The Fabric of Love

August 20, 2016

When we are born we are born into a fabric of life, of people's lives, into a multifaceted fabric, related through blood and love and sometimes lust and sometimes just happenstance. Sometimes our birth is celebrated, wanted, desired above all else; others are tolerated, others a burden, and some detested. Regardless of how we got here, here we are, launched into the collective of our family. If we are lucky we resonate with those around us and they like us and enjoy us and even plan summer vacations to spend time together. Others are shunned or worse forgotten and wonder what those nostalgic family movies and 4th of July ad campaigns are about.

Nevertheless, our collective, our people, are like quilt squares sewn together or knots in a giant macrame wall hanging. We are held together until there is a fire or a wielded knife or the strain of keeping everything together takes its toll and there is a hole and then a great unraveling. When this unraveling occurs many questions arise; like what was it that kept us together in the first place? Was it love? Obligation? or just happenstance? or simply something in between?

There is a popular song on the radio these days and the words are, "I love you. I hate you. I hate that I love you." The question in my mind is is love a constant and hate visits without a real place to land, or are they both more like hot and cold water faucets, each with their own handles, L and H.; easy to turn on and off at a moment's notice.

If you have read my previous blogs you might recall that I am in a standoff with my 30 year old daughter. I transitioned from female to male and even though it took a few years, she somehow got to the point of just saying "No thank you" to me and has turned her sights on other women in our family to replace me.

She and my mother are closer than ever and it really hurts. I can't bear the loss of my daughter and I also can't bear my mother's acceptance of my daughter's rejection of me. I know it is silly and that I cannot orchestrate who likes who but it is a daily source of deep pain.

One of the oddest outcomes of my transition is having a fresh set of eyes within my own skin. I am still me but I am also very different. I see how I clung to a juvenile version of me for many years, not fully maturing into a woman; I just couldn't make the leap, it wasn't me. But I also missed out on developing important parts of a mature adult and find myself now about thirty years behind my colleagues in terms of career, hobbies and a variety of ways that people enjoy their lives. This isn't anyone's fault but something I live with and ask myself daily: what do I want?

Unfortunately for me, the major driving force in my pursuit of happiness has been being a parent. The rejection by my daughter and the loss of my grandchildren leaves me hollow, like a sailboat without any wind, waiting and hoping for a gust of love to bring me to shore.

I wonder how many times I will write about this pain. Have you ever burned a part of your body? I have. I burned my hand by accidentally picking up a burner grate that was still hot after cooking. It throbbed  like hell and I kept my hand in a bag of ice that I had to replenish multiple times through the night. At some point it just stopped hurting. I just haven't gotten to that point yet.

Death Becomes Her

August 13, 2016  

I have been thinking a lot about death and dying. My daughter and her husband see me as having died and are still grieving, I think, which leaves us in this odd situation. I want to be their parent and grandparent to my grandkids, but right now I don't exist anymore. They haven't told me why they cut me off, just that they want nothing to do with me at all.

When I look back at my life of 52 years, I can finally make sense of all the disjointed experiences I had: looking like a boy, being mistaken as a boy, excelling in traditional male activities, not quite fitting in, lacking in development of Self. As a woman, these experiences were confusing and shame producing, filled with starts and stops and loss of momentum. As a man, they line up and make a perfect pathway, like a racetrack, engines revved with intensity and verve.

Remember the old Christmas tree lights? If one bulb blew out the entire string would not work. My (life) string was filled with light bulbs that did not fire. Now I can look back over my whole life, a long string of light bulbs, and see the burned out bulbs come back to life! Illumination, at last!! It makes me feel whole and in alignment with myself.

This kind of experience is what life is for: to be fully alive. I cannot help what turned out to be true for me. But it brings up some interesting ideas for me. Like what does it mean to be a mother? When are mothering duties over? Does my role in my family depend on my genitals or whether I go through menopause? What constitutes abandonment? Why aren't the love, time and care I invested in my children and family built up like a bank account; rich and steadfast, able to handle this change, yet still together?

Last Saturday was my daughter's 30th birthday. I checked her Facebook page to see if she was having a party and was going to send her a happy birthday message. Instead I saw a Mother's Day montage of pictures of women in her life with the caption: "Thank you to the women who raised me and taught me such wonderful morals and values," etc. Who was in the montage? Two grandmothers, her dad's wife and her honorary Godmother. But not her mother. Me. I had a 22 hour delivery. I breastfed her. I stayed home to raise her. I coached her soccer team when she was 5 (The Cheetahs, with team cheer "Go Cheetahs, fast as lightning, goooooooooo Cheetahs!!!), I made her a layered ice cream cake with a layer for every year until she was 12 and the cake just fell over, I stood by her through thick and thin. And in my time of needing her, where are those morals and values she described? I transitioned into manhood when she was 23 years old; plenty of time to know who her mother was and is. She certainly she didn't get this particular set of morals and values from me after all. The ladies of the montage; a big part of my family and friends who I drew into my daughter's life to strengthen us and one another, including me.

And in my lowest moment I realized that that person who is so easily discarded did in fact die and the whole lot of them can go fuck themselves. We do not share the same values at all. Sometimes people change and when they do new decisions have to be made. They do not like the person I have become; when in fact they do not know me. They think that I am less when in fact I am the same and more. But the point is they do not want to know me, just as they really did not know me before. It's not their fault that I could not fully share who I was; it is their fault that they choose not to experience the full human being I am now.

The woman I was is gone. She is glad of it because her life was filled with an intense underlying sense of discomfort and prolonged, relentless anxiety and depression. If the people in my life prefer me to live in constant pain so they can feel good, there is something wrong with them and not me!

So to my former self, I bid you a fond farewell. You were a brave woman who not only endured your own pain, but willingly soaked up the pain of others to help them on their journey. You are at peace now and free from wrongful burdens. Death becomes you! I love you and am proud to have shared my life with you! You were an awesome mother and now father. Your birth child may not understand but your adopted kids love you and get you, so go forth and prosper, and let what is dead go.

Once a mother, always a mother

August 7, 2016

Dear Friends,
I stopped writing my blog almost a year and a half ago. I did this because I found out that my mother and kids were reading it and talking about it. I don't know why I thought they would not see it. The point isn't that they read it; I was glad they did. What did stop me was that I was getting to the point where I was no longer talking about the past but the present and I realized that by continuing, I would or could be bringing them into the public eye and felt it was my responsibility to protect them.

In the meantime, I have come to realize that my family has NOT been unable to make my transition with me. They see me as two different people and are not able to apply their set of female memories to the man I am today.

My wife says she is able to combine them. That I am still the same person in my heart and values. I agree with her.

They have found substitutes for me (and my wife), but we have been waiting for them to love us, to reach out, to invite us to their celebrations, etc. But the chasm of ice just continues to expand leaving me, especially, hungry for their love.

It's an odd math equation. I was a woman, I gave birth, I had lady parts. Now I am a man with male parts. Does transformation  erase life? I don't think so, at least not for me.


I cannot describe the pain I am feeling except that it is the lowest of lows and deepest of heartaches.

I gave birth and raised a daughter. I am a man that has let go of many female qualities except when talking about my daughter. Then there is still an anguished mama bear desperate for her baby; even though her baby turned 30 yesterday.

Some things cannot be undone. Once a mother, always a mother.

The view from the top

March 15, 2015

I am now four months post-op from my phalloplasty surgery. I have had a rough recovery. I am still quite exhausted and am dealing with urinary issues that I never had before. My body feels like it has been through a war. And it has.

Before I say anything else, I want to be clear that this blog is purely my own experience and does not in anyway represent trans people in general. It is my life and I happen to be transgender. This blog is an attempt on my part to make sense of all the experiences I have had and to share them because for some reason sharing them makes me happy.

I loathed being a woman. When my mother promised me a new wardrobe when I started my period, I shuddered. When my breasts started to develop I refused to acknowledge them and wore baggy shirts. The estrogen/progesterone cycle caused my first real experience with depression and I got used to it over the thirty (thirty!!!!) years between 15 and 45 from when I hit puberty to when I took my first shot of testosterone.

My self-loathing became part of my identity and my inner turmoil became a magnet for external drama and trauma. I managed to find lots of needy people in more turmoil than me and I helped them. This made me feel better about my own conflicts.

I realize looking back that I had no way of communicating what I was feeling because I did not know that others did not feel the same way. That is the problem with one's internal state of being; it is impossible to truly know what someone else is experiencing.  The things that felt natural to me like playing with GI Joes, wearing swimming trunks, playing with boys in the neighborhood, wearing boys pajamas, refusing to wear dresses, being mistaken for a boy, being called a boy's name, were fine when I was young. As I began to approach puberty, the tomboy status was not as welcomed and I had trouble finding my way. My mother was always accepting of me but this was bigger. My friends were each turning into something that I was not: a woman, and they were excited by and eager for the changes.

I remember when my daughter H started to develop breasts. I looked at her and said, "oh my gosh you are getting little boobies!" She said proudly, "Yes, I know! This one is Billy and this one is Suzy!" and then she laughed. I remember thinking, "Wow, she is a healthy girl. So this is how you are supposed to feel about getting breasts." I was truly happy for her.

And now I finally feel that way in my own skin. The body matches up with the mind and there is peace. Finally. Except that the man that I am is kind and easy going and the woman that I was was fraught with turmoil. I feel to a certain extent that I inherited someone else's life. I have a job that deals with trauma. I have a young child in my home who has intense emotional, mental and physiological issues from fetal alcohol exposure, genetics and trauma in her early life. I am lacking in stamina.

Becoming and being a man is an entirely different experience. When I started my transition I really thought I would remain the same person but with hair and muscles. I was wrong. I have fundamentally shifted in my thinking, my perceptions, my drive. I recently left the church that I was deeply committed to and find myself spiritually adrift.

My wife is taking a college class on Human Relations. One of her assignments is to describe what happiness is for her. She asked me. I said "Hell if I know."

I feel like I climbed a great mountain, with phalloplasty being the last summit. When I arrived at the top and looked out over the horizon, I saw great beauty but also great devastation. Now that I am complete, I have the task of cleaning up all the turmoil-based decisions I made. What I thought was going to be a cold beer with the guru at the mountain top, is actually a date with the janitor.

Pray for me. I need all the help I can get.

Before the Phoenix Rises

February 22, 2015

I missed a week of publishing. It was my youngest daughter's 11th birthday last Saturday (when I usually write my blog) and I was busy playing balloon-popping games with a gaggle of pre-teen girls. My daughter was so happy being surrounded by a group of girls; something that never appealed to me as a child. I frequently felt out of place.

When I was ten, I was invited to a birthday party sleep over. I was an only child and so I really did not know if my life and my experiences were that much different than other children. The party was for Michelle and about fifteen girls were there to spend the night, eat popcorn and play games including an immature version of Truth or Dare. I packed my Snoopy, my favorite pajamas, my slippers, and put on my favorite outfit for the party.

When I arrived I was the only girl wearing pants. I had on a light blue Hang Ten t-shirt and some bluejeans. I never went anywhere without my Adidas Superstars. The other girls were wearing party dresses with lace and frills. But I was used to that and didn't really care about what anyone was wearing. The shocker came when we got into our night clothes. Every other girl had on some kind of Baby doll nightgown with pom-poms, or ribbons of some sort. I brought my tan flannel pjs with green and brown trucks on them. I walked into the playroom and a hush fell over the group. "Nice slippers," Leslie smirked, "I think my brother has the same ones." I looked down at my dark brown corduroy slippers and quickly scanned the room for what the other girls were sporting on their feet. Pink and fluffy sums it up.

"Oooh! And MY brother has those same pajamas," Olivia quipped. A buzz went around the room. The girls surrounded me, looking at me, inching closer and closer. My heart raced. I didn't know what was going to happen. I started to feel very uneasy. Kelly came right up into my face and asked me, "What kind of girl are you?"

A tear began to well up in my eyes. "Umm, I don't know," I stated softly.

Michelle came sprinting into the room with a dangerous and triumphant look in her eyes. "I know what kind of girl she is, she's one of these... she's a lesbian!"Michelle had a magazine rolled up in her hands and with that tossed it across the room to Leslie who opened it while the room fell to a hush. It was a tabloid magazine. On the cover was a picture of a very masculine woman who was quoted as saying, "You can't call it rape, we were both women." Leslie proceeded to read the cover story which included details about a round bed, a meeting at a bar, and sex against the feminine woman's will.

The girls shrieked with laughter and made lewd comments. I felt dirty and ashamed. It was the first time I heard either of the words "lesbian" or "rape". I was upset by both.  I developed a stomach ache and left the party. I was never invited to another all-girl birthday sleep over again.

Years later when I came out as a lesbian I had to deal with that awful misrepresentation of lesbians that I had lodged in my child mind. That story haunted me for years.

********

My mother told me this week that she read my blog. "You did?" I asked. My mother does not go on the internet. It turns out my son-in-law suggested it to her. My first thought was, "I hope I didn't say anything bad about her!" Then I felt kind of weird knowing my family is reading this, but also glad.

My 28 year old daughter gave birth to her second child two weeks ago. I am thrilled for her because she and I both were only children and in my mind she broke our curse. I was also hit by a terrible depression. For the record, I am glad to have transitioned. My journey is not easy. I am plagued by residual pain and am really, really exhausted, but nevertheless, my transition into manhood was necessary for me to stay alive and thrive as a human being.

However, the birth of my grandson marked a moment for me where I had to grieve giving up being a mommy and a grandmother. I gave birth to one of the most wonderful women on the planet and in my pursuit of being true-to-myself, I had to alter the most primary and instinctual relationship I have ever had: the relationship of mother and child.

I love being a father, but I am not her father. HR, my darling, I feel such great sorrow for the loss of that part of our relationship. I hope you can forgive me for what I needed to do.

In Greek Mythology, the Phoenix is a bird that is regenerated or reborn. It obtains new life by arising from the ashes of its predecessor. Even though I have been in transition for six years, I do not yet feel like I have risen as the Phoenix does. I feel that I am still in the mix of the ashes and the breaking down of who I was, the metamorphic processes of alchemy; the regeneration of soul and purpose; the enduring of post operative pain and narcotics; the realities of facial hair and the limitations of a man-made phallus. I am more like a caterpillar still entering the cocoon; on the outside a functioning man and father; on the inside searching for my new psychological strongholds and ways of expressing myself that both honor my past and breathe life into the man I am meant to be.

In Love and Service,
Nick

Repentance of Sin

Dear Friends,
Last week I was preparing to see my surgeon, Dr. Crane, to discuss my challenges with the salami, from here forward known as "Sal." I was having unusual swelling and quite frankly, it was making me depressed. It's like getting a Christmas present that requires 50 batteries, and I never got the batteries. Dr. Crane said as much.

He said, "You are at the three month mark where you want to get back to your life and be done with this process. It takes about a year for everything to work properly, sometimes longer."

Let's be clear. This is what I have done:

• June 2008: Breast reduction from DD to A size breasts, pre-official transition
• May 2009: began official transition, shaved my head to have male-pattern baldness, lived as a man even though I still had a high voice, a female chest, and an enormous lady-ass
• May 2012: Hysterectomy and Oophectomy
• November 2012: Chest surgery; double mastectomy
• October 2014: Chest scar revision
• November 2014: Vaginectomy, urethral lengthening, making of phallus (November 10th is Sal's birthday, awwwww) and scrotum from thigh donor site, skin graft from other thigh
• Weekly injection of testosterone since July 2009

What the fuck????? Who is crazy enough to go through all of this?
On the horizon I have yet to get my testicular implants and my erectile device, most likely in December 2015.

Two great things happened at Dr. Crane's office. He said that I could fold Sal and wear him sideways or up and that it would not cause any damage. This was of GREAT relief to me, because it was extremely embarrassing wearing Sal in the dangle position. Also, in the dangle position, he acted like a sponge, collecting fluid and increasing in weight throughout the day. Dr. Crane dilated my urethra to make sure I had enough flow for urination.

The other thing that happened is that the BBC was there making a documentary on trans people and I got interviewed. Sal might be featured on the billboards in the UK! Oh my gosh, I have tears welling up in my eyes!

On the down side, I am still struggling with getting off of my narcotics. I wake up with dread every morning which is very unusual for me. Recovering from these surgeries has left me feeling quite exhausted and vulnerable. In fact I feel more vulnerable now than I ever have which is an odd experience. The more complete I become, I am more aware of my feelings. I wish I was in a bravado mood, but I am not.

A few years ago I participated in a Lenten series discussion and was asked to present on Repentance of Sin. I didn't ask for the topic it was a card I drew. I thought "Oh, great. Why me?" But it turned out that in my heart I saw the connection between changing the course of my life from female to male as the turning at the core of repentance. I was living in sin by being a woman. Moving into integrity is my journey to becoming fully male; in thought, word and deed; in my physicality and in my soul.

My transition is my sacred journey. It is what calls me and connects me to the divine. It is my connection to God. In order for me to stay sane I have to stay in touch with each step and treasure it and be grateful for each experience.

Thank you for sharing this journey with me.

In Love and Service,
Nick

What to wear with a giant salami in your pants?

February 1, 2015

I am going to see my surgeon tomorrow to get advice on dealing with the salami. You may not realize that phalloplasty, or penis construction, does not give a man erectile tissue. Since most men do not walk around with an erection all the time, and would be embarrassed if they did, this issue is a big one.

When transmen decide to go through the surgery, we have to decide how we want our new man-toy to be in terms of length and girth. Wow, what a great option! Except that the thing never retracts; it is the same length whether happy or sad, asleep or in use. The pump I mentioned on my last blog only makes it rigid, not longer.

The combination of the dense fat on my leg (in spite of being 15% body fat at time of surgery) and the creation of a urethra (so I can pee through my phallus) has left me with a very large salami that does not retract. It is very hard to hide.

I tried bending it at the base and wearing it "up" as opposed to "left" or "right"but that only caused me intense pain like when your foot falls asleep.

When I was a child, I had a very personal relationship with Jesus. This is odd because my family was not religious. My father was Jewish and changed his name so that no one would know he was Jewish. That might seem odd today, but his grandmother and grandfather fled the Czar in Russia and eloped to the United States. She kept a kosher kitchen but her children avoided religion.

Nevertheless, I had visions of Jesus frequently and on the rare occasions that I did go to church, I wished to wear the robes of the priest and to stand at the altar delivering the gifts of God to the masses. Now, more than ever it would be so helpful to wear a robe for my work uniform! I honestly never thought I would regret giving up the option to wear a dress.

I wanted to pursue being a priest but as a woman I felt a huge disconnect. I simply could not be Mother, I HAD to be Father; Father Nick.

Now I still long for the priestly robes and to prepare a sacred altar. I recently decided to get ordained from a non-denominational-easy-ordination church so I could legally perform weddings and ceremonies for friends. I have to say that I am really surprised at how happy it makes me to have this piece of paper. It has stirred something up for me and I am now looking for ways to share some of my spiritual experiences, including this blog.

I hope I have something great to report from my visit with the surgeon tomorrow.

In Love and Service,
Nick