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My feminine traits. They’re non-existent. Not that I haven’t tried. Over the years, I’ve attempted to be feminine, mostly for the benefit of my mother. After the trip to the doctor, where he suggested my mother should actively encourage female activities, take me out shopping for dresses, do stuff that mothers and daughters are supposed to do, that’s what she did. I went along with my mother’s wishes for a while, although it was plain to both of us that I wasn’t enjoying any of it. She kept it up for a few months and then gave up. Several times, I tried to explain to her that it just wasn’t me. That it wasn’t what I needed, because that wasn’t how I was built. But each time I tried to talk to her on the subject, she would get upset and tell me to shut up. For ten years, I made random attempts to talk to my mother about being transgender. She didn’t want to know. One time, she said to me that she already had a son and she didn’t want another one. It was only years later that I realised what I’d denied her. I had denied her the pleasure of having a daughter to teach how to cook, a daughter to teach how to apply makeup, a daughter to go shopping with. All the things that, I suppose, a mother looks forward to doing with her daughter, she never got to do with me. I still have guilt over that. I have, on occasion, made an effort - mainly for my mother but also for others - to be female. I also tried to be feminine for my husband, although not all the time, I admit. I couldn’t possibly do it all the time. It’s very draining to pretend to be something you’re not. It’s tiring to pretend to be enjoying something when you’re not enjoying it at all. One of the occasions I made the effort was my wedding day. I wore a dress. Not quite white, but ivory coloured. We didn’t want any photos of the wedding (my idea, I believe) but one of my husband’s friends took a bunch of photos anyway and then presented us with an album full of them. I look like the fairy that belongs on top of the Christmas tree. I hate having my photo taken at the best of times. But in a dress? That’s the worst. But I allowed it to happen again, at my brother’s wedding. I wore a lacy purple dress, mainly because I knew it was expected of me, and mainly to please my mother. I looked - and felt - horrendous. My mother didn’t even say anything about it afterwards. I was disappointed about that because I’d done it for her, not me. The last time I wore a dress was two years ago, at another wedding. The wedding of my cousin. Again, I did it because I knew it was expected, and because it was still a way for me to cover up what I am. There was a lot of family at that wedding. They don’t know about me, unless my mother shared with her sister at any point over the years. But I doubt she did. If she had, I’m pretty sure I’d have received funny looks or questions over the years, and I haven’t. So, occasionally I’ve worn a dress, to keep up appearances. And every time, I’ve felt like a freak. Uncomfortable and wrong. Deceitful and fraudulent. A few years ago, my husband and I were really struggling. To be honest, the marriage had become staid because we were taking each other for granted far too much. We had become complacent and uncaring. We somehow agreed to try to enliven things in the bedroom, which resulted in the both of us buying ridiculous amounts of lingerie for me to wear. I tried it. I really tried, for a month or two. But it didn’t fix any problems, and I felt guilty for trying to cover up the cracks in a way that I’d always known wouldn’t work. I don’t feel sexy in lingerie. I never have. I also felt guilty for letting down my husband like that. For pretending I was into it when I wasn’t. When I knew I wasn’t, and never would be. For basically lying to him, leading him on, faking it. I’m not feminine. I never have been. I’ve tried, when I have thought it was required of me or expected of me. I’ve faked, I’ve cheated, I’ve pretended, I’ve lied. I hate myself for doing it because I know it’s wrong. And because it has badly hurt my husband. And because it hurts me. It hurts me because it compounds the guilt I’m already feeling. It hurts me because I’m denying what I am, over and over again. I’ve spent most of my life pretending to be something I’m not, and I’m exhausted by it. The guilt and the shame eats at me. It keeps me awake at night.
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