Squirrel Cage

by Cindi Jones

While in South America, my friend “Ducky” related a story regarding Blood n Guts Bradford. “You know when President Glade was here, I went in his office to retrieve his pencils. He asked what I was doing and I told him that I was collecting his pencils so that I could sharpen them. President Glade told me that he could sharpen his own pencils and that I shouldn’t bother. When Blood N Guts Bradford came, he called me in to his office. “Elder, I would like you to come into my office every morning and sharpen all my pencils.”

  After I was butchered by a surgeon in Santiago to remove a pilonidal cyst under my tail bone, I stayed at the mission home where the mission offices were located. The wound was not healing. In fact it was completely open and oozing. Ducky was helping me to dress it one day as I lay on my stomach. He gaped at the crater just below my tail bone. “My God Stud (he called me stud and I called him Ducky) he shrieked, “I can see all the way to China! DAMN. This is really sick dude.” He was freaked out. No one ever cursed in the mission home. Ever.

  I ate at the family table a day later with the Bradford family. I had been there once before to recover from typhoid fever. I had gotten to know them and I enjoyed being there.

  “When do you see your doctor again?” Elder Bradford asked.

  “This afternoon.”

  “Tell your doctor that you are going back to Antofogasta and that if he wants to see you again, he can go there to do it,” he commanded.

  Antofogasta is a coastal city a full days ride by bus to the north of where we were in Santiago. I had been stationed there when this little cyst appeared by bleeding in my underwear. I went to the local hospital where I saw a government doctor. He explained that it had to come out right away or would grow. (I had no idea that his explanation was totally wrong. I could and should have let this thing go. There was no danger to do that.) There was one restroom per floor in the hospital. I don’t know that they had ever been cleaned. There was no toilet paper and feces covered everything. Beds were eight to a room and if you didn’t bring your own sheets, you slept on an old mattress that had never been cleaned. I had called and talked to the main office.

  I called the office in Santiago. “I want to go home. I need this surgery and I’m not going to do it here.”

  Elder Bradford came to the phone. “Can’t you have that done up there? They have good doctors up there.”

  I related to him the stench and filth I found in the hospital.

  “Well then come to Santiago. We’ll find a good doctor here for you.”

  “But I want to go home.”

  “Come to Santiago, you will get it done here.”

  While I waited for the scheduled surgery, I heard that Elder Bradford had threatened another missionary to send him home without his membership if he didn’t have his knee surgery there in Santiago. “God will bless you to heal if you have enough faith.” That was how I had heard the story. The stories of course were rumors, but I would learn from first hand experience what the truth was.

  “I can’t go to Antofogasta. I haven’t healed yet. I can’t even sit to eat”, I pleaded to him, kneeling on the floor while I ate my meal.

  “Well if your doctor tells you that, you tell him that he can go with you.”

  That was that. I was transferred back to the driest place on earth, to a dingy little city with no medical care. A place that took 22 hours by bus ride to reach, a place that had no water for bathing when the water trucks were dry. A fart smear on the face of the map where I would soon nearly die from a massive infection to a gaping wound drilled nearly through on the wrong side of my body.

  “Fine,” I said.

  And here I sat, pained literally in the butt from the experience, with my lovely bride, in front of a Church leader, who I had learned to love with my personal experiences, who I trusted with my life. Right. Charlene knew the stories. But she and her family accepted this righteous man to give us counseling to resolve my problem. I hoped he could.

  “Elder Bradford,” I started, “you may recall that I came to you in confidence while on my mission to tell you about this problem I have. Remember that I told you that I liked to dress in women’s clothing?” I said.

  “Yes I do Elder Steele.” And he paused. I wondered if he did remember. I really did. “Oh well, it wouldn’t matter much if he did or not,” I pondered. “The issue is now on the table,” Squirrel did not dare speak in the presence of a man so holy.

  “Do you fantasize being a woman so you can have sex with a man?”

  “No,” I honestly replied.

  “Do you want to have sex with a man?”

  Again, “No.”

  “Do you masturbate when you do this?”

  “No,” I answered truthfully. But then I added “but sexual release is always the unintended result. I do not force it. My hands never touch myself.” Ooh… the subject material was uncomfortable. I felt us all squirm in our seats together.

  “Elder Steele, may I talk with your lovely wife alone?”

  I wondered why he would ask MY permission to speak with Charlene under these circumstances. What would he said if I had answered no?

  “Of course”, I answered and I stepped out of the office.

  The door soon opened and I was invited back in. I do not know what they talked about. But she clearly looked better.

  “Elder Steele, I want to tell you that I’m glad you came to me with this problem. You need to abstain from this behavior. It is not good. It is not righteous. But let’s put this in context. I believe that your actions are similar to watching an R rated movie. I believe that if you attend to your wife and love her, attend your meetings, read the scriptures often, and go to the temple often, that you will be able to put this behind you. May we kneel in prayer?”

  “Of course” I answered.

  During the drive home, I felt relieved. I would be able to shake this. Why, you may ask? Why would I trust a man who was responsible for my hemorrhaging derriere? I was a cultist. I believed in this man of God no matter what his actions had been. He was an appointed minister by the prophet himself. I truly believed what he told us.

  After I returned home, and in privacy, I collected all my things from all my hiding places. I put them in paper bags. I slowly and deliberately took them to the trash bins and carefully pushed them down in. I carried the bins slowly to the curb and waited to watch the dragon carry my life away in his belly full of garbage. Yes, I knew what garbage was worth. The dragon belched and coughed as it lumbered down the road to its next stop.

  Revelation, part 2

  Charlene and I had a wonderful day in Hawaii. Neither of us had ever been to the islands. The weather was sunny without being hot and the sights and sounds filled us as music serves an eager teenager. We were having a great time together. I thought that we were finally reaching a balance between my deep secrets and making a life together. “You know that you are back to your old tricks,” warned Squirrel.

  Yes. I was. I had resumed my secret life on business trips. I had relearned the early lesson of my youth. If you are going to steal, you had better not be caught. I had secured a storage locker. I took nothing home. When I left for a trip, I stopped by the locker I picked up a suitcase. There was a his and hers suitcase. Nothing and I mean nothing was ever mixed.

  I had tried to return to the life I was advised to live. I happily accepted my position in my local congregation. I enjoyed directing the choir. Music had been such a great part of my life. This job over any other that I did for the church was the most satisfying. It was rare that any local group would rise to perform well. Members of the choir volunteered and came from a group of only 500 to 700 members. Each congregation had one. I asked the bishop to individually call members with talent to a choir position. He agreed to talk to each one I asked for. The result was that choir members felt that the choir “calling” was important. They gave it a priority. We gave some very nice presentations.

  I continued to teach gospel doctrine in Sunday school. I enjoyed the doctrine of the church. Th
e Holy Bible along with the additional scriptures of the LDS church were often difficult to read and understand. I loved digging out the details and sharing my perspectives. I made sure that they fell in line with the lesson plans in my manual. I would feel great anguish if I were to teach anything out of line with the official doctrines of the church.

  I worked on the church farm at the end of the season that year. It was time to prune the vineyard. There were miles and miles of grape vines to prune. I went several times a week and often I had been the only one there. I didn’t mind. The solo work provided a calm quiet setting for me to contemplate what it must have been like in the Promised Land. Jesus had many parables that used a vineyard in his allegories.

  But even through prayer, study, and much volunteer work away from my family, I could not shake the Squirrel. Its cage spun ever faster. I didn’t blame it. It was me. I was it. I knew that. I had only myself to blame for my thoughts. I had been told that I was listening to Satan. That’s why I had the thoughts. Giving into my most inner self was giving my life to Satan. I wish that I could express the lowliness I felt, the despair I had, and the emptiness that could never be filled. Yet, no matter how hard I tried, Squirrel ran only faster. He matched every act with an opposing force. “Was Squirrel Satan?”

  “I think that you are Satan,” said Squirrel.

  “But I try to do the right things,” I told him.

  “So what? I’ll never stop” replied Squirrel

  Charlene and I laid in bed after a brief moment of intimacy. We talked briefly about this and that. I did love her very much. She had been through so much. She was coming along very well, visibly much better than I.

  “David, did you get me something sexy to wear?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Before we left, I saw something in the garage.”

  I honestly had no idea what she was talking about. Certainly nothing new had made its way to one of the old hiding places.

  “What had she seen?” I don’t recall specifically what it was. It didn’t matter. When I looked back, I would realize that it was something that had not been previously purged several months earlier. Still, her accusation stung home. She knew it. I had been pursuing my secret life and she had discovered it.

  “Are you dressing up again David?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t say anything else now, or you will lose everything,” Squirrel warned. I shut my mouth terrified to say a word.

  Charlene proceeded to grill me late into the night and I could not respond. I lay frozen to the sheets watching the Squirrel turn the exercise wheel round and round. Round and round ran the Squirrel and he never stops.

  “Wa…” runs and runs ..“…avid?” he runs and he runs and never stops “Davi….” He runs as he turns the wheel “Answer” and it stops. I heard half words, fragments of statements, felt shame in agonizing accusations. “David, what is wrong? Why won’t you answer me?” Charlene demanded.

  “I can’t,” I told her in terror. I felt my secret unraveling. It was dangerously close to breaking out of the bounds I had been able to define for the past couple months. But it was a tenacious agreement I had made with Squirrel. I knew that once the real secret was out, there was no putting it back in. The secret would destroy the lives of Charlene and my children. I could not bear to do this to them.

  “Please, oh please Charlene, don’t ask me, please keep the secret in,” I thought to myself.

  “Don’t tell her,” said Squirrel

  “I know that I can’t tell her,” I concurred.

  “Then we agree,” confirmed Squirrel. I watched the caged Squirrel run and run and run. And somehow I made it through the night. I honestly don’t remember what happened after that. My mind checked out. I lost track of everything. Did we resolve the situation somehow? I don’t know. When we woke up, she was cool, but civil and markedly cool.

  Somehow we managed to enjoy the rest of our vacation. I knew that she was sacrificing her very being to pull herself up in this impossible situation. I was no help. I had no strength to offer her in that regard.

  We traveled to Maui and visited the mountain tops where the telescopes peered into space at night. We snorkeled in the small bay outside the condominium we were renting. We talked little. I think we had a good time but I could not be sure. We did have intimate moments but somehow, deep down inside, I was losing her.

  The vacation was over and it was time to again address my problem. I pleaded with Charlene to visit an analyst who was familiar with these sorts of problems. I did not know the psychiatrist; I only had her name and number. WE had gone through all of this and to this point we had relied only on our religious counsel. She agreed to see her with me.

  Shrink this

  The events of the next several weeks are difficult and painful to remember. I did not keep notes. But I do have billing statements from the shrinks, and I do mean “shrinks” that we saw. We were desperate. I faced a three hour volley every night when I returned home from work. Charlene needed answers. She did not have to deal with the problem her entire life like I had. She was trying to climb Mount Everest with inadequate preparation, no jacket, no boots, and worst of all alone. Her strong demanding fortitude was all that held her together. It was also beating me down. I couldn’t bear to see her in pain. I couldn’t bear to realize what must be happening to my children.

  We visited the doctor up on the east bench of Salt Lake City. I can’t remember if her office was part of the university’s hospital or not. I believe that it was. I remember that I talked to her and that Charlene talked to her in private. She asked me questions concerning my deep seated feelings. This was the first time that I opened up to a professional. I answered her questions as honestly as I could. I did not feel like a woman trapped in a man’s body. I told her that was the most ridiculous thing that I ever heard. But I did tell her of my desires to be a girl from my first remembered thoughts. I told her of my antics when I went out of town. I showed her a picture.

  “May I make a suggestion? She offered.

  “Sure.”

  “Watch your hands.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your hands will give you away.”

  I retrieved the picture from her. I stared at the picture. The cheeks bore a 5 o’clock shadow. The face was manly square. The wig pulled slightly forward. The clothing didn’t match the heels.

  “I think that is the least of my problems,” I advised her.

  “I need to know how to get myself fixed so that I don’t do these things. I did get your name and number from the Janus Information Services in San Francisco. Dr. Paul Walker referred me. I hope that you can help.”

  “Let me see what I can do,” she replied.

  We talked for a few more brief minutes and then she asked Charlene to come in alone.

  Charlene then spent some private time with her. I learned later that the conversation went something like this:

  “Do you have a job dear?”

  “I teach piano lessons, but that is only part time. I am a homemaker and I stay home to rear our children.”

  “You should find a job.”

  “Why?”

  “My experience is that once these things manifest themselves, there is no stopping them. You will lose your husband. The sooner you can face that reality, the better you will be. Your husband has gender dysphoria. Yes, he is a transsexual.”

  Was our recommended shrink any good? For me, no. Had I stayed with her, she could have delayed my feminine transition by perhaps 6 months to a year. She did however give Charlene excellent advice as we were to both learn.

  Next in the line up wearing number 69, Doctor …..

  Someone, very prominent in the Church, recommended a psychiatrist in Salt Lake. He was, of course, top notch. Yes he was top notch. Someone, very prominent in the church had just offered to help me by spending my money. He charged $130 per hour. He prescribed an antidepressant and some other medication. I don’t remember the combination of th
e cocktail. Did it help? No. It was turned me into a vegetable. I couldn’t work from a to-do list. I couldn’t even think to create a to-do list. It had too many syllables.

  The numbing effects of the drug worked on me for several weeks before I realized what it was doing. Before long, you’d never have to worry about calling me Cindi ever again. But you would have to call me Jack. Thank you very much nurse Cratched. Give me my injection and I’ll just slobber here in my wheelchair for a day or two.

  I decided to quit taking the drugs on my own. The good doctor had not told me what would happen as I came. It was one of the worst and most anxiety stricken times in my life. Here I was experiencing the mental equivalent of a heroin detox and trying to deal with complex issues with my family. These days, the pharmacist gives you a warning note with this drug. Do you know what it says?

  “Do not discontinue taking this drug under any circumstance.”

  It’s usually printed in bold red text to stand out above all the other stuff you never read.

  I was only one fighting back. There were minions “helping” me. No one knew that I was attempting to dump drugs that the good doctor intended me to take the rest of my life. They would never, could never understand the complicated and contorted vision I had for life during this time when I beat the dependence of this substance they put into my body. How dare this doctor do that to me because a church member in good standing passed someone in my family a name. Of course you can trust him, he is a good LDS man. How dare he give me a drug that would hang me out to dry. Read my lips. Spell it for me. Yes, here we go, letter by letter.

  “Repeat after me.”

  D R U G S!

  “Wooo hooooo!” and the pompoms spin round and round.

  Now, are there any questions?

  “Ah yes, I have one teacher.”

  “Yes David.”

  “Why am I seeing this doctor? I already have run up a bill of over $1000 that I can’t pay.”

  “Because my good man, he is a good church member who disagrees with the common thinking of most of the psychiatric community… yes you know. The ones that WROTE THE FREAKIN BOOK!