necessary to restate “I was born a boy, I am just starting transition so I look an awful lot like a boy, only my feelings and emotions (and these strange little swollen mosquito bites on my chest) resemble anything feminine”. And I reiterate it to the point I think I am trying to drive off any affectionate behavior. This also does not seem psychologically healthy, maybe I need to speak to my counselor about that as well. There are so many things to talk about.

I am no longer a boy, only this penis seems to be the last serious vestige, yes, my bone structure, facial hair etc say boy, but my heart says “All woman, thank you very much”. So, my wife and I are divorcing or annulling, whichever, after her little tossing me under the bus today, it looks more like a divorce and I am NOT feeling amicable. I’ll get over it, women do. I need to move on. I like women, sexually, well enough, am not terribly interested in men or women one way or another at this point. I am ambiguous, yes, but more as in I am so absorbed in this change as to be fearful of any further romantic entanglements. I want to be alone and celibate so I can think clearly.

See, I have male sex parts. So women expect me to have this deep burning desire to place my penis in their vaginas. Yeah, sometimes a good release is awesome, but mostly, it confuses me. I feel like a woman, not a man. So performing sexually as a man I feel almost lesbian. And I don’t have any clear idea. Lesbian, Bi, Gay, Straight SHIT! I want to just crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head and cry every time I am asked. I DO NOT KNOW ! I do not care ! At this point I dont even really know who the hell I am let alone something as tricky as sexual oreintation why can you not all leave me alone with that question ? Why is it so important you, you who will have NO sexual relationship with me, you need to know what goes on in my confused little bed, one of the few places I ever get physical comfort ? For fucks sake, ask me how my heart feels, ask me how my soldier is, ask me how my oldest son and I are working out my transition but stay the hell out of my bedroom for Gods sake. Ask me how bad it feels to be getting divorced, something concrete and real. Dont ask me who I am sleeping with, it doesn’t matter.

But, back to the point, He is developing feelings for me. His 14 yr old son has met me and likes me and calls me “Mom” (okay, break time, I need a tissue SO bad right now) and he does NOT care I was a boy once, or that I have years to go before I am close to complete. Or that he is Army and I am not a genetic girl (The army prefers that kind of relationship in its officers and enlisteds) or a million stupid things that really do not seem to matter. He cares if I have gotten enough sleep, he cares if I am happy or if I am having a good day, he cares that I am excited about going out to go shopping or get my hair done,

he cares about me

whatever I did right I may never know but

he cares about me.

Good Enough. Hell of a statement or question, depending on who is asking or stating. Am I good enough, or are you good enough or is he/she/they good enough. And what exactly IS good enough ? I mean, aside from a really terrific song by Evanescence.

Amy Lee of Evanescence

Is my weight, height, hair, skin, clothing etc ad naseum ad infnitum, is any of it Good Enough ? Evanescence did a video called “Everybody’s Fool” in it singer Amy Lee (pictured above) portrays an actress who does commercials for tripe that is built up of lies, a false image and nothing like the actress in the video.

The characters real life is nothing like the smiling happy image she presents in her commercials. She is caught up in the lies and becomes as plastic as her character. On the whole NOT a light hearted happy video.

On the whole, a lot like life. How many girls stare into a mirror and hate what they see ? always too fat, too skinny, too tall, too short, too much breast, not enough breast, too much ass not enough etc etc etc.

Faults.

And where does the fault lie ? Is it the girl who seeing herself doesn’t like what she sees and turns to destructive behavior (binging, purging, sexual excess, smoking and or drugs) to change it or deal with it ? Or the young girl who grows up with plastic barbies that have perfect skin and hair and bodies (yeah sure, they made Barbie breasts smaller big whoop de do, that bitch has everything including a boyfriend with no penis – what is she ? God ?) or is the parents who dress her like a princess, give her pink bedspreads and pony print curtains and when she grows up she realizes none of that is attainable by her so she lives a lie believing herself a failed princess ?

We all have them, faults, I mean. God knows I hate the hair on my face, stubborn hard and nasty black. Well, thats one of my faults, my breasts are too small and I need to lose 20 lbs or so and I have no ass and no hips, I look like Olive Oyl with a bad case of beer gut (to my mind) and these damn hormones are making me alternately super cheery or super sad, depending on which way the wind is blowing that day. So why do we allow ourselves to get ruled by them ? I dont have a ready answer.

So, for now, I choose to be “Good Enough” I will look at my faults, sure, cannot miss em, but I wont focus on them. I want to focus on my assets (no butt jokes here please – I aint got one) and try and enjoy myself. At 51 yrs old I dont have a lot of time left to make the same mistakes I could have made as a teenager, so I better try and make it right the first time.

Cheers

Sindee

Well, it had to come. I knew it would, she knew it would, but today was the day.

Someone told her they loved her. It was someone she was dating (she is 27, she needs sex, I am willing to let her explore her needs outside the marital bed because I trust(ed) her) and he just had to profess his undying love for her. He got told, in a matter of seconds “Your a booty call dude, I dont need this shit right now”. She told me about it and I said “Yeah, you already got someone to love”.

This is where it starts to suck, really fucking bad, so…

She looks down and says “I used to have someone I loved” POW, right between the eyes, felt like a gut shot. The floor opened up underneath me and swallowed me whole. That “someone” having been me when I was Pete. Now that on Sunday I griped about putting on boy clothes to work, she saw it and felt I was more Sindee than Peter. I guess she is right. So, all night she is drinking and chatting with her friend in Vegas, she has the headphones on (now, correct me if I am wrong, doesn’t putting headphones on CLEARLY indicate do not bother me ?) so I spend the evening doing laundry and wandering about the house feeling very alone and left out.

Okay, there are those of you that will now identify me as a drama queen. But screw you, if it was YOUR relationship going in the trash I bet you would be doing a bit of whining too ! I am now faced with my marriage going to court and me being single (yay ! Right as I start transitioning, how fun) and going through this crap without my usual snuggle partner. Oh sure, she wants to snuggle me but I still have enough male left in me where sleeping next to her nude body (no – she NEVER wears clothing to bed) causes, uh, discomfort, oh hell, makes me rock hard and wanting her sexually. BUT, that will not happen again. Not according to her.

I feel a bit betrayed as she helped me get this far. I could have stayed where I was, attempting suicide every couple of years or so because the lie of being male when I felt female was killing me. I could have gone on thinking I was a guy and trying to prove it until I did some stunt worthy of a Darwin Award. But no, she helped me see what was inside me, helped me bring it out and nurtured it, helped me dress properly and carry myself with grace and elegance. Then tells me “I don’t want to be married to a woman, I need a man”. Well, guess who is no longer a man, and only a month into hormones.

The next four years should be even more of a thrill ride.

Yeah, right

Sindee