NOTE: this is the heavy intro. Like, truly heavy lifting.  Like, 15-pages if you print it out, heavy.

It is the map of my life until now. It is LONG.  Before I committed the better part of a week to writing this novel, I had intended to write a light and fun intro, providing a few insights into my personal life, but also addressing my passions and loves, my hobbies and accomplishments, my hopes and favorites.

I wanted it to be a breezy and fun introduction to who I am. I still plan to write that intro, but I think it deserves a small bit of distance from all this heavy stuff that ended up flowing out of me here.

So when I write it, I will place a link right here:
THE LINK WILL EVENTUALLY REPLACE THESE WORDS

I hope you enjoy it (whenever I write it, that is).

Now, here's the massive piece of prose I've labored over for the past week.
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Alright, Tegan here.

Hello, ladies and gents!

I've been here at Susan's for a while now- probably a month or so. Of course, before that, I lingered on the periphery for awhile, and before that I was peripherally aware that Susan's existed, and before that I was at least unconsciously searching for a place like Susan's.

I'm 33 years old, I'm transgender, and I'm just coming to terms with that aspect of myself. My first post here was one of sheer panic; basically it was a rundown of my self-realization, capped with a list of my very real fears.  If you need to catch up, here it is:

https://www.susans.org/forums/index.php/topic,161537.msg1383767.html#msg1383767

Well, since then, I think I've integrated really well. As soon as I fully understood that I have permission to be Tegan here, Susan's has become a warm and welcome place for me. Although I kind of hate writing introductions, I felt that one was appropriate in this case.

In my life, I've never been a joiner- not out of stubbornness or pride, but rather out of an extreme sense of not belonging- and so I have always been at least somewhat guarded when letting myself be vulnerable. But I also know that nothing can ever really touch you or affect you if you never take off your armor. With that in mind, I want to be honest and open with you lads and lasses. I want to share my true self. I want to be an active member of this community, and I can't be unless I'm honest. I need to let my guard down, and just remove the armor while I'm here. I'm going to show you all the real me, the person inside. Or at least I'll try.

In an effort to not overwhelm, I'm going to present my thoughts and tidbits as chapters. If this turns into a novel, forgive me; I can be long-winded when I'm trying to be thorough. Besides, I'm writing this at least as much for myself as for you folks. It might be good for the therapist as well.

Alright, let's give this a shot:

* MY NAME: To be honest, the name I currently live with has never felt entirely right to me. I remember hating it as a kid, whatever variation was used. My last name I'm fine with, and I was always somewhat fond of my middle name; my first name, however, just wasn't ME. I never even identified with another name; I just knew that my first name wasn't right.

But I've always liked my initials, which spell out T-W-O. I'm a Gemini, and have always been aware of the duality within my personality, so I was tickled when I discovered what my initials spelled. With that in mind, when I realized I was in need of a new name, I knew I wanted to keep my initials.

Someday, my full name will be Tegan Willow O'Bryan.

Willow was easy, as there aren't an abundance of W names that really resonate with me, and I've frankly loved the name ever since Alyson Hannigan popularized it in Buffy. I also distinctly remember being fascinated as a child by the weeping willow across the street from my dentist's office; it was pretty and yet so brooding at the same time.

Tegan is a name that I've always thought was strong, beautiful, and unique. I also like the Celtic origins. Once upon a time, when I thought I might someday be a parent, I used to collect names that I thought might sound strong and unique. When searching for a new T name, I quickly narrowed it down to Tamsin and Tegan. When I realized that I really would prefer to never be called Tammy (Ron Swanson would never approve.  Besides, it's a little too close to my male name- you do the math- I'll give you a hint: 4-letter name that rhymes with a synonym for a small horse), Tegan became the obvious choice. And ever since I started going by that name here, I have completely fallen in love with it. I love being called Tegan, Teg, and Tegs (!); it feels as comfortable as my favorite coat.

The full translation of my chosen name is "beautiful, tall, and slender descendent of Bryan." Yeah, I think I can live with that.


* MY CAREER: I am an educator. I've been a classroom teacher (high school English and Language) for nearly seven years now, in addition to spending nearly two academic years as a substitute teacher (the classroom equivalent of 'Nam), and I have only recently realized that this is my calling. I resisted it for so long. I have had a sense of dysphoria for about as long as I can remember, but for half my life I connected it to my life/career choices/direction.

In college, I was an English major with vague aspirations to go into entertainment or become a writer of some sort. But I was plagued with a crippling fear of failure and inadequacy, and so all I did was go to class and try to avoid thinking about the future. My parents always pushed me to become a teacher, which I rejected. That makes sense, as at the time my perception was that my feelings of guilt and inadequacy were coming from my parents and their expectations, rather than from the storm welling up inside of me.

I spent an aimless two years after graduation (which I reached two years late, an unconscious attempt to stall the future), before getting tired of feeling lost.  That was when I enrolled in a teaching credential/graduate school program and my future began.

My entire first year of teaching felt like a complete failure. It wasn't, but it felt that way. Then I had to transfer schools, and I went through the whole trauma of being the new teacher again. Then, that happened a third time (thank you, budget cuts and pink-slips!). The last school at which I taught gave me four years to adjust before budget cuts got me transferred yet again. During that final year, I realized that not only was I really good at my job, but I HAD BEEN since the beginning.

Around that time, I gained the confidence to start teaching college classes at night. In the past year, I have not only been able to teach beginning and intermediate writing classes, but also the Intro to Literature class and the Science Fiction class. It's a blast and I love it. Every time a student thanks me for helping them understand poetry, or tells me that I helped them to love Shakespeare or Poe, my heart swells.

Recently, I have been asked to take control of the Drama department at my high school, and to develop a Writing Boot Camp curriculum for my college job (because of my student rapport, apparently). If that isn't validation, then I don't know what is. I also tutor on the side. I'm finally letting myself know that, hey, I'm a pretty good teacher, and it's okay to feel really good about that. Generally, these days, if I get to my job early, my students can expect to find me playing music through the overhead speakers, and dancing like nobody's watching. I really don't mind when I get caught.


*  MY CHILDHOOD: I was not a happy kid. I don't think I recognized my dysphoria for such a long time because, quite frankly, I had a lot of reasons to feel unhappy. Chief among those reasons was my older brother, who is only a year senior to me, is hyper-competitive, ultra-macho, and an undiagnosed sociopath. I no longer speak to my brother, except to send birthday texts and to play nice at family gatherings. He was a relentless bully ever since he discovered he could feel strong by making others feel weak. He didn't bully everyone; only me. It was constant, and much more pervasive than just physical.  The taunts were relentless.  And he really didn't like me to feel good about myself.  He dominated me any way that he could. If I found pride in doing something, he would take an interest in it just long enough to bring me down. If I moved or looked or thought differently, he punished me for it. He loved to hurt me.

He only got worse when he became old enough to discover alcohol, which for him was the ripe age of thirteen.  Looking back now, I can see that his behavior was a reflection of an emptiness inside of him; he was trying to step on me to feel closer to happiness. That doesn't forgive it, of course; it only explains it. It doesn't matter now; it already happened and it can't be changed. I would never try to discuss our past with him, because I know he feels no remorse, and there'd be no good that could come from an encounter like that. Frankly, I'm just happy to have the douchebag out of my life.  I don't hate my brother; I simply don't love him.

My parents were good people and produced a comfortable, middle-class life for me. They tried their best to give us experiences and culture, and I'm terribly grateful to them for that; I'm more than aware that not all kids grow up having seen plays, or having traveled, or having ever set foot in a museum or library. My parents are nice people, and they tried their best, but they are not sentimental, they can be achingly oblivious and insensitive at times when it comes to the feelings of others, they are incredibly good at denial (especially in regards to problems within their own home), and they aren't terribly great at caring for others beyond providing the basic physical necessities.

Neither of them were really safe when I was growing up. My father had explosive anger issues, and often gave off the air of a kettle on the boil. He also spent a great deal of my childhood in a depressive funk. I loved him, but it was hard to look up to him. I was worried for him, worried by him, and worried that I would become him. And quite frankly, he just plain scared me a great deal of the time.

My mother was safer, but she was often passive-aggressive and judgmental as well. Both of them were loving, but they had no idea what they were doing as parents. They never even noticed that my brother was torturing me right under their noses on a daily basis. At least they never did anything about it.

So, I did not live in a safe environment for a young kid with esoteric interests who was too sensitive for his own good. I retreated into books and television a good deal of the time. I drew comics. I found personal diversions and locked myself away. I wasn't terribly good at making friends, since my brother would claim any kids that were local and convenient, and he didn't want me tagging along.

I didn't even have my own identity most of the time as a kid. To most kids I met or attended school with, I was V's brother; I didn't have a name beyond that. The only time that I really shook that label even a little was in my Senior year, after my brother had graduated. Of course, he came back from college every weekend.

Growing up, I learned to be alone a lot, especially since my brother got himself into pretty much any organized sport that would take him, and that tended to monopolize most weekends. If it wasn't soccer it was baseball, and if it wasn't that it was football or water polo or tennis or 5K races. I bowed out of sports fairly early; I didn't have the competitive spirit. If I was sent to the outfield, I ended up picking flowers, playing with bugs, and tuning the game out.

Many were the weekends in which I had the choice between being dragged along to some athletic field for a day of hearing people cheer my brother on, or staying home all weekend by myself. At least at home we had cable. My parents mistook my independence for a desire for solitude. I was very often lonely. It kind of became my default mode: solitary and lonely.


* MY SCHOOL DAYS: I remember never quite feeling like I belonged in kindergarten and pre-school. Things got really bad, though, when I got into elementary school.

For first through fifth grade, my parents enrolled me in a private Catholic school. It was a horrible place. The teachers, many of them nuns, were unqualified and at times abusive in their dealings with students. There was no mingling allowed between grade levels or between genders, meaning that I had a potential friend pool of maybe thirteen boys; I didn't fit in. I was constantly getting in trouble at recess and lunch for finding a quiet corner in which to read (yes, the school had a problem with that). I was bullied constantly, sometimes even by certain teachers. I was a smart kid, the kind of kid who asks questions and wants to understand; that seemed frowned upon for some reason. The principal once told my mother that she thought I should be punished. When asked why, she said that she did not know, but that she still felt like I deserved punishment.

Those five years screwed me up majorly.

By the time I transferred to public school in the sixth grade, I was thoroughly beaten down, and had spent many a moment fantasizing of dying. I KNEW I was nothing, that I was worth nothing, that I deserved all the pain I felt in my heart. I didn't really have friends from the sixth to the eighth grade; in public school, I finally had the option of hiding away, and I took full advantage of it.

In high school, my parents made me join the marching band, without consulting me or considering my wishes. My brother was already a band member and they didn't want to have to split their attentions (that was honestly their explanation and rationale). I hated it, and was never very good or musical. I was bullied (by band geeks!). But in the end I made some friends there- the resident dorks- and was happy enough with them in my life.

I suppose this was the first time in my life that I truly felt I had friends of my own. By then, though, it was a little late to make up for my crippling self-esteem issues. At this point, it didn't matter how well I did in my endeavors; I hated myself.  I was a decent student, but A's and F's didn't really change how I felt inside. Friendship merely offered a diversion from these feelings.

I started carrying around a little notebook. Every day, I'd make a checklist with everything I planned to do for the day, like homework and chores. Every other task was "be happy" or "smile." I needed those things to be on my list, or I would not have done them.


* MY FRIENDSHIPS: I have spent a great deal of my life trying to learn how to have good friends, and how to be one in return. I always felt like I had a missing part, whatever it is that helps a person to easily click and socialize with others. Consequently, I've spent a great deal of my life feeling at least somewhat lonely. Reinforced messages of low self-worth kept me from being anything but shy, reclusive. This shyness was often misinterpreted as anti-socialism or even arrogance.  I was always my own worst critic; any time I allowed myself to open up, I'd later judge myself harshly for doing so. I learned not to trust others, and to even fear them.

I only ever had a couple friends at any given time. My friends tended to be the outsiders, those who also didn't fit very well. There was consolation there, but little real connection. Most of the time, I just escaped into my mind or a book.

In high school, my group of friends became larger, and I began to realize just how comfortable I was in the company of girls. I often felt insecure among big groups of guys, whereas the girls just seemed so much safer. I often played sounding board to my female friends, and was frequently having my shoulder cried upon. I didn't mind in the least. I remember a time that I was on an overnight school trip, hanging out with a group of about eight girls, and they decided to try to gross me out by getting as descriptive as they could about... feminine hygiene. I wasn't bothered in the least; I was just enjoying the company.

It was probably in college when I realized that I was too broken to have a future. I was probably nineteen, with endless pressure from both my parents and myself, and I felt like a lost failure. For some reason I felt like I had wasted my high school years, and now I felt like I was wasting my college years too, and I didn't know what to do to stop feeling that way.

Over those undergrad years, I made numerous fun and eclectic friends, but those I truly connected with were those that I perceived as lost and wandering souls like me. I remember consciously thinking to myself that since I could not help myself I should instead at least help my friends.

I was Mr. Advice- sometimes it was welcome, and sometimes it wasn't. It was nearly always good, though. I became known as the mother hen of our group of friends, looking out for and taking care of everyone.  They made me feel needed and necessary. I became codependent on them, as I considered them my real family. Eventually, my expectations put a strain on those friendships-I had a lot of damage, a lot of sadness, and when I opened up, my immature friends didn't know what to do but feel uncomfortable. I can hardly blame them now, but at the time I felt so incredibly betrayed.

So yeah, basically for most of my life that I have allowed people to get close to me, I have been convinced that I needed to earn their acceptance and their love. I wanted to fix people. I guess that I still have that instinct, but I've learned to contain it to my job for the most part. I don't know how it happens, but the wounded kids always seem to find me at school, even when they aren't in one of my classes. I do what I can to help, and they seem to keep coming back, so I imagine that I am helping in at least a small way. I call them my 'broken toys,' but always affectionately and never in front of them.

After I met K (my wife), I found the self-respect to stop surrounding myself with selfish people who are too caught up in themselves to reciprocate true friendship. The negative people have fallen away in the last couple years.  And since then, we've met some amazing people. They're kind, fun, and extremely comfortable to be around. I love my current friends, and am humbled by their friendship.

Honestly, It's probably only been in the last three or four years that I've learned how to spot a true friend and keep them in my life. Through my entire childhood I guess I always just felt too different to really make any solid connections.

* MY DYSPHORIA: I can't really trace when it began for me since I never really thought about it or analyzed it too much growing up. I used to love putting on my mom's shoes when I was little (I just loved the clack-clack-clack sound that they made). When I was really little, I remember being fascinated by my ability to make my penis disappear by pushing it up into my body. I also have vague memories of trying on mom's pantyhose and playing with her makeup at least a handful of times. I must have been careful, because I never got caught. I never consciously thought 'I want to be a girl.' I was honestly unclear on the difference between the two. But these things felt good, so I did them.

My closest friends as a little one were girls. This didn't seem odd to anyone, though, as the girls from the families we knew were closer to my age, while the boys were closer to my brother's age. When I got into elementary school (which segregated kids by grade level and gender during all free time, participation mandatory), I didn't have the option of befriending the girls, who probably didn't want me around anyway. That was when I learned that I was worthless, unlovable. Everyone at that school, kids and adults, taught me the meaning of cruelty (see MY SCHOOL DAYS).

I didn't try much for friends after that, of either gender.

I remember my first exposure to the idea of ->-bleeped-<-. I was at the library (REMEMBER THOSE?!) doing research for a project. I was young, maybe third grade. Anyway, I came across a book, an autobiography- I don't remember if it was just sitting there or if I pulled it off the shelf based on the title (which I no longer recall). It was about a woman's MTF transition. I was fascinated; this could be done? I was not judgmental in the least, only curious and interested. I do remember being worried that someone might find me with the book, though. It was just a bit of information that I filed away, since I hadn't had my sexual awakening yet, and the difference between boys and girls still appeared negligible to me.

I remember when I first became aware of the major difference between boys and girls- Bram Stoker's Dracula- the scene in which the brides of Dracula seduce Johnathon Harker while wearing see-through silky negligee and nothing else. That was my sexual awakening. As I began sneaking peaks of the Adult channels our TV scrambler picked up, I was always fixated by the figure of the woman, the grace and curves, and everything that she had that I did not. When I fantasized, I was her, had her body (I watched only softcore for a VERY long time).

I had no other frame of reference, so I thought this meant nothing.

The Summer between middle and high school, my family went camping. On this trip, I had one of the most vivid dreams of my life. In it, I awoke to find my genitalia radically changed. I remembered being fascinated, rather than stressed in the dream. The bizarre part was that I'm not sure I even knew what a vagina looked like at this point. As soon as I awoke, I wanted to return to the dream.

I had some crushes in high school. I also had a number of close girl friends that I leaned on every bit as much as my closest guy friends, probably much more. I even had a couple of uncomfortable relationships with girls who gave me a chance (but if physical affection ever went beyond kissing, I put a stop to it, and never could have told you why).

There was one girl I was most fixated upon, though- her name was Desiree, and I wanted her body; I wanted to be her. There were numerous times throughout high school that I wished upon stars for a different body. I was aware that sex change operations existed (I'd never forgotten that book), but I was already 6'0 with size 12 feet, so it seemed nothing more than a fantasy- I didn't want to be a freak (forgive me- I was a kid).

I graduated high school a virgin. I lost that virginity at nineteen in college. I fantasized that I was my partner the entire time.

In college, I was sexually-frustrated, complaining that I wasn't getting any action, but shying away when action presented itself. Dating rarely felt right, and sex pretty much never did. I couldn't understand why. I wasn't into guys- I definitely had attraction to girls- so what was it? Was I just broken? Was I incapable of love or connection? I was terrified that this might be the case. I forced myself to be in relationships with two different girls (several years apart) for extended periods of time, even after I started feeling miserable. Both of these girls were nice, and I really liked them. Still, I couldn't be what they needed, no matter how hard I tried. I was miserable. I couldn't understand what the hell was wrong with me.

I fit the definition of an  ->-bleeped-<-c this entire time.

A couple of times during my college years, I shoplifted women's underthings from stores. I'm not a thief, but I could not bring myself to carry those things to the register. I also shaved my legs once or twice, doing so quite badly. The razor burn was awful.

I lived in major fear of being caught doing these things. It was my secret shame, and I was terrified of being found out. Consequently, I have never had the opportunity to dress full fem.

I kept my dysphoria in check by visiting TG fiction sites like fictionmania. I always figured it was just an odd fetish, and nothing more. That's what I kept telling myself.

As the end of college loomed, my fear of the future and my inability to choose a path or even see a future for myself became more of a problem. Also, my brother's alcoholism, and the general negativity of my environment at home was bringing me down in a major way. I had nowhere available to me that felt safe. 

I thought of suicide a lot. I wanted to get away, to escape my life, to just run. I slept a lot, since being awake hurt so much.

In my final year, I decided to study abroad for a semester in London. I remember fantasizing what it would be like if I could spend this chapter of my life- traveling and exploring the world- as a woman. It was, of course, only a fantasy. I very much enjoyed Europe, and don't regret having gone. But on the eve of my return, I wanted nothing more than to throw myself onto the tracks of the London Tube. I really strongly considered it. But I didn't have the courage. Not yet.


* MY SUICIDE ATTEMPT: On May 25, 2005, I made an attempt on my life. Ever since I had returned from Europe, I had gotten more and more depressed, and now on the eve of my graduation and my twenty-fifth birthday, I just couldn't see a future anymore. All I could see beyond tomorrow was blackness.

After a nasty exchange at home involving my mother and my drunken brother, I swallowed about 150 Excedrin Migraine pills and went to bed. 150 of those might not sound like a lot, but it is a lethal dose. An hour after I took them, I tried to throw them up. I couldn't. My vision began to blur, and my ears were ringing. My heart started to race. My skin was tingly and crawling. I felt cold all over.

Feeling stupid and too embarrassed to wake my parents for help, I drove myself the forty minute drive to school (pulling over several times to vomit), where I went into the Student Health Center, stood in line(!), and eventually told them I had poisoned myself. They noted the deep, bloody scratches on my arms (I had been cutting) when they removed my jacket to take my blood pressure.

I was taken by ambulance to the hospital. I was so embarrassed. Mortified. I was given a solution to dissipate the effects of the pills and prevent liver failure. After the hospital, I was driven to a facility where I was placed on 72-hour hold. I had trouble explaining why I had done what I had done. I was frankly relieved to be alive- couldn't they see that? I had made a mistake, but I didn't want to die, not really; after all, I'd driven myself to find help, hadn't I? What kind of satisfactory answer could I give them? I had no idea. I eventually told them that it had been "a cry for help." That still didn't explain anything. How could I explain something I didn't even understand? All I knew was that things felt wrong and hopeless and that I felt powerless to stop it. I felt like an incomplete person. But I didn't want to die, I now realized.

The other patients in the hospital were in pretty bad shape. For years I had pictured myself in a place like this (though I could never have told you exactly why), but now looking around I realized I didn't belong here.  I was okay in comparison to these folks; I was healthy, lucid, and my only med was a potassium supplement (I'm not a fan of bananas).

My attempt truly had been a cry for help, but I was beginning to understand that only I could answer it. When I had cut my arms at home and left the bloody glass on the kitchen floor, I had only wanted someone to see my pain and to care. And when I had taken those pills, I just wanted the hurt on the inside to be visible on the outside; I had hoped that if they could see how I was hurting, someone would save me.

But nobody was going to save me but myself, I now realized.  This became even more apparent when I returned home to an interrogation from my parents about how I planned to pay for my hospital stay. My father repeatedly referred to my attempt on my life as "my little incident."

So, it was up to me. I resolved to try to look at the world a little differently, to try to stop blaming and to try to find a positive direction. To bury these negative emotions. I spent a couple years splitting my time between movie sets (extra work) and substitute teaching jobs. I managed to hold it together during that time, find some self-confidence, make some friends, and start to feel better about myself.

I even had a couple girlfriends during this period. And I loved one of them; she managed to break my heart, but being with her at least confirmed for me that I could feel love for another person. Up until now, I'd been worried that my heart was too sick to feel true love, that all I had in me was sadness, regret, and anger. But I was capable of a loving adult relationship, I now realized.

I was ready for a change. I substitute-taught at my alma mater one day in 2007, ran into an old teacher, and he suggested a credentialing/Masters program. It was a 16-month commitment, and classes started in two months.  Things were going well for me emotionally, or at least better than they had been, but my career was nonexistent. It was time to step out of my comfort zone and try something. I found out where the school was located, and I stopped by.


* MY GREAT LOVE: Teachers in California have to take a standardized test that certifies them to teach on the Single-Subject (middle or high school) level. It's quite a difficult test, and very comprehensive. When I was accepted into graduate school, it was suggested that I start attending a prep class for this test. The idea was to prepare for and pass the test before my actual coursework for the program began. I agreed that it was a good idea.

On that first night of the study group, I met K. I thought she was too mature (4 years older, but dressed for an office job), too pretty, too good for me. Besides, she was wearing a ring. But she was sweet, and I liked her a lot. There was just something about her that seemed right.

We started spending a lot of time together. Study sessions turned into hours talking in the car. After that first night, the ring disappeared and I found out that K had only recently asked her husband for a divorce. She seemed to like me, but I wasn't sure. It felt right, but I didn't want to get hurt.

A month later, we both took the test, and used celebrating its completion as an excuse for a movie and drinks. We talked for hours. Eventually, we were kissing for hours. Although I was scared of what the future held, I fell in love almost immediately. A classmate asked us bluntly on day one of class whether we were boyfriend and girlfriend. "Yes," I responded with confidence and pride. I was falling for her so fast, and it was scary, but it also felt more right than anything I'd ever experienced. And I knew for the first time in my life that the love I was feeling was reciprocal.

We became best friends, lovers, and each other's chief emotional support. I fell more deeply in love with her than I had previously thought possible. THIS was love. And when there were problems, when her insecurity about herself and her previous relationship resulted in her becoming irrational and angry and nasty, I forgave her, because I LOVED her. And when I had a breakdown or felt overwhelmed and handled it badly, she forgave me.

We weren't perfect; we absolutely weren't. Things were outright bad sometimes. She had the stress of a divorce and grad school, as well as a long-standing emotionally-abusive (at the time) relationship with her parents. And I still had bouts of depression and low self-esteem, while living at home with an alcoholic sociopathic brother who showed up more often than a neighbor in a bad '80's sitcom.

And neither of us had the proper tools for conflict resolution, as neither of us had ever had a healthy relationship before. We had to learn how to fight fair, how to come down from a bad moment, how to forgive. Essentially, we had to teach ourselves how to be together, moment by moment. But we loved each other, and no matter how much we fumed and blustered, we never left each other. We always stuck around. We made it work because neither of us could walk away from the love of our lives.

We did EVERYTHING together. Complete permission to geek out. We spent many a weekend together in our pajamas marathoning shows. We went to plays. We went to movies. We went to Comic Con. Museums, galleries, vacations, magic shows, theme parks, skiing, rafting, the beach, ren faires, galleries, random events, lots of concerts. We read novels to each other in the car on road trips, doing voices for the characters and everything. We cracked each other up constantly. We dressed up for events, getting more and more elaborate with our costumes and ideas. We met real and genuine and awesome new friends through our experiences, as well. We just let our freak flags fly and had the time of our lives. We were both finally with a person who understood us, a best friend. We loved every minute.

At least when we were not fighting. The fights were nearly always about something small, but it was alarming just how far they could escalate. I went to anger management, as did she. I learned a lot and began addressing my own problems with stuffing emotion. My motivation was to never feel like I was becoming my father; having been on the receiving end of that, I knew full well how damaging that kind of negative anger expression could be to a person and a relationship.

K had a harder time with therapy. Her explosive anger still rears its head on a semi-regular basis, which is an issue. But I loved her (and still do), and I figured that love would see us through.

I proposed on the day of our commencement from grad school; it seemed fitting to go down on one knee in front of the classroom where we first met.

We married on Halloween, 2010. Our theme was based on Poe's The Raven- K&T: Forevermore. I had the time of my life planning the wedding alongside her. It was self-financed, stressful, and completely magical. She was gorgeous in her white mermaid dress. I wore a brown Prince Edward style coat, with a top hat and cane. We were surrounded by a hundred jack-o-lanterns getting married in a hillside garden. It was perfect.

I know that we don't have sex enough for an average young couple. I have trouble performing my role, despite my incredible attraction to K. I often leave her satisfied, but feeling insecure because I didn't finish. There have been fights over this; it makes her feel confused and hurt. It makes me feel broken. Sex is pretty rare for us; it honestly seems like more trouble than it's worth.

K wanted to be a mother, one of the (many) reasons that things had not worked out with her previous husband. But it wasn't that easy; she'd had medical problems as a child that made conception difficult. Also, her age (34) at the time was a factor. We tried for a year to no avail. Then we tried for a year and a half with fertility treatments, also to no avail. By the time we started investigating in-vitro and the costs, we realized that we just couldn't continue going down this path. It was too taxing- emotionally, financially, and spiritually. It was a devastating time for us- for her, especially, as she felt that this was somehow her fault. There were a lot of tears.

But we've come to terms with it in the time that has passed since then. We have stood united, and I have assured her that all I really need is her. She says she feels the same way. She wants to be like Carl and Ellie from Up. We're still not perfect. There are still fights sometimes. As I said, her unhealthy anger expression has been a continuing problem. That has especially become clear since I resolved to not fight back any more; despite this, she still attacks with teeth and claws.

So, yeah, we have our problems like any other couple. Well, almost any other couple.


* MY BREAKDOWN: About a year and a half ago, my parents announced that they were selling my childhood home. I hadn't lived there for years, but I still felt kind of shell-shocked by the news. It was just such a weird thought to say goodbye to a place that was a constant in my life since birth. I didn't know how to feel- there were so many bad memories there, so much regret, and yet it was still HOME. A jumble of thoughts and feelings about the sale of the house, my unresolved past, and my relationship with my family swirled through my brain every day. It all weighed on me heavily, and it didn't stop.

A couple months later, I started having trouble with a couple colleagues at work, a place that already felt unwelcome for a variety of reasons (none of which are terribly relevant today). Anyway, the added stress from this work drama led me to have a nervous breakdown.

I'm not really sure what did it, but I just couldn't keep trying to hold it all together anymore. I was a quivering wreck that could barely get out of bed, barely prepare a face to present to the world. My wife pleaded with me to get some help.

I set up a therapy appointment, the next one available, and I took that day off to ensure that I'd be there on time. On the day of the appointment, I showed up to find the entire staff had evacuated due to a gas leak; all appointments would be rescheduled. I had my second breakdown there in the parking lot. The administrator quickly made a call for me to be seen a half-hour later at a facility fifteen minutes drive away.

The doctor's name was Minerva. She had a kind face and a soothing voice, and I opened up to her like a peeled fruit. I told her about my rough childhood, my issues with my parents, my lack of self esteem and confidence, my suicide attempt, my feeling that I wasn't doing what I needed to be doing with my life. I told her all of this.

But I also told her how I knew that I wasn't worthless, I knew I was loved, I knew I was good at my job, I knew I was a good friend and person, I knew that so much of that negative self-talk that echoed in my head every day simply wasn't true. The problem was that although I KNEW everything was okay, I FELT like something was incredibly wrong with me and that feeling was making it increasingly difficult to face the world.

We talked about my life, about self-esteem, about depression.  I got set up with a psychiatrist who provided medication for my moods. I started to feel better really fast. I started to separate my own sense of self-worth from my memories of my past. I learned how to let old things go, to care for my emotional well-being. I gained perspective and a great deal of inner peace.

On the last day that my parents owned their house, I drove over there and waited until they left.  Then I went inside and walked from room to room alone, looking, lingering, feeling the walls, remembering, forgiving, saying goodbye.

Two hours later I drove away feeling like a weight that had been crushing me for decades had finally lifted. The first twenty seven years of my life were finally in my past. Now I could finally concentrate on the future.

I felt lighter, but not entirely free. There was still something weighing on me. Why was I still unhappy? Had my early life really ruined me so much? Why wasn't I contented? I figured it still had something to do with my family, so despite having let quite a lot go, I continued to carry a bit of resentment toward them.


MY REALIZATION: Right at the start of Summer last year, I found myself with a bad flu. My wife had just accepted a full-time college teaching job, and was incredibly busy all of a sudden, meaning that I was all alone and laid-out for the better part of a week. Netflix, video games, and the internet all day long.

Looking through TG fiction sites, I accidentally came across a real-life photo timeline of a young MTF. I had no idea that hormones could transform a person so radically.  The girl in the timeline had a cis-gendered appearance by the end of fourteen months. My heart started racing.  Did I want this(?), I wondered through the haze of flu and medication.

In a panic, I did a little more research, learning a bit about HRT, FFS, and VFS. I could become a woman, I realized. And I wanted to; I had to.

Panic. I had never allowed myself to consider transition as an actual option, but now that I was, my mind was racing. How expensive was it? Could insurance cover it? What did it mean for my job? For my friendships? For my marriage? For my future? Could I ever pass? Did it honestly even matter, if I got to be a woman? Could I even go through with this? Did I have a choice?

I was overwhelmed. What was I going to do? Then I remembered a friend, not a super close friend, but a good person and a mutual friend of my wife and me.

MY COMING OUT TO FRIENDS: The woman who I had thought of had come to mind because she's a psychiatrist. I always liked her because she's really fun and kind of a hippie. I had taken comedy improv classes alongside her, and she seemed safe to me, like a kind aunt. I don't know what I thought she was going to tell me, but I went to her hoping that she'd have the answer.

The way I came out of the closet to her was so convoluted- filled with every part of the preceding paragraphs, but in no logical order. I was blubbering the entire time. It didn't help that I needed to be inebriated before I could even start talking.

They (she and her husband, my improv coach) were kind and listened, but didn't honestly know what to offer me except consolation, beer, and the advice that I should calm down and educate myself as much as possible before I decided anything. I agreed that that was a good plan, but it didn't calm me down. My heart was racing all the way home, and I cried myself to sleep.

Dysphoria was in full swing the following day, and I decided to come out to a close guy friend. He'd be able to offer the feeling of consolation I was seeking, I knew it! We met in the park to smoke cigars, our regular thing. By the time we got to the park bench, he knew something was up. The thing is, we're good friends, but his politics and beliefs are way off from mine. He's a conservative Christian Republican; I once spent hours debating gay marriage with him to no avail (but he changed his stance months later when he realized how unfair he was being; I was so proud of him). But I respect him and love him, and even had him as a groomsman at my wedding. I trusted him implicitly. He didn't let me down, and for that I will always be grateful. He was so sweet, so supportive. He listened, asked questions, affirmed his continued support of me and his unwavering loyalty. I told him in tears that I was humbled by his friendship.

We agreed that I should just wait until things cleared up a bit. I was still sick, and the medicine was making me foggy. I'd be able to see things in perspective, assess my next move better when I was feeling 100%. He told me to call if I needed him. I thanked him repeatedly.


MY COMING OUT TO MY WIFE: The following night, I was watching TV with my wife. We were drinking and having a nice time, and getting a little drunk when a huge melancholy swept over me. Might this be one of the last times we did this together? I broke down and started sobbing, apologizing over and over. She was scared. Her first thought was that I was confessing to an affair.

When I told her I was a woman, her jaw dropped. "What? No! You're joking. Tell me you're joking! You're joking, aren't you? No! Oh god, tell me you're joking!"

I just cried and affirmed that I was not joking. She wouldn't let me come near her.

"Have you been wearing my clothes?!" she suddenly demanded (I had not; I'm a foot taller than her, and was 60 lbs heavier at the time). "Are you already on hormones?! Oh my god, my mother was right about you. She was right!"

I didn't know how to respond. I had actually convinced myself that she would accept this calmly and comfort me. Why had I thought that? She felt betrayed, was looking at me like I was a stranger, didn't want me to touch her.

She flipped into one of her rage responses. She was crying, but she also wanted to inflict damage.  She said that nothing was okay, nothing would ever be okay, that she couldn't just stand by me as I changed, as I grew boobs and became a woman in front of her eyes. Where would the money come from? What would my parents say? I had to tell them- I had to tell all of them! What about my job? I can't believe you're doing this to me, she said. We were supposed to grow old together, be Carl and Ellie- NOT ELLIE AND ELLIE! But it was all ruined now! It was all over! I had been lying to her and nothing about us was true at all!

And by the way, I was going to be the one who was going to have to move. She had already gone through this once, had her life displaced by a lying spouse, and she wasn't going to be starting over again; I was. And I needed to find a hotel for tonight. I was never going to sleep in her bed again, that was a certainty.

And, by the way, she asked with a sneer, "What should I even call you now?"

All the while, I ineptly tried to explain that we could make it work, that I'd always be the person she fell in love with, that I always had been ME and that wasn't going to change. My job was secure, our friends would accept it, my parents would adjust. She wasn't having it.

I'd learned long before that the best thing to do when she gets stuck on Attack Mode is to give her some distance; otherwise, these moods can last hours, even days.  I decided to give it the length of a movie before I would come back and try to salvage my marriage. I got stuck in a major traffic snag and ended up on the road for forty-five minutes. I called my guy friend, the one I'd come out to earlier, and unloaded on him. He listened and tried to assure me that I would be okay no matter what, that I was strong. I tried to believe him.

I don't remember if I was thinking of suicide at this point. Probably only as an escapist fantasy. A few years back, during one of my depressions K found me cutting myself and made me promise to never intentionally hurt myself again. She said she loved me so much and that she couldn't bear to see me harm myself. I promised to stop. I've kept that promise, and I still take it very seriously. If not for me, I'll do it for her.

Anyway, I got to the movie, probably downing a flask in the parking lot before going in. I bought my ticket, sat down, and suddenly an image hit me like a flash: me, 6'0 tall, with size 12 feet, wearing makeup and a dress and shopping in the Women's section. The image was too surreal. I must have been mistaken; that wasn't what I wanted. I just couldn't picture it as a plausible reality. It actually seemed ridiculous.


MY RETURN TO THE CLOSET: I sent my wife a quick text: I MADE A MISTAKE. I WAS WRONG. I AM SO SORRY. COMING HOME TO EXPLAIN. I sprinted to my car, and barely obeyed traffic laws in an effort to get home as quickly as possible.

She was sitting on the couch, looking brooding and shell-shocked. All pictures of us had been taken down from the wall.  I shared the answer that had come to me on the way home. It made so much sense to me, and I explained it, sitting down on the couch next to her while still leaving enough room between us so as to respect her personal space. I didn't dare reach out to touch her.

I explained how I've always hated myself, how I've always felt lost and scared and small. I explained how I was made to feel that way in large part due to my father and brother's behavior toward me as I grew up. I had been unconsciously rejecting my maleness because I associated masculinity with them, and I was so scared of becoming like them. That's all. I just needed to let that baggage in my head go, and it would all be okay. No more gender confusion, only peace.

I must have been convincing, because she accepted the answer. So did I. It had to be true, didn't it? Of course it did. I couldn't afford for it not to be.

The next day things were tense, but better. There was a brittle peace, and it looked like the worst was behind us. It would just take time to move forward from the drama of the previous evening. I sent an email to my psychiatrist friend and her husband, explaining how I had been mistaken. Then I called my guy friend and gave him the same explanation. He assured me that he was in my corner, no matter what.

In the evening, while sitting on the couch and web-surfing on our computers, I saw on Facebook that a young friend, an ex-student was having a major emotional crisis. I welcomed this positive reason to be distracted. She was essentially having a breakdown due to low self-esteem, alienation from her family, and a relentlessly torturing older sister.  It was a familiar story, and I knew I could offer advice and perspective. I stepped outside, called her up and talked her down.  I let her know she wasn't alone, and before we said goodbye I announced that I'd be taking her out to lunch the following day to talk things out.

We did get together the following day, and I played Master Yoda to this young lady, giving her perspective from my life, my mistakes, what I've learned, etc. And because it was on my mind, I told her about what had happened to me in the past few days. I was determined to not treat it in my mind as a dirty secret- the last thing I needed was more shame. Per her suggestion, I picked up flowers on the way home to my wife. I greeted K with them when she got home from work.

And the Summer went by fine. Life pretty much went back to normal. We had adventures, made our yearly pilgrimage to San Diego Comic Con, made new (best) friends, and put it all behind us. Or tried to. It worked for awhile.

A couple weeks after Comic Con, I found out that I would have to transfer schools yet again, due to diminished enrollment numbers at my school. I would have to move the classroom that I had finally after four years set up to my liking. I would also have to adjust from a four-period-a-day schedule to a six-period-a-day schedule. And a week before school began, I found out that I'd also be teaching classes that I'd never taught before (English for non-native speakers).

That was enough to keep me thoroughly stressed for quite a while. Eventually, though, I adjusted to my new job. But I kept to myself, despite the perceived kindness I saw in my colleagues. I just didn't want things to end up as they did at my last school site, so I remained isolated. Things fell into a routine, and over time my confidence as an educator returned.


MY DYSPHORIA RETURNS: Over time, shame surfaced. Guilt plagued me. Why had I come out? What the hell was wrong with me? Would I ever really be able to live that down? Was it out of K's mind? Would it ever be?

These regrets became more pronounced over time. In fact, they hit me like a punch- I'd just be driving along when suddenly the memory of my coming-out would hit me and I would wince or grimace like I'd just been struck. Each time, I involuntarily gasped in pain. They came more and more frequent, these blows of shame. For some reason, my immediate reaction to stave off these moments became saying in my head, "K is my best friend!" I don't know where that came from. I suppose a part of my brain was trying to remind me of what I could potentially lose if I continued down that train of thought.

As I said before, K sometimes suffers from explosive anger. She feels overly responsible for many things in her life, and she has no healthy outlets for that stress, so it builds up until she blows up. And she'll keep fuming until the internal pressure normalizes again. Until that happens, she is irrational and mean. And whether you fight back or not, she keeps going.

When she's on the attack, she reaches for any ammunition, anything that might hurt. In the last six months, she has brought up my coming-out a couple times, always in a rage and fueled by alcohol. I don't even know if she really is concerned about my gender identity, or if she's just treating this issue as another bullet for her verbal firearm. She never brings it up during calm and sober moments.

Sometime after the New Year, she attacked, mid-argument, with a callback to my coming-out. For some reason, this was the last straw, the point that I just folded inside. I couldn't keep it up, not if this dysphoria was going to keep lingering and my doubts were going to be continually rubbed in my face.

I stopped fighting, and began to look at myself again. Whether it was comfortable or not, it was time to finally explore this aspect of myself, to take stock. The elephant in the room needed to be addressed.  For one thing, was it a boy elephant or a girl elephant?


*MY PROGRESS: How's my progress going? Well, since February, I've been looking up information, buying and reading books. I'm still by no means an expert, but I've been finding a lot of help in the things that I have read.

Then I began lingering on the outskirts here. It took a couple weeks after I set up an account to finally have the guts to write something. The first two attempts ended up drawing out into a long autobiography not unlike this one. Too much, too much- what I really wanted was for someone to acknowledge what I was currently going through, to validate my feelings by telling me I wasn't alone.

On the third try, I pressed send. It was the first time that I had signed Tegan on anything I had written. When responses came back to Tegan, with offers of hugs to a new sister, I kind of lost it a bit. Panic, excitement, fear, uncertainty, shame.

But I bounced back. I'm facing this now. With your encouragement, I realized that there was no way around the fact that I would have to find a therapist and be TOTALLY honest. I sat down for an evaluation a week later, and spilled my soul. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done. I read her my very first post from here- that seemed to make my situation very clear.

I'm less than two weeks away from my first session with my new full-time therapist. It's going to be difficult, but I need to finally talk these things through with someone. I'm thinking of printing and dropping off this post before my appointment. Maybe it would help us make the most use of our session. At least it couldn't hurt.

I've stopped wearing any shoes other than a pair of androgenous boots I bought in Los Angeles a couple months back. They have a small heel in back, and they go clack-clack-clack when I walk in them, like how my mother's shoes used to when I was a kid. Within five weeks, I wore the heels down to the wood. I bought a second pair, for when my first pair are getting re-heeled. I'm thinking of purging the majority of my Vans slip-ons, my footwear of choice for the past fifteen years. I think Tegan is more of a boots girl.

At 6'0, I'm 160 lbs.  In the last year, I've shed 25 lbs, and I don't intend to gain any of it back. With that in mind, I've been getting rid of clothes that fit me in larger sizes. In fact, anything that isn't tapered or slim-fit is on the chopping block. I'm still pruning.

When I started posting here as Tegan, I decided to just stop getting my hair cut, and to start taking hair and nail vitamins. My hair grows fast, and it's already looking long and shaggy. The wave I usually sport in the front of my hair is now too long to lie down, so it spikes straight up.  Along with my thin frame and slim-fit clothes, it looks like I'm going for a skinny rockstar look.

I've also stopped chewing on my nails, and have begun getting regular manicures. My eyebrows, which I've trimmed for years, have been cut down to almost feminine thinness. I've been taking much better care of my skin, using moisturizers and cleansers regularly.

My core is firm now that I'm doing crunches on a regular basis. For the first time in my life, I have little to no belly fat. My wife thinks I'm too thin, but I feel better about my body right now than I ever have. I feel healthy and fit, and I like my silhouette quite a bit.  Sometimes I can see Tegan in the mirror if I strain a little.

I've always been very expressive and theatrical with my hands and body language- especially when I'm telling a story or teaching a class. My body language has loosened up quite a bit as of late, though. I don't know if I'm projecting feminine or not, but it feels that way (not that I ever especially projected masculine, in my opinion). I'm trying not to be self-conscious about it.

So far nobody has brought a great deal of attention to these changes. People point out that I've lost weight, and I simply shrug and agree that I have. When my wife pointed out that it was time for a haircut, I simply shrugged and said that I'd like to grow it out for a while. When a student noticed the fresh clear coat on my nails, I simply shrugged and said that I had gotten a manicure. I think the shrugs are working, but who knows?

I wonder if I'm being obvious, or if I really am under the radar so far. I honestly can't tell.


*MY FEELINGS RIGHT NOW: I've recently been asked by a new friend here what I am thinking and where I am now in this whole thing. That's a damn good question.

I honestly don't know. Some moments I KNOW I'm Tegan. Other moments, I think she's just a figment of my imagination. I honestly wonder sometimes if this isn't just some elaborate fantasy that I've constructed in my head. What if I'm just acting, just putting on a show for myself in an attempt to convince myself that I've figured out why I feel so broken? What if none of it is true?

I don't hate my body, but I would trade it for its female equivalent in a blink. I'm not grossed out by my genitalia, but rather ambivalent. I don't grow weak at the knees when I walk through the Women's section of a store, but I still notice certain things that I like.

There are so many things to think about. How would I pay for it? Who would stand by me?  How would it affect my career?  Would I still be able to connect with my students? Could I pass as a woman? Would anyone even want me? Would I go through all this just to end up all alone?

A couple months ago, I would not have been able to picture a life without K. I still don't want to, but I am starting to formulate an exit strategy in my head. About a week ago, I realized that I had been absentmindedly walking through the house, making a mental note of what was mine and what was hers. I've already decided which cats I would take.

I don't want to think like that; I really don't.  I want K in my life. Even if I transitioned, I hope I could keep her close, hopefully as a spouse, but if not then maybe as a roommate or best girlfriend. I know I'm being selfish.  But honestly, I don't even know if I COULD transition if it meant for sure that I would lose her.

There are times, though, when I'm not sure if I can stop myself going down this road. Do I even want to? I can't honestly say. Is Tegan my inevitable future? Could I truly survive that? I'm good at pretending I'm strong, but who knows when my strength will finally give out? I feel like the cracks are showing everywhere.

I'm so glad that I'll be having my first proper therapy appointment in a couple weeks.


MY DEEPEST THANKS: Gosh, if you've made it to this point, I owe you a high five, a hug, and possibly a beer as well. As I said earlier, what started as a simple intro turned into an autobiography. Apparently my brain really wanted to write this, as I haven't been able to think of much else since I started.

Yeah, I'm long-winded, but I did warn you, didn't I?

Maybe a story as comprehensive and personal as this might prove helpful to somebody. At the very least, I think it has helped me. For one thing, I will never have to write anything like this ever again.

Ladies, gents, I want to thank you all. Thank you for creating a safe environment. Thank you for inspiring me. Thank you for giving me hope and courage. And thank you for just accepting me, in all my confused and questioning glory.

This has been my story. Thank you for going on this journey with me.

Sincerely,

Tegan Willow O'Bryan

Hi Tegan that would make this an official welcome then

What sort of teacher are you more the dead poets society or do you lean towards dangerous minds. (Sorry no more humor)

Sorry to hear about your childhood it must of been torturous at times and your parents didn't seem the most caring folk more parenting the most efficient way possible.

Glad to know your friends took the news well, we may not be able to pick our family but we can pick our friends.

A bit of advice from someone who is your age and been growing their hair since a teen.  It will need to be cut occasionally if you want to grow it long, I know it sounds weird but to get long hair you have to cut it to keep it healthy.  Just don't get it cut short.

Hope your therapist can help you find the answers your looking for.
Gypsy

P.S I worked out your old name but that is a name I've spent my entire life trying to forget.  "Happy families are all alike,  dysfunctional families are all dysfunctional in there own way"

Hi Tegan. Welcome to Susan's. May you find a little comfort and support by belonging to our little family here. Your story reminds me alot of myself including the suicide attempt, though I tried twice. After reading your story I really feel for you. You've found a great place to be though, and I look forward to conversing with you someday.
I wish you the best of luck with your therapist.

Feel free to vent, complain, getting out your frustrations and anything else I forgot to mention. We are your leaning post, your shoulder to cry on if you need one.
I'm sure we'll exchange posts soon in the future. Meanwhile, here's a big hug to welcome you to the site!

That was very touching and revealing Tegan. And thank you for sharing with us.

I'm fumbling at what to write. I don't want to sound empty but also I'd rather not scare you away. More than anything I want you know that you meaningful to others like myself here.

Hi Tegan,
I think that I could read about your life and experience for as long as you are willing to write.  You are eloquent, and insightful - and I thank you.  I haven't advice, but I can give you a hint of the next few steps to an authentic life.  It gets pretty hard as a girl you love, and who is truly heterosexual withdraws, and that chapter begins to close.  Can't really blame them this is not fair to them, or to us either for that matter.  Still the gift of living in reality is pretty overwhelming.  It includes joy and loss, laughter and tears, growth and even withdrawl.  In other words it entails true authenticity in living, for some of us this is a new experience at this level of introspection.

Today I got my drivers license as "Julie with an F (female)"  For me a milestone, and one I got to share with my daughter and grandkids who love me just as I am - And I them.  So as I travel the road of life, I do so with as much grace and style as I can manage.  In that journey I have had some teachers, one of which is you.  I and countless others are here for you in any way that you want or need.

I hope one day that we all find fulfillment in our lives and love in our futures.  Whenever you need to talk, drop me a line.

Julie

Quote from: immortal gypsy on April 11, 2014, 04:30:54 PM
Hi Tegan that would make this an official welcome then

Thank you very much, Gypsy.

Quote from: immortal gypsy on April 11, 2014, 04:30:54 PM
What sort of teacher are you more the dead poets society or do you lean towards dangerous minds. (Sorry no more humor)

I have been told that I teach a class as though I'm hosting an episode of Blue's Clues. But in a good way, apparently.

Quote from: immortal gypsy on April 11, 2014, 04:30:54 PM
Sorry to hear about your childhood it must of been torturous at times and your parents didn't seem the most caring folk more parenting the most efficient way possible.

Glad to know your friends took the news well, we may not be able to pick our family but we can pick our friends.

You know it.

Quote from: immortal gypsy on April 11, 2014, 04:30:54 PM
A bit of advice from someone who is your age and been growing their hair since a teen.  It will need to be cut occasionally if you want to grow it long, I know it sounds weird but to get long hair you have to cut it to keep it healthy.  Just don't get it cut short.

Okay, help me out here. It's probably only two inches long now (it's just really thick)- at what point should I get a trim? And what should I tell them in order to get what I want? Help. Please and thank you.

Also, I'm glad to know you're my age. Is there anywhere I could catch up a bit on your story?

Quote from: immortal gypsy on April 11, 2014, 04:30:54 PM
Hope your therapist can help you find the answers your looking for.
Gypsy

You and me both, sister.

Quote from: immortal gypsy on April 11, 2014, 04:30:54 PMP.S I worked out your old name but that is a name I've spent my entire life trying to forget.  "Happy families are all alike,  dysfunctional families are all dysfunctional in there own way"

I'm confused. I get that you figured out my name, but why have you been trying to forget it? Is it your name as well? I'm probably just being dense, so help me out.

Thanks for your response.

Cheers,
Teg

Quote from: Allyda on April 11, 2014, 08:36:43 PM
Hi Tegan. Welcome to Susan's. May you find a little comfort and support by belonging to our little family here. Your story reminds me alot of myself including the suicide attempt, though I tried twice. After reading your story I really feel for you. You've found a great place to be though, and I look forward to conversing with you someday.
I wish you the best of luck with your therapist.

Feel free to vent, complain, getting out your frustrations and anything else I forgot to mention. We are your leaning post, your shoulder to cry on if you need one.
I'm sure we'll exchange posts soon in the future. Meanwhile, here's a big hug to welcome you to the site!

Thank you, Allyda. I look forward to conversing with you someday, too.

Cheers,
Teg

Quote from: Christine167 on April 12, 2014, 09:40:15 PM
That was very touching and revealing Tegan. And thank you for sharing with us.

I'm fumbling at what to write. I don't want to sound empty but also I'd rather not scare you away. More than anything I want you know that you meaningful to others like myself here.

Christine,
I'm not likely to be scared away, nor do I expect you to sound empty. Don't fumble. No pressure. Thank you for reading and caring.

Cheers,
Teg

Quote from: JulieBlair on April 12, 2014, 11:02:16 PM
Hi Tegan,
I think that I could read about your life and experience for as long as you are willing to write.  You are eloquent, and insightful - and I thank you.  I haven't advice, but I can give you a hint of the next few steps to an authentic life.  It gets pretty hard as a girl you love, and who is truly heterosexual withdraws, and that chapter begins to close.  Can't really blame them this is not fair to them, or to us either for that matter.  Still the gift of living in reality is pretty overwhelming.  It includes joy and loss, laughter and tears, growth and even withdrawl.  In other words it entails true authenticity in living, for some of us this is a new experience at this level of introspection.

Today I got my drivers license as "Julie with an F (female)"  For me a milestone, and one I got to share with my daughter and grandkids who love me just as I am - And I them.  So as I travel the road of life, I do so with as much grace and style as I can manage.  In that journey I have had some teachers, one of which is you.  I and countless others are here for you in any way that you want or need.

I hope one day that we all find fulfillment in our lives and love in our futures.  Whenever you need to talk, drop me a line.

Julie

Julie, thank you for your kind words. I'm glad you got something out my my manifesto there.

I'm finding myself kind of surrendering to this whole thing right now, but I don't know. I'm hoping therapy brings me clarity. I don't want regret.

Congratulations on your milestone. I'm glad you got to celebrate it with family.

And hey, if you need to talk, then it's a two-way door.

Cheers,
Teg

Teg,
Therapy has given me some clarity about who I am and the direction I'm going.  The destination is still elusive, but we will all find it if we keep faith with ourselves and each other.  I lost about half of my family by "Following my bliss", and trying to become whole.  The process seems tempered by both delight and regret - with rebirth comes death.  I am a new incarnation, and had to be willing to be exactly that; New. 
Looking back, much harm could have been mitigated if I had been given the gift of acceptance of who I am and related to the world that way, rather than with angst and fear. Some perfectly lovely people would not have suffered from my infernal dilemmas and  fake machismo.  But we do the best we can with where we are.  I have some amends to make, but I need not create the necessity to make more.  I think that perhaps that is what you mean by regret.  It is the future harm done because I deny myself the chance to bloom that would surely send this girl into the abyss.
Such are the ruminations of one who would rather talk to another than solve software design errors.  Thanks for listening.  I hope you keep me posted on the theater experience.  I'll happily fly out to see the opening (if I get an invite to the cast party).
Julie

Bye the Bye. I love your avatar - I looked something like a cross between her and Alice Cooper for a while thirty years ago.

j

I'm currently looking for a therapist myself Tegan. In fact I told all my friends I'm not going anywhere tomorrow so I can look for one. My PC was nice enough to give me a 10 day supply of my anxiety/ptsd med and told me to find a therapist. He told me it's because he just doesn't like the medication I'm taking. But, I've been taking it for over 20 years and it's the only thing that will shut my overactive brain down so I can sleep. I do need a therapist though for my SRS and VFS and I.D. gender change letters. For the surgeries my insurance wants two letters so one from my Endo and one from my future therapist whomever that turns out to be will do and these surgeries will be covered. As for my gender change on my ID only one from my Endo is necessary, and hopefully I'll have that one on the 22nd when I see him.

I wish you the best of luck in finding a therapist with transgender experience.

Forgive the way this is formatted computers have never been my string point

Like others before me have mentioned my ears are always open if you need someone to yell, cry, complain to or just to share joy with

Hair: Yes I get my hair colouerd, but they know I prefer to keep it long so it is cut every two three times I'm in. Thats to make sure there is no split ends and to re-style it to keep it healthy. Go to a hairdresser let them know you are growing it and would just like to get it tidied a little bit and let them work. You don't have to get a femine style right away the secret is to keep the hair healthy ask them for help on how as well.

Life story: There are clues to my past scatered in the fourums, but nothing written down in one large go. (It's annoying but I'm naturally cryptic and guarded by nature unless upset. Ask me a question and you will get a direct answer). Crib note version I was on the road a lot as a child (3 states one year), I've always known I was a girl and this is my 3rd attempt to transition (1st emotional blackmail, 2nd body broke down)

Your name: You share the same name as my father, somebody I have not spoken to since I was 16

Therapy can be scary to begin with but think of it as the beginning of the end, a chance for you to see Mr Ibis and say goodbye to your old life and say hello to your new life however it may go.

""May your comming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks your wonderful,and don't forget to make some art - write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year you can suprise yourself" Neil Gaiman

Quote from: Sincerely Tegan on April 11, 2014, 03:43:04 PM
...
MY DEEPEST THANKS: Gosh, if you've made it to this point, I owe you a high five, a hug, and possibly a beer as well. As I said earlier, what started as a simple intro turned into an autobiography. Apparently my brain really wanted to write this, as I haven't been able to think of much else since I started.

Yeah, I'm long-winded, but I did warn you, didn't I?

Maybe a story as comprehensive and personal as this might prove helpful to somebody. At the very least, I think it has helped me. For one thing, I will never have to write anything like this ever again.

Ladies, gents, I want to thank you all. Thank you for creating a safe environment. Thank you for inspiring me. Thank you for giving me hope and courage. And thank you for just accepting me, in all my confused and questioning glory.

This has been my story. Thank you for going on this journey with me.

Sincerely,

Tegan Willow O'Bryan

Quite the read Teg! Thank you for sharing, and doing so with such eloquence. Long-winded? No. You certainly held my interest, the story with so many familiar details, and the narrative well composed. Now, I must inform you that as no one else has called you on this, you owe me a high five, a hug and a beer (Big Rock Traditional Ale from Calgary will do nicely).

I'm looking forward to learn of the inevitable good things that will develop from your up coming therapy session

many hugz

Quote from: EllieM on April 16, 2014, 02:40:44 PM

Quite the read Teg! Thank you for sharing, and doing so with such eloquence. Long-winded? No. You certainly held my interest, the story with so many familiar details, and the narrative well composed. Now, I must inform you that as no one else has called you on this, you owe me a high five, a hug and a beer (Big Rock Traditional Ale from Calgary will do nicely).

I'm looking forward to learn of the inevitable good things that will develop from your up coming therapy session

many hugz

If we're ever in the same neck of the woods, you're on, Ellie.

,
Teg

Looking forward to collecting
Gotta say though... might be a while, bit of a drive from southern Ontario, eh?
Love the new avatar. Très cute!

May I join you two?
j

Hey Tegan,

If you are comfortable to talk about it, I was wondering if things have gotten better between you and your wife?  Any progress in that area?  Just checking in to see how it's going.  Hope all is well.