Post by dogdharma on Dec 16, 2014 21:52:04 GMT -5
I was born and raised in the southern part of the United States. My first conscious memory came one day when I was about 3 years old. I was playing with my little green toy soldiers, and I wanted to grow up to be a cowboy like the Lone Ranger. But suddenly I realized that something I didn’t understand was very wrong. I had a female body and was called “she” but I felt like I boy. Being a cowgirl was never in my dreams. I had no idea what to do with this glimpse of my true self, so I put it aside while still wishing for a crew cut and high-top Ked sneakers.
When I hit adolescence, I saw that everyone was pairing up as girlfriend and boyfriend. I had never even heard the word “lesbian,” but figured that must be who I was and what was “wrong” with me since I was attracted to girls. I lived out my adult years in lesbian relationships, and that was comfortable for a while, but never quite spot on.
For the most part, my relationships were good. One lasted 14 years if you count the 5 years we were friends in high school. Another lasted 7 years, and the final one lasted 6 years. They were okay, but not perfect, and in retrospect, I realize there was a pattern of issues that might be labeled abusive to a some degree. My first partner and I were together for three years before we even found the gay community.
By 1995, I finally understood that I was transgendered, and that transitioning was trajectory my life had to take. However, I lacked the funds, and worked on my career to become financially solvent. I started testosterone in the year 2000, followed by top surgery, and bottom surgery in Montreal in ~2003. Fully transitioned by 2004. My transitioning was very easy compared to many. My last relationship had ended in 2002.
In addition to being a lesbian who was actually transgendered, I was also visually impaired from birth. I was shy and lonely and my social opportunities were limited because I was unable to drive. While I was now ecstatic in my own skin as a transgendered man, I feared that I would spend the rest of my life alone. Mind you, I’d never had grandiose dreams of fortune or fame. I just wanted to be an ordinary person with a family of my own, and to have grandkids one day.
In 2009, I met on Facebook a woman in England. I’ll call her “P.” She flattered me and told me it bothered her not one bit that I was disabled and transgendered. She plied me with romantic songs that spoke to all I’d ever hoped for. She said we were “soul mates,” and that we could be a family. Though there were glaring red flags, I so wanted to be loved for myself, that I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. I felt like I was walking on air!
We were married in July of 2010 (something denied to me in my lesbian years), with the plan that I would move to England to be with her and her four children, a ready-made family, the kids calling me “daddy.” Due to a series of bald-faced lies, I was unable to move across the ocean until July of 2011. In moving, I had to sell my home and painstakingly go through all of my life-long mementos and possessions to pare them down to what would fit into 8 suitcase.
I had already had inklings of what she was like, but I ignored those inklings. “We’re all a little bit broken, and I’m not perfect. If I love her enough, she’ll feel safe and act better.” I stuck with the marriage vows I’d taken so seriously. But once I got moved to England, the “inklings” became worse and worse. I was subjected to rages and name-calling — words so distasteful I won’t repeat them. I found out that nearly everything she had told me about her life was a lie. And I found out that I was not her first victim. Her first two husbands and her children perhaps suffered worse than me.
The rages escalated to physical violence. I had to make many trips to B&B’s for my own safety. I kept an emergency backpack with my passport hidden under the bed. I was watched like a hawk, and had to resort to sending emails to my friends back home when my wife was asleep. Being in a foreign country, disabled, and transgendered, with no friends to call on for help, I was totally under her control.
While I was in the UK, I had some assistance from domestic violence organizations. In some ways, they are light years ahead of the US; in some ways not. A MARAC (multi-agency risk assessment) conference was help for me. I was deemed to be at extreme risk for continued emotional, physical, and financial abuse by my wife. The organizations were of some help to me. But there were no “safe houses” for transgendered persons.
I had taken my 14-year-old little dog with me to England. The last straw came when I was stuck in a B&B and P called and said to me, “Your dog has been destroyed.” That was in May of 2012. I was on the next plane back to the United States. I have spent the past 2 1/2 years rebuilding my life from scratch.
Healing has not come easy. I was fortunate — I could well have ended up homeless. In the end, all that P really wanted from me was what little money I had. Over the past 2 1/2 years, she played more mind-games with me, trying to convince me to return to the UK. Luckily, I didn’t. While she was campaigning to get me to return to her, I later found out that she was already in another relationship even though we were not divorced — with a woman. She’d “decided” she was a lesbian! I have had no contact with her whatsoever for a solid year.
Domestic abuse and violence is real, and transgendered men are particularly vulnerable targets. Healing is possible, and I want my transgendered brothers to know that. Learn the red flags and don’t ignore them. Don’t allow yourself to be abused. Love yourself — don’t treat yourself like your abuser did / does. My story is a cautionary tale and tale of hope.
When I hit adolescence, I saw that everyone was pairing up as girlfriend and boyfriend. I had never even heard the word “lesbian,” but figured that must be who I was and what was “wrong” with me since I was attracted to girls. I lived out my adult years in lesbian relationships, and that was comfortable for a while, but never quite spot on.
For the most part, my relationships were good. One lasted 14 years if you count the 5 years we were friends in high school. Another lasted 7 years, and the final one lasted 6 years. They were okay, but not perfect, and in retrospect, I realize there was a pattern of issues that might be labeled abusive to a some degree. My first partner and I were together for three years before we even found the gay community.
By 1995, I finally understood that I was transgendered, and that transitioning was trajectory my life had to take. However, I lacked the funds, and worked on my career to become financially solvent. I started testosterone in the year 2000, followed by top surgery, and bottom surgery in Montreal in ~2003. Fully transitioned by 2004. My transitioning was very easy compared to many. My last relationship had ended in 2002.
In addition to being a lesbian who was actually transgendered, I was also visually impaired from birth. I was shy and lonely and my social opportunities were limited because I was unable to drive. While I was now ecstatic in my own skin as a transgendered man, I feared that I would spend the rest of my life alone. Mind you, I’d never had grandiose dreams of fortune or fame. I just wanted to be an ordinary person with a family of my own, and to have grandkids one day.
In 2009, I met on Facebook a woman in England. I’ll call her “P.” She flattered me and told me it bothered her not one bit that I was disabled and transgendered. She plied me with romantic songs that spoke to all I’d ever hoped for. She said we were “soul mates,” and that we could be a family. Though there were glaring red flags, I so wanted to be loved for myself, that I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. I felt like I was walking on air!
We were married in July of 2010 (something denied to me in my lesbian years), with the plan that I would move to England to be with her and her four children, a ready-made family, the kids calling me “daddy.” Due to a series of bald-faced lies, I was unable to move across the ocean until July of 2011. In moving, I had to sell my home and painstakingly go through all of my life-long mementos and possessions to pare them down to what would fit into 8 suitcase.
I had already had inklings of what she was like, but I ignored those inklings. “We’re all a little bit broken, and I’m not perfect. If I love her enough, she’ll feel safe and act better.” I stuck with the marriage vows I’d taken so seriously. But once I got moved to England, the “inklings” became worse and worse. I was subjected to rages and name-calling — words so distasteful I won’t repeat them. I found out that nearly everything she had told me about her life was a lie. And I found out that I was not her first victim. Her first two husbands and her children perhaps suffered worse than me.
The rages escalated to physical violence. I had to make many trips to B&B’s for my own safety. I kept an emergency backpack with my passport hidden under the bed. I was watched like a hawk, and had to resort to sending emails to my friends back home when my wife was asleep. Being in a foreign country, disabled, and transgendered, with no friends to call on for help, I was totally under her control.
While I was in the UK, I had some assistance from domestic violence organizations. In some ways, they are light years ahead of the US; in some ways not. A MARAC (multi-agency risk assessment) conference was help for me. I was deemed to be at extreme risk for continued emotional, physical, and financial abuse by my wife. The organizations were of some help to me. But there were no “safe houses” for transgendered persons.
I had taken my 14-year-old little dog with me to England. The last straw came when I was stuck in a B&B and P called and said to me, “Your dog has been destroyed.” That was in May of 2012. I was on the next plane back to the United States. I have spent the past 2 1/2 years rebuilding my life from scratch.
Healing has not come easy. I was fortunate — I could well have ended up homeless. In the end, all that P really wanted from me was what little money I had. Over the past 2 1/2 years, she played more mind-games with me, trying to convince me to return to the UK. Luckily, I didn’t. While she was campaigning to get me to return to her, I later found out that she was already in another relationship even though we were not divorced — with a woman. She’d “decided” she was a lesbian! I have had no contact with her whatsoever for a solid year.
Domestic abuse and violence is real, and transgendered men are particularly vulnerable targets. Healing is possible, and I want my transgendered brothers to know that. Learn the red flags and don’t ignore them. Don’t allow yourself to be abused. Love yourself — don’t treat yourself like your abuser did / does. My story is a cautionary tale and tale of hope.