I saw something today that delivered a right cross square on my jaw and knocked me lower than the Dead Sea. I have been in an emotional nose dive for a couple of weeks now, so it only took a moment for this to speed the descent.
It should not have affected me so. My reaction was most probably an over-reaction. There is no knowing if malice was intended. Maybe it wasn’t because I had decided to live as a woman, but a dozen other, unrelated reasons. Perhaps it was expediency, maybe forgetfulness or perhaps I had misjudged this person all along. Only the author of the deed knows for sure. Still, it got to me.
It’s been three years since I came out. It is unfortunate that we live in a society and time that is filled with mistrust and hate. It was mistrust and hate I feared enough that I kept to myself. It is mistrust and fear that drive some to call me liar and fraud. The best among us seek to bridge that divide. I have done what I can with the rest.
The past is hard to cut loose; especially when the events, places and people hold special meaning. I have wanted to restore the damaged relationships so those memories might be shared. But my decision brought out the disease in some of those people and it is time for me to move on; for my own good, for my own wellness. I can do nothing with them or for them. As it is, a restoration was only important to me thus my departure won’t even be noticed.
These people are no more or less flawed than I. I do not condemn them. I have simply come to the point where I have no use for them and no need of them.
Good-bye
Billie
Monday, August 30, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
A Good Cry
It still startles me when I experience a sudden emotional rush. You know, like when you stop by the grocery store after work, just for a few things and you’re debating the value of paying $14.99 for a pair of tongs because they have pink tips and all-of-the sudden without any warning whatsoever, you burst into tears. It’s a gusher of emotion rising from your gut so fast the tears are running down your cheeks before you even know you’re crying. You barely stifle the audible wail, but there is no concealing the deep, deep sobbing.
It’s turn-toward-the-display crying while you dig through your purse for a tissue and in your mind you’re screaming wtf, wtF, WTF!! Dab a cheek, dab another cheek, blow the nose, follow-on eruption and the flow begins again. “Where in the hell is this coming from??” Digging for a dry tissue, a quick survey to see if anyone is staring. Thank God, no. “Get a hold of yourself, girl.” Dab a cheek, dab another cheek, blow the nose take a breath; another breath and then two more. You begin to move again, eyes down because you know your mascara is a mess and your eyes are all red. The search begins.
Maybe it’s because 21 years ago today my Dad died. Or that a week from Sunday it will be two years since my baby sister died. I miss them. I miss all my family.
Could it be I’m tired of watching my friends getting kicked to the curb by their “loved ones?” Or the gossip and backstabbing that goes on in the so-called “community” of Transfolk?
Could be the job; it changed recently and won’t be nearly as much fun as before. People are already saying that I am not my “old self.”
Perhaps it’s the constant battle with food. Every waking minute of every day all I do is fight the urge to eat. I’m fat, out-of-shape, fighting an infection and ragweed is in bloom. Could be.
Maybe it’s all of the above; I really don’t know. I guess you don’t need a reason to cry do you?
I can tell you this; I’m going to make a cup of tea, pull out the guitar and sing sad songs.
And have a good cry.
Anyone got a tissue?
Take Care,
Billie
It’s turn-toward-the-display crying while you dig through your purse for a tissue and in your mind you’re screaming wtf, wtF, WTF!! Dab a cheek, dab another cheek, blow the nose, follow-on eruption and the flow begins again. “Where in the hell is this coming from??” Digging for a dry tissue, a quick survey to see if anyone is staring. Thank God, no. “Get a hold of yourself, girl.” Dab a cheek, dab another cheek, blow the nose take a breath; another breath and then two more. You begin to move again, eyes down because you know your mascara is a mess and your eyes are all red. The search begins.
Maybe it’s because 21 years ago today my Dad died. Or that a week from Sunday it will be two years since my baby sister died. I miss them. I miss all my family.
Could it be I’m tired of watching my friends getting kicked to the curb by their “loved ones?” Or the gossip and backstabbing that goes on in the so-called “community” of Transfolk?
Could be the job; it changed recently and won’t be nearly as much fun as before. People are already saying that I am not my “old self.”
Perhaps it’s the constant battle with food. Every waking minute of every day all I do is fight the urge to eat. I’m fat, out-of-shape, fighting an infection and ragweed is in bloom. Could be.
Maybe it’s all of the above; I really don’t know. I guess you don’t need a reason to cry do you?
I can tell you this; I’m going to make a cup of tea, pull out the guitar and sing sad songs.
And have a good cry.
Anyone got a tissue?
Take Care,
Billie
Monday, August 2, 2010
I don’t write on Transgender topics very much anymore. I live my life as a woman these days. Nonetheless, I did go through a transition; a phase where I changed the life I lived in the “real” world to match the life I had always lived in my heart and in my mind’s eye, Fortunately, there were many, many people who did everything they could to make that change a wonderful experience.
This past weekend was an anniversary of sorts. I began my transition on the first weekend in August, 2007. But the reason for my nostalgia is the announcement I received at work that “Jack” was beginning a new life as “Jill” (not the real names) effective July 27th. It is a time of joy and celebration in the office, as it was with my announcement. It has always amazed me that a group of relative strangers, my coworkers, have consistently been so loving, so accepting and so supportive.
I am obligated to say that I am not an official spokeswoman for “MyCo.” These are my thoughts alone. Though many that read this know where I work, I do not have permission to name the company, so I won’t. Still, their efforts should be applauded. My transition at MyCo remains one of the best experiences of my life.
MyCo’s culture is one that prizes diversity and the right of employees to make personal decisions in their lives. Diversity expands our thinking and fosters innovation. MyCo believes that our work environment should be safe and healthy, free from harassment, intimidation and discrimination. Knowing not everyone will make the same personal choices, MyCo doesn’t ask those who disagree to change their beliefs, but simply be courteous, respectful and professional. I have yet to have a single negative experience at MyCo since my transition. I wish I could say the same for the rest of my world.
I transitioned from Bill to Billie at MyCo in April, 2008 after three and a half months of preparation. In addition to my manager, there was a team of people from Human Resources, Legal, Security, Benefits, and Occupational Health. People from each of these departments were tasked to find and solve any issues that might come up in my transition as well as figure out how to let everyone know what was going on.
April 7th, Executive Management was informed and my HR records were updated to my new name and gender. April 8th, I met face-to-face with the individuals I was closest to. April 9th my e-mail address was changed and over 450 e-mails were sent announcing that “Bill McReynolds will take the name of Billie McReynolds as she transitions from male to female.” April 10th I got my new ID badge and April 14th, after 15 years at MyCo, Billie reported for her first day at work. I have included the photo taken to commemorate the event.
I received abundant e-mails and personal visits for days afterward. They not only expressed congratulations to me, but pride that we worked for a company that would go to such extraordinary lengths for a single employee, one out of thousands. With Jill’s announcement I was reminded of how wonderful it felt to walk those familiar aisles as Billie. Nothing else was changed; I sat in the same cubical, belonged to the same teams, worked with the same people and they were all able to make the transition with me. I am still amazed by that and still hold that sense of pride in MyCo.
Congratulations Jill; I know your experience will be every bit as wonderful as mine.
Take Care,
Billie
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Hay Siempre Mañana
At a meeting the other day I mentioned that I was closing in on sixty years old. Later, I was approached by several folks who told me I did not look anywhere close to sixty; mid-forties tops.
It’s wonderful what estrogen has done for my skin. But there is a down side. It feeds into a notion I have that there is plenty of time before I “have” to get healthy. Sure, the body sends me little messages to the contrary; small aches and pains, bladder infections, a weird rash on my ankle and high blood pressure. But half a dozen prescriptions keep all that in check, feeding the illusion there is yet still time to get the life I really want and live into my eighties. “Hay siempre mañana,” there is always tomorrow.
But a fresh coat of paint doesn’t do jack if the wood underneath is rotting. At any moment, despite the best attempts at detection, my body could send me a new reminder of my lengthy abuse; a stroke, heart attack, diabetes, cancer or God knows what; a message beyond the reach of “take two and call me in the morning.”
I can imagine my despair; all those todays I pushed into mañana now unobtainable, the bridge between them having collapsed. I can’t see myself as the brave convalescent; dedicated to arduous and painful therapy to recapture a small fraction of mobility or speech or cognition. I would likely sit in my chair, sipping a drink, watching television and wondering what was for dinner.
Much like the life I have now.
Hay siempre mañana.
Take Care,
Billie
It’s wonderful what estrogen has done for my skin. But there is a down side. It feeds into a notion I have that there is plenty of time before I “have” to get healthy. Sure, the body sends me little messages to the contrary; small aches and pains, bladder infections, a weird rash on my ankle and high blood pressure. But half a dozen prescriptions keep all that in check, feeding the illusion there is yet still time to get the life I really want and live into my eighties. “Hay siempre mañana,” there is always tomorrow.
But a fresh coat of paint doesn’t do jack if the wood underneath is rotting. At any moment, despite the best attempts at detection, my body could send me a new reminder of my lengthy abuse; a stroke, heart attack, diabetes, cancer or God knows what; a message beyond the reach of “take two and call me in the morning.”
I can imagine my despair; all those todays I pushed into mañana now unobtainable, the bridge between them having collapsed. I can’t see myself as the brave convalescent; dedicated to arduous and painful therapy to recapture a small fraction of mobility or speech or cognition. I would likely sit in my chair, sipping a drink, watching television and wondering what was for dinner.
Much like the life I have now.
Hay siempre mañana.
Take Care,
Billie
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Hurley
I heard something the other day that intrigued me. The person said that we carry our fate with us; that circumstances don’t affect it, only we can change our fate by changing who we are.
My earliest memory of being ridiculed for being fat is the 3rd grade. During elementary school, my parents put me on diets. My father would punish me if the scales didn’t show a reduction. I wore “husky” jeans, often several inches too long so the waist would fit. In high school, I had the nick name Billie Moon because my face was round and chubby. My self image was fat because everyone around me said I was fat.
Adulthood brought no relief. Controlling my weight was a constant struggle; in the Army, in the dating scene, to fit into my wedding suit, as a partner, as a father and now as a divorced woman. Since the late 80’s, it has been a losing battle; most of that time spent over 400 pounds. The 50 years since my first “hey fatso” appear to support the notion that we carry our fate with us regardless of the circumstances. There is nothing we can do; there is no place we can go that will change fate.
Even losing more than 100 pounds didn’t change my fate. I have done that three times since 1989. The latest loss was 185 pounds in 2001. But by Christmas, 2003 I was over 400 pounds, again. Fate has cursed me with some morbid propensity and plunked me in the middle of a society that deifies food and has no shortage of same. And now I have the additional burdens of age, gravity and estrogen conspiring to seal my fate unto death do we part. Perhaps I should accept the inevitable and surrender, get one of those electric scooters and ride into the sunset and a double-wide casket.
Perhaps I would except for Hurley.
In the television series “Lost,” Hurley believes he is cursed with bad luck since winning a lottery. The “curse” controls his life. In an inspiring scene, Hurley and friends find an old VW Microbus, but the battery is dead. Hurley hopes to jump start it by rolling it down a steep hill and popping the clutch. It’s a dangerous gamble. Nonetheless, Hurley flips fate the bird with faith that he can get the van to run. As the Microbus hurdles down the hill, Hurley says over and over, “There is no curse, we make our own luck.” You can watch the scene at the YouTube link below.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwZOmB9Fi30&feature=PlayList&p=28849ED323C7D9FC&playnext_from=PL&playnext=1&index=24
It’s time to make my own luck, tell fate to FO and start living thin, live the life I want, fight through the pain and fatigue and do the things I want to do, be who I want to be; right now, today.
There is no curse.
Take Care,
Billie
My earliest memory of being ridiculed for being fat is the 3rd grade. During elementary school, my parents put me on diets. My father would punish me if the scales didn’t show a reduction. I wore “husky” jeans, often several inches too long so the waist would fit. In high school, I had the nick name Billie Moon because my face was round and chubby. My self image was fat because everyone around me said I was fat.
Adulthood brought no relief. Controlling my weight was a constant struggle; in the Army, in the dating scene, to fit into my wedding suit, as a partner, as a father and now as a divorced woman. Since the late 80’s, it has been a losing battle; most of that time spent over 400 pounds. The 50 years since my first “hey fatso” appear to support the notion that we carry our fate with us regardless of the circumstances. There is nothing we can do; there is no place we can go that will change fate.
Even losing more than 100 pounds didn’t change my fate. I have done that three times since 1989. The latest loss was 185 pounds in 2001. But by Christmas, 2003 I was over 400 pounds, again. Fate has cursed me with some morbid propensity and plunked me in the middle of a society that deifies food and has no shortage of same. And now I have the additional burdens of age, gravity and estrogen conspiring to seal my fate unto death do we part. Perhaps I should accept the inevitable and surrender, get one of those electric scooters and ride into the sunset and a double-wide casket.
Perhaps I would except for Hurley.
In the television series “Lost,” Hurley believes he is cursed with bad luck since winning a lottery. The “curse” controls his life. In an inspiring scene, Hurley and friends find an old VW Microbus, but the battery is dead. Hurley hopes to jump start it by rolling it down a steep hill and popping the clutch. It’s a dangerous gamble. Nonetheless, Hurley flips fate the bird with faith that he can get the van to run. As the Microbus hurdles down the hill, Hurley says over and over, “There is no curse, we make our own luck.” You can watch the scene at the YouTube link below.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwZOmB9Fi30&feature=PlayList&p=28849ED323C7D9FC&playnext_from=PL&playnext=1&index=24
It’s time to make my own luck, tell fate to FO and start living thin, live the life I want, fight through the pain and fatigue and do the things I want to do, be who I want to be; right now, today.
There is no curse.
Take Care,
Billie
Monday, June 21, 2010
Just Call Me Dad
Many of you know my story. Aware at the age of 10 that something was wrong with my gender assignment, nonetheless I assumed the roles and responsibilities mandated by my genitals. By the time I understood I was Transgendered, I was married and the father of three children.
I was exhilarated at the thought of becoming the woman I was born to be. Yet, I was certain the cost would be the loss of my children. That was too high a price. Thus I decided not to transitions until the kids had all passed their eighteenth birthdays. As it turned out, my daughter was 22 and my boys were 20 when I revealed my intensions. For their entire lives up to that point, I had been Dad.
Today, my femininity is so comfortable, it is hard to believe I have lived as a woman for only three years. Some friends will occasionally comment that my children still call me “Dad” and I should ask them to call me “Mom” or “Billie” particularly in public.
I don’t think I will, for a couple of reasons.
First, I am quite sure my “ex” would have apoplexy if she knew her children were addressing me as “Mom.” But more importantly, I am not and never have been their Mother. I may have changed my gender but it’s not retroactive. By the grace of God, all three of my children are outstanding adults. I am proud of each one and whatever my contribution, the role I played was their father. Forgive my hubris, but I am proud of that.
If I had my druthers, I would go through life with no one knowing that I wasn’t born a woman and if someday my children want to start addressing me as Billie or even Mom, that’s OK. In the meantime, just call me Dad.
Take Care,
Billie
I was exhilarated at the thought of becoming the woman I was born to be. Yet, I was certain the cost would be the loss of my children. That was too high a price. Thus I decided not to transitions until the kids had all passed their eighteenth birthdays. As it turned out, my daughter was 22 and my boys were 20 when I revealed my intensions. For their entire lives up to that point, I had been Dad.
Today, my femininity is so comfortable, it is hard to believe I have lived as a woman for only three years. Some friends will occasionally comment that my children still call me “Dad” and I should ask them to call me “Mom” or “Billie” particularly in public.
I don’t think I will, for a couple of reasons.
First, I am quite sure my “ex” would have apoplexy if she knew her children were addressing me as “Mom.” But more importantly, I am not and never have been their Mother. I may have changed my gender but it’s not retroactive. By the grace of God, all three of my children are outstanding adults. I am proud of each one and whatever my contribution, the role I played was their father. Forgive my hubris, but I am proud of that.
If I had my druthers, I would go through life with no one knowing that I wasn’t born a woman and if someday my children want to start addressing me as Billie or even Mom, that’s OK. In the meantime, just call me Dad.
Take Care,
Billie
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Oh Where Have You Been Charming Billie
Before transition, I frequently isolated myself. There were a lot of reasons for that. I didn’t like the life I was forced to live and I was ashamed of my obese appearance and habits. I walled off the world whenever I could. I had no social life and apart from my children, no close relationships. One or two were closer than others, but no one, no one knew my heart. I promised myself that if I ever transitioned, I would tear down the walls and get a life.
But old habits die hard and so I seek comfortable surroundings when confronted with life’s truths, trials and trouble. There are no happy endings, just happy moments; moments that are all too fleeting and endlessly stalked by the next failure, the next betrayal or the next disappointment. Delight is smothered by the shadow of something waiting to destroy my joy, break my resolve and send me running for sanctuary.
Thus I have spent a lot of time this year in an alternate world. I do what must be done in this world then travel to another place where time doesn’t matter, deadlines don’t exist and dealing with the ugliness can always wait one more day. I drop my purse and computer bag on the couch. I walk by days of dirty dishes, weeks of dirty laundry, unopened mail and overflowing trash cans. I ignore the flashing light on the phone, the looming health issues and a solid start on the food plan. I rush to the portal, jack-in and in moments I am gone.
In this alternate world I am a forensic archeologist using my scientific talents to solve murders and resist my attraction to the FBI agent I work with. I am a brilliant structural engineer breaking my innocent brother out of prison. I am a quirky New York Police Detective solving major cases. I am a recovered coma victim that with one touch can see your future or something in your past. I am young genius who discovers how to stabilize the "Einstein-Rosen-Podolsky bridge” so I can “slide” to alternate Earths. I am anything I want to be, can do anything I need to do and sooner or later, I always triumph.
In the morning I awake having traveled back sometime in the night. I am tired and groggy and smashed to pieces. I sigh deeply, “Shit.” The tears well up. Through the haze I see the remnants of last night’s journey; the consequences piled atop the crushing weight of all those other tasks left undone. I want to go back, but I can’t. I cry as fear lays over me as surely as my blanket. A thousand ticks tocked last night, little bits of my life redeemable only in this world, worthless where I’ve been, thrown away; bits taken from a finite reservoir whose depth is known to no one. And so each morning goes, wondering if the road will end before the journey does.
I have to pee. I kick off the blanket and wrench myself out of bed. In the bathroom I stand only inches from the mirror. The tears have washed my eyes to a brilliant blue and my cheeks are rosy red. I rub the sleep from my eyes and just stare. “You have great skin; I’ll give you that much girl.”
Hope’s a funny thing.
Take Care,
Billie
But old habits die hard and so I seek comfortable surroundings when confronted with life’s truths, trials and trouble. There are no happy endings, just happy moments; moments that are all too fleeting and endlessly stalked by the next failure, the next betrayal or the next disappointment. Delight is smothered by the shadow of something waiting to destroy my joy, break my resolve and send me running for sanctuary.
Thus I have spent a lot of time this year in an alternate world. I do what must be done in this world then travel to another place where time doesn’t matter, deadlines don’t exist and dealing with the ugliness can always wait one more day. I drop my purse and computer bag on the couch. I walk by days of dirty dishes, weeks of dirty laundry, unopened mail and overflowing trash cans. I ignore the flashing light on the phone, the looming health issues and a solid start on the food plan. I rush to the portal, jack-in and in moments I am gone.
In this alternate world I am a forensic archeologist using my scientific talents to solve murders and resist my attraction to the FBI agent I work with. I am a brilliant structural engineer breaking my innocent brother out of prison. I am a quirky New York Police Detective solving major cases. I am a recovered coma victim that with one touch can see your future or something in your past. I am young genius who discovers how to stabilize the "Einstein-Rosen-Podolsky bridge” so I can “slide” to alternate Earths. I am anything I want to be, can do anything I need to do and sooner or later, I always triumph.
In the morning I awake having traveled back sometime in the night. I am tired and groggy and smashed to pieces. I sigh deeply, “Shit.” The tears well up. Through the haze I see the remnants of last night’s journey; the consequences piled atop the crushing weight of all those other tasks left undone. I want to go back, but I can’t. I cry as fear lays over me as surely as my blanket. A thousand ticks tocked last night, little bits of my life redeemable only in this world, worthless where I’ve been, thrown away; bits taken from a finite reservoir whose depth is known to no one. And so each morning goes, wondering if the road will end before the journey does.
I have to pee. I kick off the blanket and wrench myself out of bed. In the bathroom I stand only inches from the mirror. The tears have washed my eyes to a brilliant blue and my cheeks are rosy red. I rub the sleep from my eyes and just stare. “You have great skin; I’ll give you that much girl.”
Hope’s a funny thing.
Take Care,
Billie
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