MayaZ

Thanks, Stephani & Kate. I have to give credit to Jonathan Swift (A Modest Proposal) and Tyler Oakley (Why Gay Marriage is Wrong) for being major sources of inspiration. I work well in satire, though I find it the least effectual form of writing. The people who understand that it's satire are the people who stand to gain the least from it and the people who don't understand it are the people who would stand to gain the most from understanding it. C'est la vie.

Hurray! I finally finished the album I've been working on for the past two years. It's still not going to be officially released until 7/19/11 because I have to pay for the UPC and digital distribution, but I wanted to let everyone here get an advance listen. After all, this is going to be my most public exposure so far as Maya, it was written as a way of coping with my frustration over living as a man, and I probably wouldn't have been around still to finish this if it wasn't for the support I've found, primarily here! Anyway, it's meant to be quite soothing, so if you're in a crappy mood, it might just make you feel better. You can listen at: http://michzimmerman.bandcamp.com/ It's $10 to download the whole album (free for the bonus tracks), but if anyone here would like to download it and can't afford to, I can send a message with a code good for one free download. :)

As you are no doubt aware, being transgender is a choice that some people make. Everyone has different reasons for making this choice and here are mine: 1. By the standards of men’s heights, I’m only considered somewhat tall. By women’s standards, however, I’m quite tall. 2. I so much prefer to use my hands and mouth for sex over my penis that I would like to remove the option entirely. 3. Attention; I could think of literally no other way to get attention from people. 4. Growing up secretly straight in a homosexual culture, I am willing to change my gender so that my attraction to women will meet society’s standards. 5. I can get a discount on drinks at bars I would never go to. 6. Despite being married, I so wholeheartedly despise the institution that I would like for it to be illegal for me. 7. I’m not attracted to men, but I would like for them to stare at me and yell lewd comments. 8. I would prefer to use one type of generally disgusting public restroom over the other type of generally disgusting public restroom. 9. A legacy; Everyone knows that the accomplishments of intelligent men are historically overshadowed by the accomplishments of their female peers. 10. I might make less money for doing the same work, which would be a great incentive to work harder. So, for these reasons, I am willing to alienate those close to me, face potential divorce, take hormones which could have an adverse effect on my body, and spend about $50,000 on the cost of transition. Yeah, clearly this was a choice in which I weighed the costs against the benefits and sided with the more beneficial option.

For the last week and a half, I was imprisoned; not only imprisoned in my own body, but my body itself imprisoned in a mental health facility (or for the rather upbeat group of would-be suiciders I was rooming with, the loony bin). Despite transgender protection laws being on the books in Illinois and my being in a state-run facility and their being aware that I identify as female, I was placed in the male rooms with access to the male restroom and shower. Sure, that's lame and uncomfortable for me, but really beside the point of what I want to consider. I want to focus on the things really affecting my life rather than petty discrimination in a under-funded state facility. I was hospitalized because I could not fathom getting through the public mental health care system for the necessary amount of time before seeing a psychiatrist (between 2 weeks and 6 months; never mind how long for medication) with these nagging thoughts of suicide, taking the electric rail to and from work every day. Now, let's take a quick step back from there. My therapy had been going rather well and I had some positive discussions with my wife. We came to an agreement that seemed fair. I would hold off on transitioning until our son was in school, so that we could both work to support him and live independently, with the likelihood being that we would be getting divorced. As I said, it seemed fair, but actually dealing with that, knowing that I had to spend the next two years or so in the closet, to be remedied at the same time as I lose my family, was paralyzing. So, I sought help; and then... Since hospitalization causes a bit of a commotion, I ended up being outed to my parents, who would not relent in their interrogation of my wife, and came out to my boss during our discussion of my future with the company and potential raise to salary. Though I was certain my parents would disown me (their former prejudice is what kept me silent so long), they are completely supportive, saying they do not understand, but want to make sure that I and my son are safe and happy. Meanwhile, my boss is understanding and we will be discussing how this information should be handled among the staff. In particular, though my plans for transition may be distant, my wife has conceded that it is only fair for me to release my new album as Maya, that it is a positive outlet for me to express my femininity for now. So, I will be bringing it to someone at my work for radio play as soon as it's released (I'll be spamming the forums about it too, I'm sure). So, am I free? It's hard to say that I'm not since I've been freed in so many ways, but that feeling of being trapped still lingers and probably will for some time to come.

I started writing this today and don't really know where I can save it, so I'm just going to keep it on here... Maybe I'll get back to it later (I think I know where it's going after this, despite the concept itself being something of a mindfuck to write), but I'm at work right now, so I really need to not start writing a novel... As Michael sat down to begin working on his new novel, intended as a way of dealing with his gender issues, he hit a brick wall. “Wow. One sentence in and already stuck. Fuck.” The brick wall is the boundary between thought processes and experiences and Michael had naively thought he could stroll right through it. To some extent, it made sense that a man who grew up in a female body would be able to write about the opposite scenario, if only because the experience of growing up in a male body holds so much appeal. It is a fantasy for the author, which should make it prime material for a novel. “Precisely. This is how writers deal with the things they can’t change in reality. So, why can’t I do this?” Michael couldn’t do it for several reasons, only partially owing to his largest initial concern, that he would not be able to think like a woman, despite being perceived as one all his life. The factor that was actually weighing most heavily, however, was the detail of this alter-ego’s life. If he were the Maya who grew up as Michael, what changes would have occurred in his life? Who would his friends have been, what would he have done, and what kind of relationships would he have had? Of course, the solution was somewhat in the very concept of the novel itself. You see, while Michael attempted to write the story of Maya, Maya was in turn trying to write the story of Michael. Hence, as the writer of Michael's story, Maya was free to provide the real details of her own life at will, as long as she didn't mind breaking the fourth wall. "I don't mind breaking the fourth wall, dear Michael, but the story I'm trying to write is about you. I don't think it will help me fill in any details about your activities to list my own." "On the contrary, I think it's the only way to get the ball rolling. Why don't you tell me about what it's like to be you and then, in return, I'll tell you about what it's like to be me and we'll each be on our way." "And you don't think this is just going to get too convoluted and head nowhere?"

Thanks, Bonnie! While there is no time limit, I do get worried about a thing I read in a study on child development which said that children are least emotionally hurt by a parent's transition when they are younger children or when they are in their 20's. Since my son is 4 right now, I worry that if I don't manage to get started on my transition within the next couple of years, I'll feel obliged to wait an additional 15 - 20 years. I know that others have done exactly that, but it's terrifying to me, with all that time laying ahead. On a positive note, to update on the situation in the entry, I met with a substance abuse counselor at Howard Brown who would like to meet with me once a week FOR FREE! She said it's not going to be limited to discussions about substance abuse, but that that program will be good for helping me work on coping.

I've been taking baby-steps. It's only fair, really. I'm on unfamiliar terrain composed of material I've never even encountered before. It's as different as concrete and the womb, so yes, I'm taking baby-steps. I've fallen and cried and cried for fear that nobody would pick me up and that I would not be able to pick myself up, but I've survived so far somehow, which gives me the courage to take another step. Today, I completed the screening process for therapy at Howard Brown. They said it would be $20 a week, which is much more than I can afford, but I'm going to find a way. They suggested I speak with a therapist who deals not only with gender issues, but also substance abuse, and I felt a little lighter still. There may yet be hope. Thanks again to everyone here at TGGuide for supporting me through these rough times. Maybe I'll be able to walk side by side with you soon. Even if it takes years, I'll be proud to do so and I'll never forget how I got walking in the first place.

In high school, I made a lot of curried rice. I got the recipe from my mom's Betty Crocker cookbook. The most important aspect of it was the onion, chopped finely and caramelized with butter and curry powder. I just loved chopping those onions finely. It didn't make me cry. I was totally zoned in on the chopping. I had to get it really fine, barely noticeable that onions were in there. Then, it would be good enough to share with friends. Of course, tearing up all those onions was nice. I didn't have to think about mine. It just sat in the corner with a particularly nasty spot facing the wall. You could vaguely see the spot from the very surface and it kept getting clearer as I peeled on that side. I tried to focus on the other side, but eventually it would get all lopsided and the onion would roll onto its side, with the spot sticking right up on top. I'd level it off a little by peeling off some layers. Before putting it back with the spot to the wall, I'd look at it for a second. Is that... Jesus? No... What is that...? I thought the answer. I almost said it out loud, but instead I turned the spot to the wall and started peeling the other side again. This continued for years, until I started making curried rice. Then, as fast as I had started making it, I lost interest in making curried rice. It was only one dish and surely I could find another way to pass time. Needless to say, I ended up peeling occasionally. I still wasn't fond of that spot, so it continued to face the wall. After years of activities seemingly designed to keep my mind off my onion, I found a woman willing to take part ownership of it, even after telling her about the spot on the other side. She never looked at that side, but we signed all the legal documents and I even dropped acid onto the front to etch her name down to the core. She helped me peel a little and even chopped other onions for me, when it seemed I was afraid of my onion toppling over. Finally, after peeling for twenty-nine years, I saw another onion that had been peeled away almost to the core. It had markings just like mine! I grabbed my onion and compared. It had toppled just four months prior, so I had freshly peeled it. The mark was pretty clear now. Yes, it was almost inevitably the same mark. Not only did I see the mark now for what it was, I saw that it was nothing to be ashamed of. I wanted to walk down the street, tossing my onion from hand to hand, finally free to let the world see it. I showed two people in the kitchen the mark and they kind of wrinkled their brows and shrugged. They didn't really care too much about my onion or what kind of mark it had on it. When I turned around, the very woman whose name was inscribed on my onion gasped and fumed. She said that I was wrong. The mark was not what I thought it was. It did not go to the core. I peeled more layers off and the mark was only clearer. I said, "See? That's all there is to the other side of my onion. It's not so bad." She said, "If you don't put those layers back on and face that side to the wall again, I will slice that onion right in half and take my half somewhere else." So, I did as I was told and my onion faces the way it's always faced, but now I know what's on the other side and what's more, it's bound to come to the surface sometime. I just have to decide when to start peeling again.