by Cindi Jones
Mike and Cindy, my good friends from Utah had moved down so that Mike could work as the computer analyst at my company. I got him the job there. I knew that Mike would do as I asked. At least my kids would get something out of it.
I did not return directly home from my trip. Instead, I stopped at three different drug stores and purchased sleeping pills. I stopped at a convenience store for a bottle of milk.
I carried packages, purse, and briefcase into my home. I threw the suitcase and bag down and set the sack of pills and milk on the counter. The letter from the bishop was still there. The letter pulled me in. “Do it… Do it” it pushed.
Among other things, the letter admonished me that suicide was a sin. It was no way out. The Lord could not forgive suicide. I had received many such letters over the past year. I wondered later what the results would have been, if instead a letter from my mother awaited me when I returned.
“Remember that we always will love you. Remember that you always have a place to go” as she would often write in her letters. I did not, could not remember what she had written so many times at that moment, however.
“Do it” the letter on the countertop demanded.
I wrote the letter to Mike. I made out a check to him. I put it in an envelope with a stamp and put it out in the mailbox. I returned to the counter top to spend the time required to cut all the pills from their bubble packs. It was a small mountain of pills. I washed them down in gulps with the milk.
I put on my favorite piece of music Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings”. I had performed the piece several times in my string ensemble in high school. It expressed the love torn sadness of my life. It expressed the beauty of death with the sweet breeze of strings. Perhaps, this too, was why it had been chosen as the theme for the movie “Platoon”.
I set the CD player to repeat the song. I fell asleep to the sweet straining sounds of the strings as they climaxed for my death.
The Rusty is here! What am I going to do? The Rusty is here! Where is my family? Where is the table? The Rusty is here. Quick, hide in the closet. My heart beat rapidly as I heard the Rusty search my little apartment. The thought of what the new Rusty would do to me if found sickened me. I threw up.
“Cindi” someone said in a barely audible voice. “Cindi, come out. I can help you.” It was Mike. He had come to save me from the Rusty. I quietly opened the door. “Cindi” I heard the voice emanating from the other side of the bed. I tried to run to find Mike. I tripped on my feet. Hanging clothes in my hiding place came down with me. “Cindi… Cindi…” I crawled on my hands and knees to the other side of the bed. Mike was not there. The Rusty went into the closet.
“Cindi” a barely audible voice beckoned me from the kitchen. “Quick, run to the kitchen while the Rusty is still in the closet.” I tried to run but fell down on my little make shift computer desk, sending it all to the floor. Mike was not in the kitchen and the Rusty heard me. “Cindi” said Mike in a barely audible voice, “I’m over here”. I tried to find Mike, running from the Rusty. I tried to follow the saving voice with the Rusty in pursuit. It was hours that I followed the voice. It was days following the voice. It was years running from the Rusty. Time passed so slowly as Adagio for Strings played on. It was agonizing to run from the Rusty. Mike would save me but I could not find him.
I awoke suddenly with a grey stupor hanging in my mind. My eyes were blurry. Sleep goo had fastened my eyelids together. I tried to wipe it from my eyes. I was sprawled on the floor of the living room. My knees and elbows were bleeding from carpet burns. I had two severely broken finger nails with cracks running vertically. I felt like shit. I couldn’t get my body to move for a while.
I glanced at the clock. It read 7:45. I was late for work. I stumbled to the bathroom and took a shower. I dried my hair and went to the closet for clothes to wear. It reeked of vomit. My clothes were strewn across the floor. My computer lay in the middle of the floor with its toppled makeshift stand. The bedding had been pulled off and thrown in a corner. I quickly put on my work clothes being careful to find something to cover my bleeding elbows. As I hurried out the door, late for work, I noticed that the complete apartment had been trashed. I couldn’t make sense of it. I didn’t have time. I locked the door and realized that “Adagio for Strings” was still playing on my stereo. I unlocked the door and turned it off.
The drive to work was fast. Traffic was lighter than normal. The brightness of the day pierced my sensitive eyes. I got to the office in a rush. I was much later than I had ever been. The doors were locked. I looked around. There were no other cars in the parking lot. I glanced at my watch 8:20. I did not understand. And then I noticed the position of the sun in the sky. It hung in the west. It was not morning. It was early evening. And then, only then, did I remember what I had done.
I quickly drove home knowing that I had lost complete track of time. My thought processes were improving. My head was still stuffed with a mattress. But soon clarity replaced the mind of broken wheels. I had survived. Why had I survived? “Because Cindi,” started Squirrel “someone does love you”.
“I can not ever die,” I whined to myself wondering why I could never end my torment.
“No, you are mortal,” said Squirrel. “You just can not die today,” she continued.
*****
The voice of Dr. Wynn came back to me. “You can find a new job, you can mend the relationships with your family, you can grow your hair back.” My mother’s words of love started ringing in my ears
“We love you. Remember this. You are always welcome here.” The words of consolation seemed like they came to me too late, after the fact. “You can not die,” I told Squirrel. “No,” agreed Squirrel.
I had survived. They didn’t bring me down after all I realized with twisted logic. I beat them. Cindi beat them. “I will live!”
When I got home, I called Mike. His wife Cindy answered the phone. “Cindy, will you please do me a favor?” I asked.
“Sure, you just ask anything and we’ll be happy to help,” she replied.
“Cindy, there is a letter coming from me, addressed to Mike. Will you make sure that he doesn’t open it? Will you ask him to return it to me?” I pleaded.
“Cindi, no problem. We haven’t received it yet,” Cindy stated.
“Cindi”, she started, “Would you join us for dinner on Sunday?”
“I’d love to”, I replied.
“Good, we’ll prepare something special for you,” she said. I felt in her voice a careful understanding of what was going on. She did not ask what the letter was or why I had sent it. She knew exactly what it was.
“Cindy, can you tell me what day it is?” I asked.
“Why it is Thursday,” she answered with a questioning tone in her voice. She sounded different. She sounded very concerned. I had only been in my stupor for a day. I thought that it must have been at least 2 or maybe 3 days. I had truly lost all sense of time.
Mike would call me in a few minutes to check in and make sure that I was alright.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Yes, Mike. I’ll be fine” I replied.
I didn’t go into work on Friday. My head still hurt. I was physically banged up. I had a real mess to clean up in my home. I was not depressed. The vision of clarity I had the night before was true. I would not die by my own hand. I knew that now. Never, never again would I feel so down and so alone. I knew it. I vowed that I would always call a friend or my Mom and Dad if I had an inkling that I was getting depressed. For the rest of my life, I have kept that promise I made that day. I had been saved. I knew what I must do. I must go on.
The dinner with Mike and Cindy on Sunday was very nice. She was a very good cook. And it was so nice to play with their little girls. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon with no cares to worry about. We talked and played little girl games with the kids. They were so gracious, kind, and so loving. I was so happy for them. It was a comforting time. It was the right place
to be that afternoon.
So, life picked up for me where I had tried to leave it. I still had the same disgusting problems. I still had the crappy job. I still did not have any money… and I sort of knew that Charlene would still give out my address for the asking. I decided to not read any more letters unless they were from my family or her. If a letter indicated that it would pull at me, I would cease to read it and save it for a time when such thoughts would not hurt me.
Charlene was getting married. It hadn’t even been a year and she had found someone to love and cherish. I was absolutely thrilled for her. I was contemplating what this man was like. I knew his younger brother and he was a very good man. I figured that Charlene’s new husband would be like his brother. I knew that my little ones would have a daddy to grow up with. I was so happy for them.
And then it hit me. I would no longer have to pay alimony. Perhaps the financial problems that I had would work out after all.
Every Friday night a few of us benders would get together at Trish’s place. We’d watch Elvira Mistress of the Dark. We never got tired of those terrible old black and white sci-fi movies where she would interrupt and make some hilarious valley girl comment. She was a hoot and she was a doll.
I can remember that Charlene once told me “Well I hope that you all have a good time sitting around in your high heels watching TV.” She was very close to the mark. We weren’t wearing our high heels but everything else was right on. Way to go Charlene! We did have a great time. Thanks! We’d have pizza and sodas and we’d throw in our own valley girl commentary. I had friends from work and in my personal life in the LA area. Two of them would become life long friends. What a treasure is that? Who can tell me that they have life long friends? I’m proud to call Trish my friend. Thanks Trish.
Work was tough. It really was. But there was nothing that was going to stop me. I helped bring that little business unit to profitability in 13 months. We had made enough to bring the entire company profitable. It had lost money for 15 years. I was proud of my accomplishments. They could not deny my results. I had done the work, the research, and managed that little business to make money. I had done it legally with impossible odds with a president that who tried to fire me every week.
My one year mark living the full life test was drawing near. I would have everything ready to go.
Clocked
During my early years, during my transition, the worst thing that could ever happen was to be clocked. All of my efforts and most of my waking hours were spent in trying to pass effectively as a woman. I would take note of every nuance of every look and glance to discover any doubt from the onlooker. During this time in the late eighties, transsexualism was not accepted anywhere. The public was not ready to accept someone “dressed in drag” as a woman. My dilemma was exacerbated by the fact that I lived in Salt Lake City, one of the world’s most conservative metropolitan areas.
I had problems in rest rooms; purchasing clothing, groceries… you name it. An odd look or a comment heard would send me home with tears in my eyes. I perfected my craft over the course of years. Electrolysis was the greatest help in improving my passing skills. Once the permanent five o’clock shadow was removed, my face was at last presentable. The hormones that I was taking helped ever so slightly but it was a change I most welcomed. I still had the Adams apple and voice problems to deal with. Although my legs would never belie me, the opportunities to walk around in heels and short skirts were few.
The changes, my work, my skill, and my craft improved. Before I moved from Utah, I had perfected the craft well enough that I was seldom clocked. In fact, in unusual situations, people were quite surprised to learn of my situation. I felt confident that I was doing well. Still, I worried often of my abilities to pass. I did not want anyone to think of me as a weirdo… a transsexual. It is also worthy to note that many transsexuals are murdered every year. This was extremely dangerous stuff.
After my move to California, I lived in a household where transsexualism was a common thread of existence. My friend, Trish, welcomed everyone to her home. And we had some very unusual folks over to be sure. We attended a group session every week in Santa Monica together. After group session, all would retire to a local restaurant for coffee, or something to eat. I would feel ill at ease in the restaurant but felt some security knowing that a group of us were there. But I could see how the other patrons would look at us, some in disgust. It was a very uncomfortable feeling.
Living with Trish was difficult in this one respect. She could not pass well. She still had very firm masculine traits and a deep bass voice. Additionally, some of her friends had similar difficulties in passing. She had offered me a place to stay when I had no where else to go when I moved to California. And here I was, embarrassed to be seen with her. She could not understand my hesitation to go out shopping together. I felt ashamed for betraying my friend.
The problem grew worse when I started working. I would not allow calls from her or anyone else from the group of friends I had. I did not want to be exposed by some “guy” on the line who insisted he was a “she”. I was paranoid of being discovered. I was trying to build a new life for myself and remnants from my unconventional past were always in tow. I could not get rid of them.
My paranoia of getting clocked became such an issue that Trish invited me to one of her sessions with her therapist. I learned that night that I had a new problem to contend with. Trish had a crush on me. The disclosure of this was repulsive to me. Trish was my friend and I could not see her as a sweetheart. I told her and her therapist this. Trish started to cry and her therapist tried to calm her explaining that I might not be able to love in return. The repulsion that I felt was natural where no attraction existed. This revelation further compounded the problem that I had being seen with my friends.
Every day, I faced this problem. I looked forward to the time when I could afford my own place and get away from my perceived cage of automatic detection. I honestly felt that if I were seen with them, I would be one of them in anyone else’s eyes. These chains that I had been able to break with my own ability to pass were now shackling me again. I wanted to be a woman, not “one of those” transsexual people.
Of all the things I have done in my life, my self centered life, these feelings and my resulting actions were perhaps the most despicable. I had lied and betrayed my family, but at last I had revealed my secrets to them. I had been making progress in coming to terms with them and working through my relationships. But this thing with Trish and my other transsexual friends truly pulled at my moral threads of compassion and love. This was not me. I was experiencing a socialization problem that I just wished would go away. Hypocrisy is a harsh mistress when it makes you deny and forsake your very own.
Trish and I would be able to talk about our relationship. I could be honest about that. It was a painful subject for her and made all the worse because I lived in the same household. But I could be upfront and clear with her. I was not interested. The other problem was much more difficult.
A mutual friend of ours would come spend weekends at the house. Laura grew up in Chicago and had become a genius with chemicals and drugs. She had been on hormones since she had been a teenager and enjoyed many of the benefits of not fully maturing as a male. She had no facial hair and other aspects of her physique were completely feminized. She had her gender reassignment surgery (GRS) some time before I met her. Laura felt like me. She did not enjoy being seen in public with other transsexuals. My GRS was yet to come but Laura did feel perfectly comfortable with me in public.
Here we were, two transsexuals, who refused to be seen with others. Oh, there were times when we would give in and go to various events, but when it came to normal life, we would avoid every situation. Trish felt left out and rightfully so. Laura and I were acting like children of course. We knew it. But there were serious real life consequences at stake. I could lose my job if discovered. Laura was trying to develop heterosexual relationships with her men friends. For me,
I could not forget the constant threat of violence. It was not a passing thought. I had experienced some terrible things. The threat was all too real.
We would get together on Friday nights to watch television or a video. Of course we would end up talking about the new thing: being seen in public together. We were often hurtful to Trish. We didn’t mean to do it but we knew what we were doing was cruel. We did not argue or yell at each other. But in every case, we stomped on Trish’s personal feelings. I could see that it was painful for her. I was tearing myself up inside for the pain that I was creating.
I thought that when I left my home and family in Utah that the pain of personal relationships could be left there. I thought that everything would be fine from that point forward. There was nothing that I wouldn’t be able to deal with. But, here, again was an unexpected turn of events. Here was a serious flaw in my personal skills that I could not come to terms with.
We attended a barbeque picnic sponsored by the Santa Monica group one Saturday afternoon. I wore clothing appropriate for the event, jeans and a tank top. Members of the group, including persons with a variety of gender conflicts, attended. Many of them dressed nicely as if to go to church. They did look nice, but they were entirely out of place at the park. They were also people that I would not normally socialize with in public. I felt safety in the large group.
I spent a few minutes introducing myself to members I had not met before and saying hi to those that I did know. I then set about to figure out what I would do for the next several hours. I talked to Dr. Thomas for a while. She always was a stimulating conversationalist. But she soon moved on to get involved with everyone there that I was too good to be chummy with. Now don’t get me wrong. I have always tried to be nice to everyone. But even at an all gender dysphoric happy fest, I was still hesitant to be seen getting too friendly with just anyone.