An Open Letter to My Mom

An Open Letter to My Mom

Dear Mom,

There was a day, maybe twentyish years ago, it was afternoon, we were standing in the living room of our house. Your sister

and her daughters had been over. All four of us, her daughters and my sister, ended up finding a cache of your old dresses

and playing dress-up. Once they had left, you asked me if I ever felt like I wanted to be a girl. There are times I wish you

hadn’t taken me at my word when I said, “no.”

Hindsight being 20/20, and thinking about other incidents that happened over the course of my adolescence, I realize that my

elementary-school-aged brain had no idea what it told you in response to that question. I can see you overlooking the dress-

up incident, but Mom, that night you came downstairs while I was watching ER and asked if I had been wearing your panties and

nylons, and I flat out told you I had no idea what you were talking about, or the morning you ccame downstairs to wake me up

and give me medication before leaving for work and you found that i’d fallen asleep in a dress, and you believed I said I had

no idea how it got there, or the time you found panties in my suitcase mixed in with my own underwear, I think either you

never connected or you didn’t want to. Not that I blame you. I’m pretty good at hiding things and lying to cover myself.

I’m betting you never knew that I had a fairly substantial stash of girl’s clothing until I moved away to college and had

nowhere to keep it. But, I suppose the fact that I was going to school away from home (a decision that was entirely of my own

urging) made it much easier to hide. You also probably never knew of the times I “dressed” for Halloween parties and stayed

that way long after because it felt natural.

Had any of those conversations gone differently; had I told you the truth, that I wasn’t sure how I felt, but I knew that

mostly it was far easier for me to connect with girls, and that I often didn’t like, because I just never related to, the

boys I had to deal with, and that wearing those close made me feel good, who knows what might have happened. Especially

considering how, once The Pastor entered your life, you began reacting to the homosexual members of our family (I can only

imagine what you would have said had I confessed that I was transgendered, and oh, by the way a lesbian), but some tiny part

of me wishes I had found out. Even now, I’m not totally sure where I fit on the spectrum of transgenderedness (I still like

using my man parts and am not convinced I want to give them up), but I occasionally find myself imagineing myself as a woman

and wondering how things would have turned out.

I realize that some of this may stem from the semi-idealized depictions of acceptance and transitioning I’ve read in

“Becoming Robin”, and that reality would have been far different and likely full of struggles. I also don’t blame you for any

of it. I certainly did my share of not dealing with the issue. Even to this day, my wife really doesn’t know the extent of my

feelings. Believe me, I’ve tried to bring it up, but her reaction made it clear that she didn’t get it and she wasn’t likely

to be open to even occasional crossdressing. Honestly, I don’t get it either. I can’t explain why things make me feel the way

they do. I didn’t write the manual to my brain, I’m just stuck trying to find the Rosetta Stone.

I’m sure there was a point to this, somewhere, but I’ve lost it since I’ve started and stopped this a couple of times. I

guess I’m just trying to make a start at figuring out my own feelings. Thankfully, the Internet is cheap therapy, and since

you’ll likely never even find this blog I once again don’t have to tell you the truth. I do know this, no matter how I feel,

I’m thankful every day that I have never come close to becoming one of the fifty percent of this community that attempts (or

succeeds at) suicide. I thank God that I’ve never even contemplated it.

That’s really all. Just kinda wanted to get some stuff off my chest.

Love, Me