By fifth grade I was eleven, I was thicker and curvier in body size and to be honest I looked a lot like a girl. Even wearing boy’s clothes and having shorter hair. I have bigger lips, bright blue eyes, feminine features and soft skin. I liked when people would ask if I was a girl or a boy or made the mistake of calling me a female. It made me feel like I wanted to feel—pretty.
For some odd reason by that age, I had also started to grow small breasts and my mom took me to the doctors because she was concerned. I loved it but I was born a boy and boys aren’t supposed to have breast tissue, or that’s what my mother said. My doctor after running some tests, confirmed I had a lower amount of testosterone than most males my age and that I might grow out of it. I prayed I never would. At the same appointment, my mother spoke with my doctor about my feelings regarding being born the wrong sex. Nothing was mentioned to my father of course, we made sure of that.
The doctor started me in counseling right away and my first counselor confirmed I was basically crazy. The woman had dated my dad in high school. I’m fairly certain that had something to do with her diagnosis. Then I was transferred to a different physiologist. Who by the age of thirteen had diagnosed me with Gender Identity Disorder or GID, for short. Dr. Banks was a nice middle-aged woman, and by the time I was twelve, she had teamed up with my mom to keep close tabs on the abuse I was enduring. We kept thorough records and pictures of all my newest scars and marks. For years I went to Dr. Banks’s once a week and for that hour we’d talk, document the abuse, and she’d help me find a way to try and conceal my female insides until I was able to get away from my father. I had even met children like me, through a group Dr. Banks brought me to. It felt wonderful to know I wasn’t alone. During that time, I had also started to accept having what I call Lady, between my legs. From the age of fourteen, I decided I never wanted to undergo gender reassignment surgery or GRS. I realize a lot of people might want that. I, on the other hand, have grown to accept my extra appendage. An extra appendage that occasionally gives me pleasure. It works for me. Why would I fix something that’s not broken?
Once I turned fifteen, after knowing Dr. Banks for four years she and my mom finally decided to turn my father into the authorities for child and spousal abuse. Not the local cops because that route had always turned out to be a dead-end. With all of our testimonials, the scars that I will live with for the rest of my life, plus other various shreds of evidence, my father was arrested and charged.
During this time, my mother and Dr. Banks without my knowledge had devised a brilliant plan. My mom was already in the process of purchasing the floral store here in Heartfair, the house she owns two houses down from mine and securing a small nest egg from money my mom had hid from my father over the years.
The days leading up to my father’s arraignment, he was let out on bail, thanks to my previous counselor who was tending to my fathers every need during the trial. The subject of my sexuality was my father’s bargaining chip as to why he chose the punishments he had. Evidence was too strong against him, that he couldn’t plead not guilty. Instead, he gave pitiful excuses on the stand as to why he abused me. “He’s a sissy fucker, who needed toughened up,” was the headlining statement plastered all over the newspapers and other local media. It’s not often that you see a ‘stand up’ police officer on trial for abusing his child for ten years. The media ate it up by the boatload.
It was nearly midnight, three days prior to my father’s arraignment. My mother and I were living at our old house. I was asleep in my twin bed, in the same blue walled bedroom with ugly dark brown shag carpeting. When a hand clamped over my mouth and a giant man suspended himself over my body, stinking of BO, cigarettes and whiskey. I didn’t have to guess who it was. I knew it was my father.
“Shut the fuck up. Don’t you scream, or I’ll kill you little bitch boy.” He harshly whispered his hunting knife out of his hip holster, the cold tang pressed to my jugular.
I didn’t move.
“Do you understand?” his voice hissed in a near whisper.
I nodded.
I couldn’t make out all of his features; I also didn’t have a clue why he was there, other than him wanting to kill me.
“I’m going to put the knife down.” He pulled it away from my neck and sat back on my bed. Allowing me to move and sit up, as his dark form took up the end of my bed.
I still didn’t say a word.
“Why did you turn me in? I was trying to man you up.” His voice had dropped down to a slow sadness. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.