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All posts for the month December, 2014

Letters From The Edge Of Blogspace: Christmas Story

Published December 24, 2014 by Christine

Something that someone said started me thinking. I mean, really thinking, about what Christmas means to me, how it affects me and how it has changed over the years. This isn’t just for me, though. It’s for everyone. How has Christmas changed? How does it feel, and what does it mean?

Many Christmas’s have passed (this being my 47th, I believe) and on each of them, as far back as I can remember, I have prayed. Prayed to a god that I didn’t really belive in to make me a girl, to bring me the presents I really wanted. For me, that was the be-all and end-all of Christmas. To wake up that Christmas day with the right body, the right presents under the tree. Of course, it never happened. My first feeling on Christmas morning was always one of disappointment. Most mornings were like that but Christmas was especially disappointing since miracles were supposed to happen at Christmas, or so I had been constantly told.

Going out to see family was equally bad. I would look at all my female cousins running around in their new dresses, me dressed in trousers, shirt and tie, (yep, thats what I had to wear), wishing I could be like them. Of course, I could never tell my parents what I really wanted. That would just result in a sitting down at a talk about how I was a boy and boys didn’t wear things like that. Why not? I would always ask. Because, was always the reply. And so it went on.

Over the years, Christmas became one tired parade of so-called manliness after another. I still prayed, funnily enough. Whether it be to God, Gaia, or any deity that would listen, I still prayed, but received no answer. Eventually Christmas just became one drunken time among many. I was drunk Christmas Eve, absolutely wrecked Christmas Day, Boxing Day, every day in between. New Year’s Eve was bad, several times. I stopped looking forward to Christmas, knowing that it would simply be a time where I would be drunk again, passed out in someone’s house while all around just ignored me, asleep on the floor, sofa or bed, whichever was handy. No-one cared, why should they? I was just another idiot, drinking too much for their own good.

Then one year, I met Tracey. We got on well and she knew a little about me, although she was under the impression I was a cross-dresser. That didn’t bother her. I was quite surprised. We eventually formed a relationship.

One night, I came to the realisation that the only way forward for me was to transition, but how could I when I was in a relationship? I came to the decision that I couldn’t. In November 2010 I told Tracey to go. To leave me and never look back because she couldn’t cope with me and couldn’t bear the pain if she decided to leave me, so I preempted her and took the pain before it become to much to bear. I then went out to Spain to see my parents, for the last time as it turned out. During my Christmas in Spain, Tracey contacted me via MSN and we talked. I really wanted to tell her about myself, but I couldn’t. Eventually, after talking to another friend of mine, I eventually revealed to Tracey that I was trans. I told her everything. Upon my return she came round to my place for New Year’s and we talked. Talked for eight hours. She has stuck with me through everything, despite my warnings about what may happen.

Since then, I’ve not prayed at Christmas. I know I am becoming the woman I was meant to be and, with Tracey’s help, I will hopefully complete that part of my journey sometime in the next year or two.

For so many years, Christmas meant nothing to me except struggle, pain and depression. Now, its love, joy and large quantities of fun.

This is my Christmas story.

Transition is not death

Published December 24, 2014 by Christine

a gentleman and a scholar

We need a better way to talk about trans children.

Christmas is the hardest time of the year for me. Not for the reasons why it’s so hard for so many trans people – their reasons first, and then mine.

This time of year brings it home – in mundane, everyday little ways – that trans people are so often people without families. Or, rather, without families of origin – by necessity, we’ve become adept at building our families of choice.  A facebook status asking for a donation to help homeless trans teenagers, or a recommendation for a trans-friendly shelter for victims of domestic violence – overwhelming numbers of empathetic responses rooted in experience. Invitations to alternative festive events, on days when most people are expected to find themselves with parents, grandparents, the in-laws. Survival guide blog posts for those trying to face their family of origin – knowing that…

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