I've been debating whether or not to share my story about something that's been very long-term in terms of how much of my life it has encompassed: nearly 30 years.  I want to start slowly, and I don't know how long it will take me to finish the story. It will be a long, emotional read when it is completed.  The ending, and it's implications, may be terrifying to some readers. I think my story confirms some degree of life after death, but I won't debate its specific details with regards to a specific faith, belief system or philosophy.  I'm not even going to speculate.  That's for another time maybe years down the road.  I want to parse out the story as I am comfortable sharing it, so I can't guarantee it will be completed in regular, reliable intervals. There may be long gaps or I may do several posts in a short period of time.  Whew!   Here goes:

My story begins on February 14, 2014.  My phone had died, and I was locked out of my downtown apartment.  Before my phone died, I had called the police, for one very important reason: they had the master key for me to get into my building, and I was confident the officer would make an emergency call to the locksmith for me.  Both of those things happened, and the officer called the locksmith and waited with me to make sure they could get into the building to let me into my apartment.  We had a long chat while we were waiting, about this and that, and interestingly he knew a lot about the 107-year-old building I lived in, a converted hotel for miners built early in the 20th century.  I brought up that I did not feel safe in the building.  We talked about the reasons why, and I said it was because of my non-binary sexual identity.  I said that yes, I presented male to the world, but privately I identified as female and always have.  Though it may seem weird to be talking about this to a police officer, on the phone the dispatcher asked me what pronouns I preferred, and I said it was OK to use he/him.  The officer who waited with me clearly identified as male, but he did not come across as a bro.  Myself, I was lightly bearded, wearing my leather jacket, jeans, and rough skater sneakers; though I looked kind of rough, he treated me with sensitivity and kindness.

Pre-transition I sometimes came across as quite fearsome and intimidating, but he could see I was unguarded and frightened.  I can take care of myself most nights, but on this night I was terrified of the thought of not having my apartment to come back to, and I didn't hesitate to tell him that.

Everything worked out as planned, and I entered my apartment safe and sound.  My nerves calmed, my keys found and back where they should be, I wanted nothing more than to eat supper, take my evening meds and fall asleep. My conversation with the police officer still in my head, I unexpectedly relived the narrative of my life before my sleeping pill took effect.  There was one terrible, frightening memory I almost always relive before I fall asleep.  I will begin reliving it again when I go further into my story.

My transition began that night.  Being 41, unable to work and finally able to talk about gender identity with a kind human being, I devoted my energy to sorting out what I really felt.  One conclusion kept arriving to greet me: I am a girl.

Childish was how I felt.  The language and culture to express trans identity was so new to me I felt like a child again, and my life could begin with no painful denial and repression; no harmful double life.  The joy I felt was undeniable, and I couldn’t stop smiling for days as I existed without shackles for the first time.

There are stories about my transition, both good and bad, but they are not what this blog entry is about.  I want to go back to what I said earlier, about there being one memory I cannot help but relive most nights.  I want to go back to my childhood to place this memory in context.  That's going to be the subject of my next entry.