Thick Skull

Every person had parent(s) with certain phrases they used a lot.  They seem so serious when you hear them as a child, but when you're older sound pretty ridiculous.

One I heard enough was some variation on "Thick skull."

"Can't you get that through your thick skull?"  "When will you get it through your thick skull?"  That sort of thing.

Now, like all kids there were times I was quite stubborn, or just wouldn't listen.  And, of course, there were times I wouldn't behave.

And the Truth is- I DO have a Thick Skull.

Thick.

I am stubborn.  I always have been, and, while in some ways it has hurt me, for the most part it has served me well.  If I weren't so stubborn I would've been dead long ago.  If I weren't so persistent, I wouldn't have graduated college, never mind getting a masters degree (what little good that's done me.)

Being stubborn is something I looked for in women when I was dating.  And Wife is stubborn.  She doesn't compromise her beliefs.  And Daughter has inherited that stubborn streak from us both, which I'm sure will not be fun when she's a teen.

But, as noted above, being Thick-skulled has a downside.

I transitioned when I was 47 years old.  That was 47 years of absolutely HATING myself.  Being disgusted by who and what I saw in the mirror.  Taking to heart every negative thing and every rejection I heard and had in my life.  Raging against my own existence, and trying to drink away the Pain.

I hated the fact that I was even born.  Still do in fact.

It's been several weeks of unplanned life.  And I still get messages, private and public, of support.

I've always ignored them before as well meaning, but misguided.  After all, I knew what they did not- that my soul was a rotted, blackened shell.  That any praise was just the person being polite.  It never occurred to me to take any of it seriously.  After all, this was ME they were talking about, and I have never ever been praise-worthy.

A random thought- in British slang "thick" also means "stupid," as in brain dead, numpty, dolt, dillon, dummy, pranny.   And as many of you know, my Mum is a Scot.

The past few weeks, I have been genuinely trying to grasp what my Life truly means.

I've tried to let myself let go a bit and actually Enjoy life.  Life as it is now.  This has involved taking a Hard Look at myself.  Who am I?  What am I?  Is this all that I am?  Is there nothing more?  (Sorry- got all V'ger there for a second.)


I see myself- and I see many of the Dreams of my youth have come to pass.  I look in the mirror and see, aside from one major detail, a Woman.  My breasts are the size I always dreamed they would be- what I wanted. (Yes, I know how I lucky I am with that.)  My looks are feminine enough.  Could be better.  My hair is long.

And here's the Rub:  as I wrote above, all I've gained, all of who I am: making it through college, getting a masters, transition, even simply surviving- is ALL because I'm too damn stubborn.

But, and here's my point (finally): sometimes I'm too stubborn- too thick-skulled for my own good.  All of those wonderful things people have said; all of the notes and messages...  just bounced off.

I didn't let them in.

Until now.

I'm actually listening.  I'm beginning to think that MAYBE, just MAYBE, those people, those incredible friends who cared enough about me to write/call...  may have a point.

Maybe I'm not just a disgusting blob of fat; unfit to live.  Maybe my words DO make a difference.

Maybe there is Hope.

From Death of Captain Marvel by Jim Starlin (1982)

As the Norwegians sang:  "Slowly learning that life is ok."


Be well.

Squish Squish

This morning, October 17, 2016, I awoke early. I had an appointment, which I'd made a month before.

It was time for another "rite of passage."  My First Mammogram.

A mammogram is an x-ray of the breasts, which is used to detect cancer among other spatial anomalies.  *activates static warp shell*  Women of a "certain age" are supposed to get these done once a year.  But I never have, despite having been "a certain age" since before rediscovering myself.  And also despite having cancer coming at me from both sides of the family... including breast cancer.

"Officer, are these the breasts of a fifty year old woman?"

But, to put it bluntly, I always wanted these breasts, and now I have them, and I don't want to lose them!  So, off to the doctor I went.

My appointment was for 9:45, but I was told to arrive at 9:15.  And so I walked into Phoenixville Hospital at precisely 9:15.  There was a sign on the reception desk saying I need ID, insurance card, prescription... SH*T!  

So back into the car, back to the apartment, grabbed the prescription, drove back, and walked in around 9:30.

"This prescription is old."  "Your name changed?  That's not on the insurance..."

Oh wonderful.

After a few minutes of explanation, I was sent to see a second person in a small, dimly lit cubby.  This guy was quite nice, didn't care about the age of the prescription, sorted out the name issues, slapped a paper wristband on me, and led me to...  the Mammogram room!

I opened the door, went inside, and was greeted by a nice older woman who took my paperwork.  I was asked to sit on a couch.  There was a TV on- the Rachel Ray show.  Seriously.


After a minute or three, she walked briskly past me saying "something is wrong with your paperwork."

I asked "what's wrong?"

She showed me the paperwork, which had my old name, etc.  Under sex there was an "M."  I said "I'm transgender."

She looked at me.  Heartbeat.  Two.

"Oh.... Okayyyyy," she said.  Then she directed me into one of two changing rooms where I was to don an amazingly stylish front opening hospital gown, then enter... the Room.

Chicks in New York pay top dollar for this!

And that's what I did.  The machine was HUGE.  It was a 3-D mammogram machine, which she said was brand new.  She had some paperwork to be filled out.  First question:  when was your last menstrual period?  I put "N/A."  Am I pregnant?  No.  Sign here, initial here, here, and here.

The tech asked me one more time:  "Are you pregnant?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Very sure."

(Wait a second- was she insinuating that due to my fat tummy...?   Grrr!)

We started with the right breast.  Squish.  "Don't move- don't breathe!"  That took me by surprise, so I stood there without taking a deep breath, trying to hold what was left in my lungs.  Unsquish; machine rotates.   Squish.  Hold breath.   Unsquish.  Machine rotates back.  Left breast.  Squish.  Hold breath.  Unsquish.  Rotate.  Squish.  Hold breath.  Unsquish.  Done.

That's it?  That's all?

Results in a few days.

Back into the changing room.  Remove toga; put bra back on.  Put on top.  Out the door.

That simple.  Seriously.

According to the American Cancer Society, over 246,000 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer this year, and over 40,000 women will die from it.  You've seen these numbers already.  You've seen the pink ribbons.

As I said above, those of us who have transitioned have waited our whole lives for these boobs.  Why risk them due to fear or laziness?

In any case, it was easy, it didn't hurt (me- but I've heard the tales from others), and it's covered by insurance.  And, leaving the hospital, I felt so... feminine!  I am a Woman- and women need mammograms.

My boobs are only three years old.  They're real... and they're spectacular.  And I want to keep them.

So I got them checked.

Be well!

Inspirations: Kimberly Huddle

I have, in the past, written about people who have inspired me.  I have, for example, written about Donna Rose, Professor Jennifer Finney Boylan, Sandy Empanada, and my bestie Linda Lewis.

I think I should write about more of my inspirations.  And I will.  These are in no particular order, and I'm sure some (like my "Big Sister" Mel) won't want to be featured.  Fair enough.  But when considering who I'd want to write about that I haven't written about yet, well there could be only one first choice.

Because, in her words, "there are no gooder choices."

Before my reawakening on Halloween 2008, I was looking at TG related websites, like Fictionmania.  Other websites I encountered were Linda Lewis' pages, the Vanity Club page, and many pages that no longer exist.




One of the ones I found on Myspace was the travels of Kimberly from Texas:  better known as Kimberly Huddle.

I finally met Kimberly in February of 2009.  I came directly from work, so I was in drab.  She was more Beautiful in person than in her pictures.  And so genuine!  She made me feel at ease and we spoke about our lives.

Kimberly, the Night I met her

That led to a wonderful friendship.  I've seen her several more times on her visits to this area.  (On one of the trips she alleges that I tried to kill her.  It's not my fault Texans can't hold their alcohol!)  ;)

At Tavern on Camac in Philly

Kimberly has been there when I needed her, answering questions and providing encouragement.  She knows when to be stern as well, and when to say I'm full of sh*t.

You see, she thinks she's not that smart, having never been to college, etc.  She couldn't be more wrong.  Anyone who worked on Pershing missiles has MAJOR SMARTS!  And more importantly, she is extremely Wise.

And it's Wisdom from the Pain.

Another Visit: makeup by Amanda Richards

Kimberly is a Beacon to so many!  Her blog, her stories, and who she is, are a true Inspiration to so many who simply can't do what she does, or be who she is.

And, as I've said many times before, Kimberly's blog inspired me to start mine.  Then her moving her blog here off of myspace encouraged me to do the same.  So, blame her for that.  ;)

Kimberly, you are truly AMAZING- a True pioneer and and a Truer Friend.

You are one of the Bestest friends a girl could have, and I am so glad you are in my life!

Read Kimberly's Blog HERE  (or click on the big picture of her on the right side of the page.)

Jack Daniels please!

Legally Sophie

Many months ago, I started a Gofundme to raise the money I needed to change my name.  Thanks to the generosity of so many of you, the money was raised very quickly.

It wasn't an easy road.  I started the process in January.  There were delays and delays.  I grew incredibly frustrated.  I thought that this day would never come, and that I'd die under my male name.

Ready for Court.  I only have one suit.  Deal with it.

Well, the day came.  Monday, October 3, 2016 was a cloudy day.  I woke up early to get ready.  I decided to wear my suit, and took extra time on my makeup.  After all, I wanted to look good for court.

My appointed time was 9:30 AM, courtroom A, Chester County Courthouse, West Chester, PA.

And I was there on time.  Early in fact.  Good thing too, as they started early.  I was sitting in the court room with my attorney.  Man came in said, "All rise." We all stood up, and Obie stood up with the twenty-seven eight-by-ten color glossy pictures, and the judge walked in sat down with a seeing-eye dog, and he sat down, we sat down. Obie looked at the seeing-eye dog, and then at the twenty-seven eight-by-ten color glossy pictures with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one, and looked at the seeing-eye dog...

Oh sorry.  Was channeling Arlo Guthrie for a second there.

In any case, the Honorable Robert J. Shenkin entered, assisted by a fancy wooden cane.  He looked stern.  I remembered what happened to my friend Cecilia in Harrisburg, when a conservative judge forced a continuance on her name change because she is Trans.  I was very nervous.

The first case heard was a Protection from Abuse (PFA) case which stemmed from a divorce and custody action.  That took twenty minutes or so.  The judge then said that the court should sort out the name changes next, as the rest of the docket was PFAs, and name changes didn't take long.

My dead name was called, and I stood with my lawyer and came forward.  My lawyer stated the relative facts of the case and submitted all of the paperwork.  The judge asked me why I wanted to change my name.  I replied "The name I choose is more in keeping with my true gender."  He signed the order, handed it to the clerk and said "Approved."

And that was that.  9:50 AM.

In Front of the Courthouse

I do not disguise the fact that the name "Sophie Lynne" is and has always been my nom de femme and my nom de plume.  It's the name by which people know me.  I used to have a facialbook page with my "true name" but I eliminated it.  I don't want to discuss the reasons.

In any case, my legal name is Sophie.  My middle name is now Lisa.  That is in Tribute to my sorely missed sister Lisa Empanada.  So, in a way, as long as my name lives, so shall she.  A Tribute I will wear through my life and onward through eternity.

My attorney then bought me a coke, and we talked a bit.  Then I went back to the apartment, changed out of my suit, and went to work.  Just another day.

The next day, I went back to the courthouse to pick up certified copies of the order.  I saw my dear friend Adrien there.  She works there now.  We talked a bit, then I went to the Social Security office. I waited about an hour, but submitted the paperwork to change the name on my social security card.  Then I went to the DMV for a new driver's license.  That took maybe twenty minutes.

By then I was tired, and went back to the apartment.  Linda was taking a nap.  I did too.

I wasn't going to post about this.  At all.  Anywhere.  Why?  Because I hated it when I saw others do it.  It made me feel so useless that I couldn't get it done. I know it's not a race, but I couldn't help but feeling so damn jealous.

But I am posting it.  Why?  Because it made me Happy.  It didn't hit me yesterday.  But it did today, striding out of that courthouse, papers in hand, the wind in my skirt, heels clacking on the sidewalk.  I can't describe the mix of emotions I felt.  I guess because they were POSITIVE emotions, and I don't have much experience with those.  I felt confident.  Alive.  I couldn't stop smiling.

I sent a picture of the license to a few close friends.  One of them sent me a reply "... it all starts changing for the better here.  This is the turning point, and you made it!"

Maybe it is.  I hope so.  (There's that "Hope" word again.)

When I was at the DMV getting my camera card for the license, the clerk asked me to look over the card.  She asked "is that your correct name?"

I said "Yes.  Finally."


Be well.


(Want to see me read this?  Click HERE)

Satisfaction: a revision

The amazing Paul Laska, author of Four Years has issued another writing challenge.  500+ words.  One week.

I posted this one already, but I didn't like the ending.  So, here is a new version.

A person is sitting outside at a cafe.  Two men in matching khaki shorts and polo shirts approach him/her; one is holding a package and the other has his hands behind his back.  What happens next?  Noir style.

My response- I call it:  Satisfaction.

WARNING- this piece gets DARK and is for mature readers.

Pic:  http://miyanlevenson.com/news.html

*****************************

A dump like this shouldn't have an outdoor cafe, especially in this part of town.  Not that it’s much- a few rusty black painted tables with matching chairs, all chained to the wall.  This table has a big umbrella, but my skirt is still getting rained on.  Yet, here I am.  What does it say about me?  I’m a woman of a “certain age”- two divorces and a dead husband behind me.  

Dark foggy night, misting rain.  Miserable night.

And do you wanna know the kicker? 

I’m dying too. 

Goddamn second husband liked sleeping around all the time, caught some kind of infection and didn’t know it.  Gave it to me.  Sure, I divorced his ass years ago and married again.  My late husband, Lenny- he was a saint.  God rest his soul. 

But he’s gone now.

Left me lots of money.  So, I know I’m dying, and I just can’t help but think about all those men who I loved and trusted, but who betrayed me.

My first husband I met in college.  Paul was a real stud.  Football team, best fraternity on campus, rich parents.  A Man’s man.  It took a while to land him, but let’s just say I can be VERY persuasive.  At least I thought I was.  When he found out I couldn’t have kids, he told me he’d never stopped sleeping around.  “Man’s gotta keep his options open.  Too many gals; too little time!”  He divorced ME because he wanted kids.  His parents got him a fancy high priced lawyer.  I got nothing.

Second husband.  Oh, that one!  I should’ve known from the start when he said he was “Brad Big and Bad!”  And he WAS big!  Knew how to use it too.  Had the funniest birthmark there as well- like a clover.  But he slept around too.  It wasn’t like I wasn’t doing my part- God knows- but the guy was a godddamn machine!  When I found him in bed with my best friend, that’s when I divorced him.  Found out later he did some porn movies too. 

Then I met Lenny.  He was such a good man!  God rest his soul.

But he’s gone now.  Left me LOTS of money.

That’s when a friend of mine told me about his cousin.  No name- calls himself “Timber.”  Says that he “fixes things.”  No questions asked- cash up front.  Satisfaction guaranteed.  Set me up with a meeting.

So I tell Timber what I want.  He gives me a number- six figures.  I say half up front, all cash.  He agrees.  We set up a second meeting. And so, here I sit, on a miserable Tuesday night, nursing a warm beer, waiting in front of a gay "fetish" bar in the rain.

At exactly 11:30, I hear footsteps splashing through puddles; coming toward me.  I turn to my left, and see two men emerge from the misty night.  Both wear khaki shorts and black polo shirts. The one is my first husband, Paul.  He’s gained some weight and lost some hair.  His eyes are swollen and caked dried blood hangs from his broken nose.  His arms are zip tied behind him.  Around his neck is a leather collar attached to a leash.

The leash is held by a little man, maybe four feet tall with black hair, a Fu-Manchu moustache, and a big black Stetson cowboy hat.  Stuck under his belt is a pistol.  Glock, I think.  He smiles. Timber.  In Timber’s leather gloved right hand is the leash, and in the left is a cardboard box.  Something is dripping from the bottom.

“See?  Look at us!  We’s twins!  Right, studmuffin?”

Paul looks down at him and whines “Sir yes sir.”

“Good boy.  He’s really quite tame after you ride him around the corral a bit.”  Timber places the box on the table.  “Would madam care to examine what she’s purchased?”

I smile at him and open the box. 

Inside is a large severed penis with the clover birthmark.  I’d know it anywhere.  Next to it was what looks like… yes, that would be Brad’s tongue.  Just like I’d asked. 

I smile at Timber and reach into my purse.  I pull out a thick envelope full of bills- all hundreds.  I hand it to Timber, who smiles wider.

“Thank you again, madam!  So what do you want me to do with Studmuffin here?”

“Oh, I have plans for him.”  I turn towards the door of the bar.  “Hey Rocco!”

Out comes my friend, Rocco.  Rocco used to play pro-football, where he had to hide who he really was.  Now, he provides… entertainment… to closeted high rollers with particular desires.  Rocco is dressed in a leather vest and leather chaps and boots.  He smiles and looks down at Timber.

“Timber,” he says. 

“Cousin Rocco!” Timber says, and then laughs.  “Oh, you’re cruel, madam.  Delicious!  I like you!”

Rocco hands me an envelope.  Inside is a check to my favorite charity- AIDS research.  Five figures.  Just like we agreed.  I gesture to Timber to give the leash to Rocco.  Rocco pulls Paul close.

“Yes, yes, he’ll do nicely,” Rocco says. 

Paul realizes what’s happening and opens his mouth, just to grunt when Rocco punches him in the left kidney. 

“Ok Studmuffin, for you there IS no safety word.  You have lots of work to do!” Rocco growls.  He then jerks the leash, and pulls Paul inside the bar.  The door closes.

All I can hear is the soft rain.

Timber chuckles to himself as I stand up, my skirt soaked by the rain. I pick up the bloody box and look at it.  

A gunshot!  Two!

I fall to the wet pavement.  I can't breathe.  My blood pumps into the grime of the street.

Standing above me, Timber smiles, pistol in hand.

As the world goes dark, I hear his voice: "Sorry Madam, but Studmuffin pays pretty well too..."

Laska Challenge III: Satisfaction

The amazing Paul Laska, author of Four Years has issued another writing challenge.  500+ words.  One week.

This piece has 1003 words.

A person is sitting outside at a cafe.  Two men in matching khaki shorts and polo shirts approach him/her; one is holding a package and the other has his hands behind his back.  What happens next?  Noir style.

My response- I call it:  Satisfaction.

WARNING- this piece gets DARK and is for mature readers.

Pic:  http://miyanlevenson.com/news.html

*****************************

A dump like this shouldn't have an outdoor cafe, especially in this part of town.  Not that it’s much- a few rusty black painted tables with matching chairs, all chained to the wall.  This table has a big umbrella, but my skirt is still getting rained on.  Yet, here I am.  What does it say about me?  I’m a woman of a “certain age”- two divorces and a dead husband behind me.  

Dark foggy night, misting rain.  Miserable night.

And do you wanna know the kicker? 

I’m dying too. 

Goddamn second husband liked sleeping around all the time, caught some kind of infection and didn’t know it.  Gave it to me.  Sure, I divorced his ass years ago and married again.  My late husband, Lenny- he was a saint.  God rest his soul. 

But he’s gone now.

 

Left me lots of money.  So, I know I’m dying, and I just can’t help but think about all those men who I loved and trusted, but who betrayed me.

My first husband I met in college.  Paul was a real stud.  Football team, best fraternity on campus, rich parents.  A Man’s man.  It took a while to land him, but let’s just say I can be VERY persuasive.  At least I thought I was.  When he found out I couldn’t have kids, he told me he’d never stopped sleeping around.  “Man’s gotta keep his options open.  Too many gals; too little time!”  He divorced ME because he wanted kids.  His parents got him a fancy high priced lawyer.  I got nothing.

Second husband.  Oh, that one!  I should’ve known from the start when he said he was “Brad Big and Bad!”  And he WAS big!  Knew how to use it too.  Had the funniest birthmark there as well- like a clover.  But he slept around too.  It wasn’t like I wasn’t doing my part- God knows- but the guy was a godddamn machine!  When I found him in bed with my best friend, that’s when I divorced him.  Found out later he did some porn movies too. 

Then I met Lenny.  He was such a good man!  God rest his soul.

But he’s gone now.  Left me LOTS of money.

That’s when a friend of mine told me about his cousin.  No name- calls himself “Timber.”  Says that he “fixes things.”  No questions asked- cash up front.  Satisfaction guaranteed.  Set me up with a meeting.

So I tell Timber what I want.  He gives me a number- six figures.  I say half up front, all cash.  He agrees.  We set up a second meeting. And so, here I sit, on a miserable Tuesday night, nursing a warm beer, waiting in front of a gay "fetish" bar in the rain.

At exactly 11:30, I hear footsteps splashing through puddles; coming toward me.  I turn to my left, and see two men emerge from the misty night.  Both wear khaki shorts and black polo shirts. The one is my first husband, Paul.  He’s gained some weight and lost some hair.  His eyes are swollen and caked dried blood hangs from his broken nose.  His arms are zip tied behind him.  Around his neck is a leather collar attached to a leash.

The leash is held by a little man, maybe four feet tall with black hair, a Fu-Manchu moustache, and a big black Stetson cowboy hat.  Stuck under his belt is a pistol.  Glock, I think.  He smiles. Timber.  In Timber’s leather gloved right hand is the leash, and in the left is a cardboard box.  Something is dripping from the bottom.

“See?  Look at us!  We’s twins!  Right, studmuffin?”

Paul looks down at him and whines “Sir yes sir.”

“Good boy.  He’s really quite tame after you ride him around the corral a bit.”  Timber places the box on the table.  “Would madam care to examine what she’s purchased?”

I smile at him and open the box. 

Inside is a large severed penis with the clover birthmark.  I’d know it anywhere.  Next to it was what looks like… yes, that would be Brad’s tongue.  Just like I’d asked. 

I smile at Timber and reach into my purse.  I pull out a thick envelope full of bills- all hundreds.  I hand it to Timber, who smiles wider.

“Thank you again, madam!  So what do you want me to do with Studmuffin here?”

“Oh, I have plans for him.”  I turn towards the door of the bar.  “Hey Rocco!”

Out comes my friend, Rocco.  Rocco used to play pro-football, where he had to hide who he really was.  Now, he provides… entertainment… to closeted high rollers with particular desires.  Rocco is dressed in a leather vest and leather chaps and boots.  He smiles and looks down at Timber.

“Timber,” he says. 

“Cousin Rocco!” Timber says, and then laughs.  “Oh, you’re cruel, madam.  Delicious!  I like you!”

Rocco hands me an envelope.  Inside is a check to my favorite charity- AIDS research.  Five figures.  Just like we agreed.  I gesture to Timber to give the leash to Rocco.  Rocco pulls Paul close.

“Yes, yes, he’ll do nicely,” Rocco says. 

Paul realizes what’s happening and opens his mouth, just to grunt when Rocco punches him in the left kidney. 

“Ok Studmuffin, for you there IS no safety word.  You have lots of work to do!” Rocco growls.  He then jerks the leash, and pulls Paul inside the bar.  The door closes.

All I can hear is the soft rain.

Timber chuckles to himself as I stand up, my skirt soaked by the rain. I pick up the bloody box and look at it.  

“So, Madam, buy you a drink?  I know a great joint down the street. Place has a dumpster too.  Nobody will find that.”

I smile down at him and offer my arm. “Nothing would make me happier, kind sir!”

He takes my arm, and we walk down the street into the misty night, my heels clicking on the pavement. 

I’m smiling.  I’m sure Lenny would approve.

Celebrating Life

Of late, I've been re-evaluating my life.  Such as it is.

And so it was that, on Saturday, September 17, my roomie and bestie Linda and I went to dinner.  We did this for several reasons.  The most obvious was the generous gift I'd received which allowed me to do so.

Also, we were there to mark my 50th birthday a few days before- a day when I had plans, but didn't carry them out.

As veteran readers of this blog, September 17th has deep significance to me, as well as to many others.

On September 17, 2013,  the world learned that my dearest friend, Lisa Empanada, was dead.  Suicide.  The Darkness took her.

The past few years, this day has been one of reflection and tears.  I make sure I'm available to her soulmate Sandy if she needs a shoulder or ear.  But this year, she had plans.

I decided that this year, I'd do something different: I'd CELEBRATE Lisa's life, instead of dwelling on how much I miss her.  Like I do every other day of the year.

But not just Lisa's life.  Suddenly, I had to live.  I hadn't planned on that.  So I figured I'd take a night to Enjoy who and what I am.  Strut instead of sulk.

So.  Who and what am I?

I am a Woman.  With all that means.  True, I will never be able to bear children, but that doesn't define womanhood.  I have worked hard to become who I am today.  So, I decided to enjoy the fruits of my labors.

You see, that's something I'd forgotten.  The Joy of Womanhood.  Back when I was only able to be me for one night a month, I absolutely enjoyed being female.  I enjoyed looking down and seeing breasts and hearing my heels clack on the ground.  Of course there is FAR more to being a woman than that, but these little things brought me immense Joy.

A Lifetime ago: fake boobs, hip pads, corset, and a wig.

So that night, I'd made reservations at a fancy dining establishment for Linda and myself.  I put on my favorite dress- one that makes me feel good about myself.  I wore strappy heels.  And do you know what, dear reader?  When I looked into the mirror, for the first time in an eternity, I felt beautiful.  I thought I looked Hot.  So, after checking my makeup one last time, I turned and walked to the car, shoulders back, chest out, feeling Confident.

Linda and I were seated quickly.  We toasted to Lisa.  We toasted to Life.  We toasted Amanda Parnell (whose generosity made the night possible.) We toasted absent friends.  We ate well, and we laughed.

Toasting my huge forehead

As dinner came to a close, I said I wanted to finish our wine at the bar, which was all the way across the restaurant.  Why?  I wanted to "shake my ass across the room" so everyone could see me- see a confident Woman, free from her own chains, if only for a night.

And we did.  Then we walked back across the room to the exit.  From there, we went to Baxters for Angela's Laptop Lounge.  There I met my "Big Sister" Mel, and we talked for a while.  I also met Lynda Martini, who I'd been Facialbook friends with for a while.  She was a delight!

With Lynda Martini

It was a night for counting my blessings.  Linda and I called it an early night, as she had to work in the morning.  After returning to the apartment, I decided to do something I hadn't done in a while:  gaze into the mirror after coming back from a LL.

I used to look in the mirror one last time before cleaning off my makeup and changing into my male clothes.  I often would say to my reflection "Goodbye Sophie."  As time went on, that became more and more painful.

But that night, I looked in the mirror, and I smiled.  I didn't have to pull off a wig.  I didn't have to remove breast forms or carry a box of my girl stuff to my car from the motel room.  No, that night, I smiled and ran my fingers through my long hair.  I removed my dress and bra and saw my large, natural breasts.  Not forms.  I almost cried from joy.

Late Late at Night

The person reflected in the mirror was a Woman.  And she is me!

The Darkness clouds my vision.  Yet that night, I saw myself clearly.  I saw that while I still have a long path ahead, I have come a very long way.

And that- that made me Very Happy.


Be well.

Now What? A Ramble.

It's a week after my birthday and I wonder what my next Direction in life will be.
I spent months planning for last week just to screw it up in the end.  So now what?  I guess I'll have to make more plans.  I'll have to figure out a way to get a better job despite having a loser resume. Several people have it volunteered to help with that, so I guess I'll take them up on it.

I heard today that I didn't get a Jim Collins Foundation Grant, which I expected. After all, I'm not young and pretty enough or passible.  Or maybe I guess I don't do enough Outreach work- you know having a full-time job and all that. In any case, for whatever the reason I suck and I didn't get it, so that means no GCS in my future.

I really don't know what to do next.

I'm still very tired I still have very little hope.

Notice I just wrote "very little" as opposed to "no."

Jenny North was right: maybe it was just a glimmer of hope that stayed my hand on the 13th.  I don't know.  I guess I don't know anything.  Obviously, since I can't even be hired by a grocery store stocking shelves.

Late Saturday Night

I took last weekend off of work, as I have for the past 2 years. I wanted to be available for Sandy Empanada if she needed me.  After all, the 17th was the anniversary of the day we lost Lisa.  So I took the weekend off, but she was not home.  She had plans elsewhere. I had the weekend off.  It was nice to sleep in.  I saw my daughter, and I got a few things done that needed doing.  Apartment is still a mess though.

I also helped a friend move.  Dani was there for me at the bookstore when I transitioned.  She was very outspoken in her support.   Now she needed help, so I was there.  I'm glad I could do that for her.

Thank you for a Wonderful dinner Friday night, Jake and Rhea!  

Anyway there was an outpouring of emotion after I posted the last blog entry.  It floored me!  I didn't expect it.

There were people saying they would fly in for my funeral, and these are people who I barely know. Why would they do this?  Am I more a symbol in death?

I received some wonderful messages, and I want to thank all of you for keeping me in your thoughts. I still say I don't deserve it, but I do appreciate it more than I can say.

Yes, I am out of danger, but the Darkness is still there- still waiting- and, barring accidents, will probably be the reason of my death someday.  But not today.

Birthday Drink

Today is not that day.  Today is the first day of fall: the Autumnal Equinox.  Today, the Darkness doesn't have me by the throat like it did for months.

I had a wonderful weekend with friends and family.  I needed that.

I know this entry is Rambling. I'm doing it speech to text, and I'll edit later.

It's a beautiful morning today. I have to work later, but I am alive, and I am out of danger.

Be Well.

New Dawn Fifty

I arrived at Valley Forge Park at about 5:45.  The sky to the east was just beginning to turn a couple shades of orange grey.  There's a Mist across the Grand Parade. I'm sitting in the parking lot very close to where, all those years ago, I got on one knee and proposed to my Wife.

Me in the Dark.  The light is the dashboard lights reflected off my glasses.

Approximately a quarter of a mile from where I'm sitting is where I last tried to kill myself back in 1990.  That parking lot has been uprooted, and is now a field.

On the way here I was listening to the Grateful Dead Nassau Coliseum, March 1990.  Eyes of the World.

"Wings a mile-long just carry the burden away."

I posted that lyric on Facebook last night.  Professor Jenny Boylan understood.  She knew what I was talking about, and she posted the phone number for the Trans Suicide Hotline.  About an hour ago I called that number.  I received a message saying that there was "No one available at this time.  Please call again later" and then the phone went dead.  (I tried again after 8 AM.  Same result.  Guess they just don't have the people.)

Today was it.  I've been planning for months. Today was the day of days.  You see, Lisa was right.  If you do it on a day that has some import,  when people will be thinking of you anyway, if anyone is thinking of you at all, then the survivor's Pain will not be spread over two days, just one (not that anyone would care, save a very few.)  Lisa chose her anniversary. I chose my birthday; not just any other birthday, but Fifty.

Fifty. is a nice round number and I figure it's at least twenty more years than I should have had in this world.

A Birthday Gift to myself: Peace.

Von Steuben Statue

Yesterday, I worked 12 to 8 at the bookstore, and I remember watching the sunset through the windows thinking "that's final sunset.  That was the last time I see the sun." I didn't expect to see it again.  Last weekend was my final weekend- the last Saturday. The last Sunday.  I worked both.  And Saturday was to be the last time I saw my Daughter.  Last night, my Wife called me. It was a little after 10. She'd been watching Dancing with the Stars.  That takes priority over everything.

And so it was that, for the last time, I spoke to my wife and daughter.  They both detected sadness in my voice. I told them I was just very tired.  It was not a lie:  I am tired.  Very tired.

I planned in advance for everything.  I'd written final letters.  I'd written a final blog entry.  All of these I set on timer that if I weren't back in 4 hours, they would be emailed and in my blog.

And unlike Lisa, for whom we could only guess what she was thinking in those final minutes,  I didn't want there to be any guesses, and that's why the plan included this entry, which justs puts the lie to the other one, because the other one says It's the final entry, and maybe would be.  But, I wanted everyone to know why.

And now I'm standing outside of my car.  The sky is getting a little more light, but there are heavy clouds: a grey cover.  I planned for everything.  My method was ready.  I knew the Where, and I knew the How, and I lived the Why.  But they came down to one thing:

In the end, would I have the courage to do it?

Would I, Sophie, who has run into burning buildings, who's done so much else, and destroyed her life by declaring her True Self have the courage to end her life?

To end the God Awful Pain.

After all, it's my life, and if I should choose to end it, that's no one's business.

My life- My death.

The traffic on Route 23 through the park is beginning to pick up now, as there are breaks in the clouds and the Sky grows pink.

A jogger in a headlamp ran by.

Yes, dear reader, I had this planned completely right down to the minute.  I had method. I had reason.  I had a very good plan.

I lay in bed this morning before dawn, unable to sleep. Linda had already gone to work.  We exchange texts.  She even suggested I come to Valley Forge to watch the dawn, and when I read that, I smiled.  It's like she read my mind.

So all these plans; all the tears; all the letters I've written; and as I sit here and watch the sun come up, I'm not thinking of my daughter, I'm not thinking of my Wife.  In fact, I'm not thinking of anyone here on this planet.

I'm thinking about Lisa.

And I remember how horrible I felt almost 3 years ago to the day, when I found she was Gone. Today was the day that I was to be reunited with her.

I was wondering if she would be waiting for me on the other side of the Veil. If my dog Nittany would be waiting for me as well.

The sky is losing its pink, turning a pale sickly Orange.  The Mist is already burning off.

With Lisa.  August 2013

Yes, today would be the day that I saw Lisa again, and I'd be reunited with my best friend. I started to deviate from the plan. Originally, was going to wear one of her dresses, and wear the necklace that her wife, Sandy, gave me that has my name.  As Lisa wore hers on Her Day.

But unlike Lisa, those would be the only totems that I would carry with me.  I have no pictures of family or friends with me, and, in fact, I'm not wearing one of Lisa's dresses as planned. I'm wearing a favorite of my own that only took a second to throw on. The necklace I'm wearing is the silver four leaf clover that I gave Lisa for her birthday 3 years ago.

I'm sorry Lisa. I never found the Clover.  The Magic Clover.  The one that would make Life and Everything all right.

Because there is no such thing as a Magic Clover.  Our childhood dreams lied to us, just as all dreams lie.

I know some of my friends don't believe that I will be reunited with Lisa on the other side, to explore the Light together.  They believe, as Lisa believed, that Death is the end. That's their prerogative.  Free thought- free will.  I believe differently.  In fact, I know differently.

The sun continues to rise.  The sky is a pale sickly yellow grey, with heavy clouds, and here I thought today was supposed to be sunny.

Yes I had everything planned, and I started to deviate from that plan, if only for wardrobe.  But there's another small detail:

I didn't bring the Method.

Because in the end, I'm a Coward.  I have no Heart; no Spine; no Guts.

As I sit here in my car, the sun is now up.  It's a new day. The sky is gray and heavy.  Lisa's going to have to wait. Nittany will have to wait. Because after all the plans; the months of planning; I simply don't have the Courage to do what is necessary.

I know what some people are thinking.  They're thinking "Sophie, get help."  To those well-meaning people, I say that 26 years ago I spent 3 days in the mental hospital, and I vowed that I would absolutely rather die than go back. Yes, it was that bad.

Look at me.  People call me an Inspiration. A role model.  And all the other horseshit that's tagged on me- sitting in a car crying, because she can't even kill herself.

I'm still here, Jenny Boylan.  I'm alive, Sandy.

Ally, Kimberly and Kim, you're still stuck with me.

Mel, you haven't lost me yet.  Nor have you, Maureen.

And to my bestie, Linda, I'll still be there when you get home today.  You are stuck with me too.

I think I'll call my Wife.

Today is my 50th birthday. It was supposed to be sunny, but it's not.

That's life.

Be well.

No Makeup.

Won't you try just a little bit harder? Couldn't you try just a little bit more?
Hunter/ Garcia.  The Wheel.

What do I Want for my Birthday?

"Want" is such a strange word.


My birthday is coming up, and it's the one that people say it's a big one.  On September 13th, I will be fifty years old.  Fifty is a round number.  There are a lot of people who deserve to live this long who didn't live to be this age, and a lot of people who don't deserve it who live far past it.  (see Trump, Donald J.)  In any case, it's my turn to be fifty.  Lisa made it to 52.

A Certain Age

Aging doesn't really bother me as much as it used to.  It used to cause me extreme fits of nostalgia and even rage at the idea that things were changing- that I was getting old.  But change is the only constant.

People ask me "what do you want for your birthday?" Not many people, mind you, because, in the end, very few people are that close in my life anymore. There's my roomie and bestie Linda. There's my Wife and my daughter, and, as far as people with whom I hang out with any frequency, that's really about it.

Is it due to some need to be isolated? Or is it due to being a snob? Well, neither.  It comes down to I don't have the money to go out and hang out with people.

I used to do a lot of gaming.  I worked 13 years in the gaming industry: first at Chessex Game Distributors, then freelance with TSR as an editor, and then at Games Workshop for 9 years.  Back then, there were a lot of people I could hang out with and play games. I amassed quite a game collection, and enjoyed playing them with friends, acquaintances, and occasionally even somebody who I didn't like.  They've all gone away now for the most part.  I don't see them anymore- either due to distance, or do to the changes that have happened in my life.  I miss gaming.  I know I've written it before, but I've written a lot of things before.  I guess what I miss the most is the comradeship- the ability to sit down at a table with friends and enjoy each other's company.  Like-minded people.

That's not to take away from anyone who I know now.  The people who I do hang out with- the few times I hang out with them- are very special to me.  There are some I wish I could see a lot more often, but again, with the distance and the cost of travel, that simply just does not happen.

Anyway back to that word: "want."

What is it that I want for my birthday?

 I know I've written this before somewhere as well, but I never thought I was worth getting gifts.  I never thought that I was worthy of them.  That people shouldn't even think about getting me gifts, because what have I done to deserve them?  I love GIVING gifts.  I love doing that more than almost anything.  It's the only thing about Christmas I can stomach: giving.  However, receiving always embarrasses me or makes me feel very self-conscious.  Especially on my birthday.

I mean- what's the point?

I guess one of the things the reasons writing this is because I've been thinking about it.  There's nothing that anyone can give me that I need.  What do I want? I guess I want a month of not having to worry about bills, but that will never happen.

No, there's nothing that anyone can give me that I truly want, and in fact it's coming down to the point where I really believe that "Want" is a word for other people, but not for me.  People desire things;  they desire situations.  As do I, but I know they'll never come True, so I guess that's it.

What do I want?  Something that people cannot give me. I want Hope.  I lost Hope long ago.  (I know written about that already.  Sorry, I seem to be repeating myself.)

Recently, somebody who I admire greatly, yet I've never met, all but accused me of just whining and complaining and doing nothing about it.  Those words stung.  I'm trying- I really am.  I'm trying a lot of things: I'm trying to find a job that will pay me a living wage.  I'm trying to be a good parent to my daughter.  In the end, I'm trying to get out of bed every day, and not have that be the last day of my life.

Of course, Yoda said "do or do not there is no try." Well, he's a muppet with someone's hand up his ass.  What does he know?

What I want what I need is Hope.  No one can give that to me, especially now that it's so long gone.

My parents sent me money for my birthday; in a card. I was tempted just to return it to them unopened.  I'm vindictive that way.   I know I've written about that.  I would have sent it back if the envelope right beneath it wasn't a turn-off notice from Comcast.  I'm that far behind in my bills. Some people will say "well then how can you afford to go traveling to Richmond or how can you afford this or how can you afford that?"

If I told you the answer, you wouldn't like it.

So my parents sent money. I deposited it and I paid a bill with it.  Money that was supposed to be for something that I would enjoy- a new dress or a book or just anything, even an experience like going out to dinner and laughing with my friends or my family.   Any one of these things.  That's what it's supposed to be about, but no I had to use it to pay bills.

Because my life sucks that bad.  I'm that incompetent.

Someday people may look back upon my life as it was and wonder at what point did I lose Hope. My 90+ subscribers are used to hearing me whine and complain.  It seems to be all I do anymore. Occasionally will do a writers challenge, which distracts me from the Darkness.  So I wonder why they keep reading?

In the end does it matter?


I'll be 50 years old . What kind of special gift should I give myself?  A walk?  A glass of wine?

My gift to my readers could be to stop all the whining and self pity.

I have something in mind.  We'll see.

Be well.


(This was dictated, not hand written, then edited for punctuation.  Sorry.  Can't even write right.)

Windswept look