First they came for the immigrants and I said nothing, for I was not an immigrant.

Am I the modern Niemoller?

To be continued.

I’m moving this week, so I’ve been silent, but right now the movers are getting everything out of my house and I have a moment, so I thought I would share this.

Yesterday while driving around I saw a bunch of wildflowers and it brought back a long forgotten memory of childhood. I remembered one time when I was sitting in the grass with the (other) neighborhood girls and we were making daisy chain necklaces and putting flowers in our hair. I always loved putting daisies behind my ears as a kid. But when I came out in college my mother insisted that there had never been any signs I was trans. How funny is that?

I’m not going to be posting much the next week or two because I am about to move from one state to another on the other side of the country, so I’m going to be spending a lot of time packing, and the driving, and then unpacking.

Another diary entry. This was post transition and surgery and I was no longer dealing with gender issues directly, but was still dealing with the lingering depression and C-PTSD caused by gender dysphoria.

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October 14, 1999

Depression is a fuzziness and bluriness of the soul.

Depression is the feeling that ones soul is disintegrating – dissolving into nothingness.

Depression is a lack of focus.

Depression is a lack of energy.

Depression is not caring.

Depression is wanting to care, but not being able to care.

Depression is gray.

Depression is being alone in a crowd full of people who know you.

Depression is wanting help but being afraid to ask for it.

Depression is not knowing how to ask for help.

Depression is being unable to act to save the things one holds most dear.

Depression is being unable to act to save ones own self.

Rant incoming.

Today a couple of trans women in a Discord server – not a trans server – really pissed me off. I expressed my opinion that being transgender has a physical cause: genetics, endocrine anomalies, whatever. There is some limited research pointing in this direction, but nothing conclusive, and I said as much. My opinion is based on non-conclusive studies and my own experience of my self.

So I got attacked for that.

One person called me an “apologist” meaning that I side with the Pick Me’s who try to present themselves as the “good” trans people who it’s OK for society to accept, unlike those loud, pushy “bad” trans people who gasp might not even want surgery! Another person accused me of “sloganeering” because my wording reminded her of the phrase “born this way” that was popular a while back. I do not understand people like them. I have an opinion, and I admit it’s an opinion, and I don’t try to push it on others, and yet I get accused of betraying all trans people because of it. That is BS. This kind of infighting needs to stop! It doesn’t help the community in any way shape or form.

And to think they accused me of this. In 2023 I took off from work 5 times to go to the Texas capitol to testify against bad legislation. I’d be there this year too if I wasn’t in the process of moving out of state. Last week I wasn’t even in the state at all, so I couldn’t testify anyway.

Most of my days are literally just spent talking with other trans people in 4 different Discord servers to try and be there for people when they need help. I’ve stayed up past midnight talking to people who were feeling suicidal more than once.

But somehow, I’m the bad guy because I think being trans has a physical cause in the brain and the way it develops are we grow.

Well screw that noise.

I’m not ashamed of who I am, and I won’t apologize for it, either to transphobes or to politically correct armchair activists who talk a lot but never do anything.

End of rant.

This diary entry talks about my fears of abandonment and feelings of loneliness, things I had been dealing with ever since first learning that people would hate me for being a girl at age 10. For me, being trans was a very isolating experience because I was so afraid to let anyone find out about me, and I knew from experience that I could not even trust my family. That lead me to not trusting anyone at all, something that became a very big problem for me as an adult and it still affects me even today (though I am much better now, and may even have had a breakthrough recently).

Actually coming to understand this about myself was very … overwhelming. I couldn’t really explain to anyone what was going on; I just had to cry a really big cry and be hugged and held.

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Tuesday, July 8, 1997

I’ve started getting things ready for surgery: I’ve called M.A. and Dr. C. to get letters of recommendation lined up; I’ve got the phone number of the consulate: I’ve got Dr. M.’s packet. I’m ready.

I wasn’t ready until just a few days ago – Friday night. That afternoon I was feeling lonely so I called D. to talk and maybe suggest that we get together and do something, however K. had just arrived at her house and the two of them were going out for the 4th of July celebrations, so I said “bye” and we hung up. I was disappointed, but before I could get up D. called back and asked if I wanted to go with them. Of course, I said “yes”.

We drove around and wound up eating dinner at [a restaurant]. After that we picked up S. and went to watch the fireworks.

I felt happy.

And I finally realized what had been holding me back from the surgery: fear of being alone.

I’m not sure what exactly led to this revelation, but there were several things that happened that night which probably influenced me. Early on, just after K. and D. picked me up we went to an ATM so I could get some cash. Now standing at the ATM I could not see the car, and I found myself very afraid that when I went back they would have left without me – that they would have abandoned me. I knew that this was irrational but I still had the nagging suspicion that they would at least have pulled around the corner as a “joke”. Even as I reached for the handle I was afraid they would drive away at the last minute.

I can’t explain the origin of this fear.

The other thing that I believe led to my epiphany was seeing S. Ever since she came back I’ve been able to see first hand how the recovery time and the “home-boundedness” it imposes result in isolation and loneliness. She’s always saying how much she appreciates it when I call.

This kind of ioslation – being at home alone – is exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid lately. To think that I have to face it directly in order to achieve my dream/goal/life-long ambition of gender congruity/bodily form/womanhood is very daunting. To achieve my dream I have to face my nightmare.

This is especially bad in light of how I’ve only recently started to be able to be social. In a sense I was better prepared for the loneliness when it was still the dominant theme in my life and I didn’t know anything else. Of course, at that time I was also unprepared for surgery itself because I could not even identify my fears. Only by recognizing and experiencing my fear have I gained the potential to overcome it.

Hmm … “Fear is the mind-killer. I will not fear. Fear is the little death. I will face my fear and allow it to pass through me. And when it has passed I will turn to see the path it has taken, but it will not be there, for it never truly existed.” (Or something like that.) I think that I may understand the litany now for the first time ever – and I mean really understand the meaning behind the words and why they are true.

I was thinking about these issues and coming to my realization while we were watching the fireworks, and walking back to the car is when it really hit me. All of my fear came crashing down on me at once and I suddenly felt very alone and isolated. Suddenly I desperately needed to know that I wasn’t alone and so I reached out to D. to hug her. She must have sensed that something was wrong because she didn’t complain and she held me. I started to cry then. I must’ve cried for 5-10 minutes and all that time I was hoping someone would ask me why I was crying – but ask me after I’d stopped; at the time I couldn’t really talk. They all asked when they saw me crying, but let it drop when I didn’t immediately respond.

The next night at K.’s party I was hoping to talk about all this, but I never got a chance ( at least not one that I recognized.) I hate television.

But I love my friends and I wish I knew how to be closer to them. I’m trying, but I’ve no experience at it and I think that my past aloofness has made them think that I don’t want to be closer.

There’s not yet light at the end of the tunnel, but I’m finally in the tunnel, and I’m moving.

Blessed Be!

Continuiing to read my old diaries, I am up to the first entry after my surgery. It marks an important milestone: the end of body dysmorphia.

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Wednesday, January 28, 1998

On Monday, January 19, 1998, I was reborn – I finally had the surgery and the old male genitalia are gone and replaced with what is, at least to appearances, female genitalia.

It’s about time!

It’s been such a long journey getting to this point, and at first I didn’t really react. Perhaps it was the pain medication which kept me mostly asleep and drowsy while I was in the hospital over the next few days (until Friday), but I never even thought to look at myself in the mirror to see what I looked like, although if I had looked at that point all I would have seen would have been the outer bandages.

Those were removed on Friday when I returned to the residence, but it wasn’t until Saturday that I actually looked at myself in the mirror for the first time. The stent was still in and the vagina sewn shut, but I could see the vulva at least (extremely swollen) and my reaction was more of a non-reaction – “It’s just me”.

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“It’s just me.” For the first time ever in my life, I saw my naked reflection in a mirror and recognized it as being me and only me with no qualifications. Always before that I saw someone I didn’t recognize as myself, or I saw me, but with an alien Thing dangling between my legs like some sort of parasite feeding off my body. But the Thing was gone. There was nothing alien about my body any more. It looked right and it felt right, a feeling I’d never known before.

I was surprised at not being more emotional in my reaction. It seems like I should have been experiencing ecstasy at that moment, but instead I had a brand new feeling: normalcy.

“It’s just me”

In my continuing re-read of my old diaries I just came across one describing my experience with conversion therapy. Not as bad as many people have experienced, but it still hurt me in ways that have been with me for decades. It taught me not to trust people, something I still have trouble with even today.

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April 20, 1996, Saturday

…I have never dealt with my own experience with the medical communitys attempts to “correct” my gender “aberrant” behavior.

When my parents found my stash of clothing when I was – I don’t remember exactly how old I was – in junior high, they took me to see M. A. the first time.

I don’t remember much about the time that I saw him except that I was scared. I didn’t trust M. or Dr. P. and all I really wanted was for the “treatment” to end.

So I ended it.

I told them that I would never “crossdress” again.

As I spoke the words I knew that it was a lie. Mother had come into my bedroom to ask me if I thought I was ready to stop seeing M. She said that I could stop if I wouldn’t wear women’s clothing anymore. So I immediately saw my escape and swore that I would never wear women’s clothing again.

Of course, as I said this I was wearing a pair of Mother’s socks.

That night is burned forever in my mind because I learned two very important lessons: trust no one, and lying works. By foreswearing to things that I value so highly now, I was able to end the psychological torture to which I had been subjected.

They made me hate myself!

They put shame into me and tried to make me forsake my true identity!

They told me that what I was doing was wrong and that I had to stop. They told me that if I didn’t stop that I’d have lots of problems and people wouldn’t like me because “they wouldn’t understand”. They told me that I wouldn’t be able to get a job when I grew up and that my life would be miserable.

I don’t remember a lot about my sessions with M. except that he took notes on a pad and that he (sometimes at least) sat between me and the door, making me feel trapped.

I was forced to attend those sessions against my will; all I ever wanted was to live my life in the way that made me happy, the way that let me be my true self, as a woman. For although at the time [I] usually would deny that I wanted to be female (the thought of being so different scared me) I would have been wearing women’s clothing all the time if I could have. I would have lived as a woman even while denying that I was one, until one day I would finally accept myself.

But instead my parents – and M. and Dr. P. – gave me the gifts of fear, mistrust, and self-loathing.

And I’m still trying to recover.

This is an excerpt from my diary describing my second time being out with other trans folk. There was a dance at a church, and afterwards some of the people invited me to go to a lesbian bar with them. The simple act of someone saying goodnight to me at the end of the night shattered my mind.

FYI Sarah is my first name.

Typos are in the original.

-- I am Sarah.

That’s simple statement is one that carries a tremendous emotional impact. It’s just three words, but those words convey all my hopes and fears and dreams and nightmares, and wonder.

Before Saturday I had some questions as to how true that statement is. Even during the course of the day and night I had my doubts. But thourghout the evening — even as nervous and unsure of myself as I was — even then I knew I would be coming back. And all my doubts were shattered into a myriad of unrecognizable pieces when Wendy said, at the end of the night, “Goodnight Sarah.”

No magic, no science, no endless patience of a thousand Buddhas could ever hope to reassemble that doubt. It may be that some small part of it might be temporarily pieced together for a while — enough to make me question myself for a brief while, but no permanent resurrection of a desire to be male could ever occur in me after that one statement.

"Goodnight Sarah."

When she said that, it was like I was running along — running away from who I am — and suddenly I ran out into a pond. For the first second or two I didn’t notice the water; I just said goodnight, in return. Then the force of the water pushing against me rose in force and overwhelmed me. I started to cry. I didn’t cry much; at that point I still had my emotions in the box, but the lid was straining, and a few things were starting to leak out.

Now just thinking about it make me cry. I just started crying again. I hope I don’t short out my keyboard. Ha ha.

But I made myself stop, because I can’t let people see me crying. If someone sees me, then they’ll ask why I’m crying, and then I’d either wind up telling them (if they’re persistent, or I’ll rouse suspicion and rumors will start flying.

"Goodnight Sarah."

This one is unusual. A cold case of a woman who was found dead 37 years ago has been updated as she has finally been identified. Pamela Leigh Walton was found dead in 1988 near Orlando, Florida.

Say her name.

Body of ‘Julie Doe’ finally identified as transgender woman Pamela Leigh Walton after 37 years