I'm Mary T. That is not my birth name but I wanted to be called Mary for as long as I can remember. I told my mother when I was about four years old, and I can still remember the conversation:
Mum: "No, you can't be called Mary. You're a boy!"
Me: "How do you know I'm a boy?"
Mum: "Because of your teeth. And your favourite colour should be blue, not pink!"
I thought blue was quite nice, too, so my favourite colour changed to please my mum. I didn't believe her about being a boy, though, and I thought that it was just my hair and clothes and name that made me a boy. If my teeth were also an issue, I could just keep my mouth closed.
My mother's clothes didn't fit, and I just had a brother and no sisters. To be a girl, I took off my clothes and covered my hair with my mother's headscarf. Sometimes I wore a towel like a dress. I thought that I was ugly dressed as a boy but quite pretty as a girl. Since I thought that I looked like a girl when I was naked, you would be right in thinking that I didn't know much about the facts of life. I was often caught during my experiments, and my mother was always contemptuous rather than angry. It didn't stop the need, though.
When I was eight, I made a plasticine model of a nude woman and showed it to my mother. I think that I was trying to shock her. She wasn't angry, but she did tell me that the model should not have a willy, as girls did not have them. That was news to me, and for the first time I realised that I really was a boy, even while (especially while?) I was naked.
I really did try to be a boy. My admittedly generous parents brought me loads of toy soldiers and I could have any comics I wanted, except for girls' comics such as Bunty, Princess and June and School Friend. (I still read them whenever I could, especially June and School Friend.) I didn't really like running around with toy guns, but I spent a lot of time making up stories with the toy soldiers. I still needed to look like a girl, though, and I was often caught trying on my mother's clothes, even though they were too big. My behaviour wasn't mentioned to a GP, let alone a psychiatrist. I think that my parents were too ashamed. I was, too, but I couldn't help myself.
When I was twelve, I started to grow pubic hair. I didn't know that girls also had it, and I contemplated suicide. That was unfair of me, as apart from my "problem", my life was idyllic at the time. We lived on the edge of a subtropical coastal forest with monkeys and some antelopes, and there were dolphins in the sea. I even had a friend who was like me, and we secretly dressed up whenever we could. Eventually, my family and I moved away, and I lost touch with my friend. On the bright side, when I eventually started growing facial hair, I had already passed the suicidal stage.
At high school, I tried to be as macho as the other boys. I avoided boys who might be like me, as they might have tarnished my image, and I got beaten up enough while I was trying to act manly. All of my front teeth were chipped by punches. Even so, my nickname among some boys was "Homo". I never again had a friend like the one I dressed up with. I acted as though I was very attracted to girls, but to this day I have never had a real girlfriend, or boyfriend for that matter. I'm not a "hunter" in that way. I still had the urge to dress as a woman, though, and I was sometimes caught.
When I was about twenty, I was eventually sent to see a psychiatrist. I did not enjoy the experience, which I found very humiliating. The psychiatrist was eventually satisfied when I admitted that I was a "poof". He discussed my case with my mother, and that is probably why she bought me some second-hand June annuals and School Friend annuals, even though I was too old for them. I felt that I should reject them, but I liked them too much and still have them. My mother never accepted what I am, though. I tried to resist the urge, but continued to dress as a woman when I could. Sometimes I was recognised and reported to my mother, who was then particularly ashamed and used phrases such as "I despise you". You shouldn't think that she didn't love me, though, and I certainly loved her, and cared for her during the last few years of her life.
At work, I tried to appear manly, but colleagues sometimes suspected something. One conversation went:
"From now on, I'll call you Manly D...".
"I'd rather you didn't. Some people might think that you are being sarcastic."
"Do you think I wouldn't be?"
At other times, I was known as "Mother", or "Nana" (because I allegedly looked like Nana Mouskouri").
I never had SRS. I could not have faced my mother, and in any case I never wanted to see another psychiatrist. My only concession to being transgender now is to use hair removal creams on my face. I had a feeble moustache at one time in my life, but my hair was too fine to grow a beard. I no longer wear obviously feminine clothes, even in private, but I am secretly pleased when I am occasionally "mistaken" for a woman. I am short and have very small hands and feet for a man. Although my parents are dead, I know that there is no point now in having full SRS. I will never have a lover. However, although I think that my testicles don't function anymore, I am still looking for a way to have them removed without consulting a psychiatrist. I don't like my penis either, but I think that I would be satisfied with an orchiectomy.
And that is my story. It is too long, I know, but I think that it might strike a chord with many older transgender women, from an age before transgender girls were allowed to go to school in dresses.
