My oldest memory as a child in diapers was of my father getting in my face for something I had done wrong. I don’t know what it was, but the next day, I remember the police had come to our apartment to look at my legs. There were marks all over my lower body.
One night, in Puerto Rico, I awoke in the middle of the night to what sounded like murder. My mother was screaming, and I could hear my father yelling at her. I remember going into the bedroom and when my mother saw me, she called me to her side, while my father paced about the room. In retrospect, I think she was using me as a shield, because the arguments stopped after I sat beside her and went to sleep.
When my family moved to Cape Cod, my father and mother eventually no longer lived together. My father continued to live on base, but my brothers and I moved in with our mother; into an apartment near the canal. I got to see my father on the weekends, but every time we went, we were subjected to hard labour in the form of military style cleaning. I think he somehow resented us for living with my mother, and to be honest, with all the work my father put me through, I preferred the soft words of reason to the hardened fist of the taskmaster.
During this time however, my mother started exhibiting strange behaviour. There were times where she would sit there in silence and any attempt to connect with her on an emotional level would be met with extreme fits of rage. I remember coming in one day and I asked her for a piece of cheese but I never got a response. It was like she completely ignored me. When I kept asking, she would eventually scream, “EAT THE KITCHEN.” Now, this went on several times until one time we came in, and she started forcing us to take naps. She would even sit there and make sure our eyes were closed. Eventually, I learned to stay outside; even if it meant defecating in the woods.
Aside from this behaviour, life could be considered normal for me as a pre-teen in the late eighties. I know it seems I am dragging my mother through the mud, but psychological abuse notwithstanding, I had a pretty normal family life. Outside of family, I had an active social life filled with friends and I even got a kiss from a girl. But then, the judge determined we should move in with my father; and that life of normality was replaced with a life of hardship and a lack of any social relationships.
Moving to Otis Air National Guard Base wasn’t so bad, at first. It was a safe neighbourhood with all active military personnel living in a small community tucked away from the main operations of the base. I developed friendships quickly and we explored the surrounding woods often. My best friend, Joseph Wright; we used to build forts in the woods, ride bikes, and shoot arrows with his bow; kid stuff. He was the only real best friend I had in my entire life, because I felt I could be myself with no judgement; although at the time, I didn’t quite understand the concept of a façade. He would later come to my door in the back yard when we weren’t allowed outside and play with Legos with us at the door step.
Slowly but surely however, those relationships began to fade; replaced by the work and restrictions my father kept adding on us, slowly but surely; much like the liberties Americans lose with every president.
On school days, we would come home around four or five o’clock. Our father would still be at work, so we weren’t allowed outside to play with the other kids until he got home. Instead, he would have us pick a room in the house to clean in addition to the homework we were given. When he did eventually arrive however, it was very rare that he would let us out. Most of the time, if we asked to go outside, he would find something he was dissatisfied with in the room we had cleaned or he would make some sort of chore up for us to do before going outside. By the time we did get to go out, the other kids were going inside to eat dinner. Eventually, I learned to abandon such aspirations.
On Saturdays, we would do something my father called a “Field Day.” This would consist of first, filling a bucket with scalding hot water, bleach and dish washing liquid; and then removing all the items and light furniture in a room before “wiping down all horizontal and vertical surfaces;” his words exactly. He would have us pick a wall to wipe down and would often have us stand there for thirty minutes to an hour, using “elbow grease” on stained surfaces. After the walls were clean, he would have us get on our knees and scrub the floor, before having us wipe down all of the objects we had taken out of the room and put them back. We would do this mainly in the bathrooms, living room, hallway, and sometimes the kitchen. If anyone of us wined or complained, we would spend time standing in a corner until he felt we had learned our lesson. Sometimes he would beat us with the belt; even going so far as to taunt us when he was going to beat us later. My youngest brother got it many more times than we did; which I later came to the conclusion was probably because he wasn’t my father’s child…
Eighty percent of the time, all of this labour would last the entire Saturday. On those rare occasions we finished a little earlier than usual, it was very likely he would find something we had missed or some other chore that needed to be done; like our bedroom upstairs or the basement. Sometimes we would spend the weekend at our Aunts house where we would continue our cleaning. There would be times she would come home from work and she would complain to my father that she didn’t like the change of scenery or what he was doing to his kids.
During the summers, when school vacation was in swing, our father would leave us at our aunt’s house. This might not seem like much of a big deal, until y
It was so bad, I remember later telling my father that I was planning on killing myself but instead of reacting as you might think, he punished me for feeling that way and put me back to work. My first suicide attempt was around the age of nine or ten. We were visiting my uncle in Pennsylvania over the weekend and after cleaning the house, my father wanted us to sit on the stairs. This was not unusual for us as we routinely ate on the stairs at home, so my brother and I made the best of our situation and were playing at the top of the stairs. I was swinging on the banister and I decided to just let go. I figured the fall would kill me and I wouldn’t have to focus so much on work. My brother said I tumbled down the stairs and hit the door handle to the closet at the base of the stairs. When I regained consciousness, I had a bump on the back of my head where the hair has stopped growing since then.
Sunday’s weren’t as bad because of the influence religion had on my father. The church was just as influential to my life however as any family member. As a Mormon, I learned that being black was a curse and about the various types of sin. Perhaps I was too young to understand racism, but the doctrine of sin I understood intimately. I held my purity above everything else in this world; everything. Sure, I sinned like most people, but the most important thing for me was that I wasn’t in iniquity; which, to nonreligious types, means I didn’t have any bad habits.
In about two years of living with my father however, I went from leading a normal social life with ongoing friendships to being bullied and ostracized by everyone in school. I spent more time in the guidance councillor’s office then I did in class, and with the exception of my brothers, stuffed animals became my only friends. I even went to a guidance councillor at a different school so that I could get in contact with my mother, but my father found out and I wasn’t allowed to go there anymore.
With the constant, looming threat of violence that my father had instilled, learned helplessness had firmly established itself in my life, and even within my young mind, life seemingly couldn’t be worse. But then my father got married…
Within days, we were cleaning our new mother’s house; and in a matter of weeks, she quickly fulfilled the role of slave master. If my father’s vice was forced labour and violence as punishment, than my stepmother’s was verbal and psychological abuse. It wasn’t her fault. She was merely playing the role my father had given her, and in this case, we were the prisoners and she was a warden. It was the Stanford prison experiments, but for real.
By this time, I had accepted subservience as normality and had gotten used to the treatment. With my brothers experiencing similar treatment, the camaraderie did much to hide the truth about our exploitation; similar to much of the mind-numbing jobs most of you are forced to work, just stay alive. With our new step-mother and her daughter however, the contrast became highly apparent.
Younger than all of us, our new sister was able to do things we wouldn’t dream of doing. She would disagree and talk back to her mother almost regularly, stomp around the house when she didn’t get her way, and even slam doors. It was very rarely that she would ever have to perform any of the chores we had, and we would have to clean up after her regularly. Even Jane Elliot would be disturbed.
This repeated abuse and difference in treatment, in combination with a growing libido as a result of puberty, had perhaps the most defining characteristic on my life; a desire to be a woman. Being associated with the culture of Christianity and having grown up in the church, I learned earlier from reading the Bible that fornication was a sin. At the same time however, puberty was taking its natural toll on my psychological wellbeing. Once I had seen the puberty movie at school, my mind became a losing battlefield between fornication and remaining pure. The fantasies would become more perverse the longer I denied sexual gratification, and the only respite seemed to be masturbation. I was trapped. I had entered into iniquity and I didn’t know what to do. Even prayer and fasting wasn’t working. Being an intellectual, I eventually did research on the human body and I learned about a significant difference between men and women. From a biological standpoint, I learned that once men went through puberty, they would be forced to contend with their libido until late in their life; that the constant barrage of sexual thoughts for men, is in fact, caused by the testosterone produced by the testis. To me, this knowledge was essentially damning; because it meant that God had set me up to fail. Conversely, when I researched the libido of women, I learned that their libido would only become more of a significant influence during menopause. By that time however, it was more likely for them to have been married. There were times I would cry myself to sleep, praying to God to turn me into a woman. In my mind, this would not only let me return to a life of purity, but also perhaps escape the abuse and labour I had suffered regularly at the hands of my parents; so that I could possibly enjoy the same freedoms as my step-sister. I eventually turned to crossdressing privately to relieve the stress; but with my overactive libido, the effects were less than desirable; and I found my honest intentions being twisted into perversions.
School offered additional trauma. The treatment I received at home throughout my years in high school, though ebbing over time, overshadowed the education I was supposed to receive in high school. From day one; I was ostracized, picked on, called names, or just ignored by literally everyone. Even the teachers occasionally joined in; whether it was abusing their power, singling me out for public humiliation with other students involved; or even blatantly making fun of the apparent abuse I experiencing at home. I literally had a teacher publically mock the abuse I was receiving at home and use it as a threat while the other kids in my class laughed at me.
I remember we had a guest speaker come to our school and he was sharing his story about being abused by his father. I guess he came there to teach the school about child abuse and what signs you’re supposed to look for. He went into great detail about how his father had beaten him with the belt and how he had lost his hand as a result. He would slam his hand down on the table to show the lack of feeling he had. Just hearing him go through the details made my eyes water, but I did my best to hide it because the prevailing culture among men was to not show emotion or appear weak lest you be perceived as a fag. When the guest speaker noticed my subtle emotions, he made a point of pointing out to everyone that I was experiencing similar abuse at home; but throughout the day, only one person showed any concern for me and it was in a joking and mocking manner.
In one instance, the door handle to my room had put a hole in the wall when I was playing for my brothers. When my father found out, he got really upset and beat me with buckle end of the belt; just like the guest speaker had described. After he was finished, I had blood running down my leg and scars all over my face and body. Ordinarily, it was easy to hide the bruises and scars; but this time, I couldn’t hide them from the people at my school. The teachers, predictably, said nothing; but my classmates were a little more inquisitive. It’s hard to share your problems with people that have already proven their cruelty and neglect though, so I lied. I told them I had gotten attacked by a dog and that I had to kill it to defend myself. I think it was apparent from the marks on my face though that it wasn’t a dog, but they were ignorant enough to try to shame me for killing a imaginary dog.
My youngest brother eventually notified DHS of our treatment. I remember we were forced to miss the bus to school because our stepmother wanted to read the reports on all of us aloud, in a mocking manner so that everyone could hear of the accusations.
“You have been reported for child abuse, and neglect…,” the statement would read. She had a separate statement about all of us. Once my step-mother got around to reading the statement on my youngest brother, my father ran out of the bathroom yelling “Neglect! Neglect!” and then proceeded to beat my brother. While my brother was screaming in the next room, my younger brother was crying in the room with me. I had a blunt knife in my hand and I was dragging the blade down the length of my arm. My brother saw this but because of his fear of his own father and the beating going on this next room, his calls for help weren’t loud enough for anyone to hear.
I don’t know what stopped me from killing myself that day. Perhaps it was because I didn’t want to leave my brother behind. I ended up sneaking out of the house through the basement and running to school. After getting there, I tried to go to class and put the whole thing behind me, but when I was about to enter the classroom however, I found the substitute teacher from my special education class in the hall, crying for some unknown reason. When she noticed I was visibly disturbed, she told me to go to the guidance councillor. After sending the police over to my house, I had students come up to me in a mocking manner and say “Tell me about abuse.” I told the guidance councillor and teacher, in confidence, and they had put it out there for everyone.
These are just a sliver of the things I went through in high school. It was so bad, that when the Columbine shootings were being broadcasted on every news station, there were serious changes in disposition from everyone for a whole week. I remember two students even coming up to me and asking whether or not I had access to firearms; the same students who would later drive onto oncoming traffic in an attempt to hit me with their car as I was walking to school…
After graduating, I entered the military. With all the treatment I had experienced from my father, I think that is what he was grooming me for. However, upon entering the military, I started experiencing symptoms of what was later identified as ulcerative colitis. Suffice to say, every time I used the restroom, I would see blood in my stool. After a colonoscopy, it was determined that I wouldn’t be able to stay in the military. I lasted one week…; arriving home on Christmas day. The weird thing was, after leaving the military, all the symptoms stopped. Kind of an odd blessing, because this was around the time when America invaded Iraq under false pretences.
Upon making it to the house, I found my room had been rented out. Not long after, my father drove me to Florida to live with my aunts; a wasted investment I’m sure he would have rather forgotten. Though gracious for a place to stay, both of my aunts had problems with alcohol. Sometimes I would even overhear talk of drugs and prostitution; though I can’t be certain if any of that is true. I found work at Sbarro washing dishes; but with the constant noise and interruptions in sleep; my work performance was suffering and I was on the verge of being fired. All this came to a head one night after getting off of work.
I had just gotten off my shift after closing hours and was about to go home, when a Spanish janitor motioned for me to come over. Being innocent and nice to everyone, I went over to see what he wanted. At the time, it was customary for the employees at my job to take home any leftover pizza or calzones that didn’t sell to the public. That night, I had about five boxes of food in my hand; so I had a good idea of what he wanted. I offered him a whole box but he declined; deciding instead to take a slice. He then started asking me questions; more specifically, about where I was going. Then he told me about a party at his place. At the time, I was completely new to social occasions. The only social interaction I had at that point was with some homeless Asian kids I had met in the arcade. I would give them free pizza, cigarettes, and food at Denny’s, and then they would let me tag along with them and be my friend. One time, I even went to a dance club. That’s why I had the five boxes of pizza. I was trying to leverage a ride to a club, but their car was packed already.
Anyway, I guess I should have figured out something was wrong when the janitor said that the party would start at 12:00… after he got off work. After dropping the pizza off at my cousins, I waited at a seven eleven until around 1:00. I should have told them where I was going, but I guess my childhood experiences had an effect on that decision.
When he arrived, he did not even give me a ride to his house, which should have been another indicator that something was not right. He gave the excuse that he had to get everything ready. I should have gone home, but I remember thinking about my inebriated aunts and thought otherwise.
Instead, I followed the directions he gave me to his apartment, which was a short distance from where I was waiting. When I arrived, no one was there and nothing was exactly ready. He said his friends should be coming and that I should watch television while we waited. He offered me a seat on the couch, but because I have always sat on the floor in the past, I declined. He then offered me wine… red; as well as marijuana. I declined both. My desire to remain pure was still there and drugs and alcohol would be further negative influences on my life, so I always avoided them.
He then started pacing, kept looking out the window, complaining about them not showing up. I told him I do not mind waiting, and to relax. I do not know why I was nervous. Looking back, his nervousness was really making me nervous.
After about two minutes, he asked me if I wanted to see a movie or some porn, working in the question of whether I want the light on as well. At this point, I was not paying attention to the television at all, but I was not thinking about leaving either. I was nervous, but at the same time, I did not want to ditch him like the homeless Asian kids had done to me. I told him I do not care, then he put on some amateur porn and turned the lights off.
He continued pacing about until asking me questions about my sexuality. He asked if I had ever been with a man. I nervously told him “if I were a women…”, but he interrupted mid-sentence and said “No, with a man!?” No, is all I could stammer out.
At this time, I had still wished I was female, but I never had any temptation or desire to be with a man. I simply wanted to enjoy being a woman with no sexual inclinations.
Not even a minute later, it was then that he jumped me. I was… shocked. Everything fell into place at this point, but it was too late to do anything. He had a firm grip on me. He then asked me if he could perform oral sex on me, but it was as if I was watching the whole event from the third person. A “yes” escaped my lips; not out desire but for fear of physical harm and possible death.
I should have seen it coming. Even an idiot would have noticed, but I did not know because I did not have any experience with the outside world. My life had always been about staying at home and being subservience.
All this time, I had considered myself straight; even calling people gay sometimes. Sure, I had cross-dressed almost regularly when I lived in my father’s house, but I never felt any attraction to men when doing so. I just did it to relieve the stress I had felt when living there. Now, I wasn’t so sure about my sexuality. The lines were blurring.
After I came, he went to the bathroom to wash out his mouth. I should have run. The door was not even two steps from me. I was still in shock though, frozen and stuck to the floor. I was starting to regain my thoughts and courage to leave, but he returned and began again. I do not know how I got out there, but the amount of acting that went into convincing him I had to leave was traumatic in and of itself. With an unusual calm, I told him my aunts were waiting for me, and that I should go. I even convinced him that I liked it and would return later. To further put his mind at ease, I used his restroom before leaving; mostly so I could wash off the smell of alcohol, marijuana and semen off me. I would have just left, but being violated in such a way made me more concerned with removing all the reminders of the incident.
After leaving, and getting out of the sight of the apartment, I ran. I didn’t run far however because the thoughts of what had just transpired had overwhelmed me. Oddly enough, it wasn’t emotional. I felt them, or perhaps thought about how I should feel, but it was as if my emotions were a tiny voice in a loud machine room; the massive process of data completely deafening the emotional experience. I had a concept of killing my emotions, by intellectualizing everything objectively; but now it had come so naturally that I lost any sense of humanity. I wasn’t even concerned about the social ramifications because of all the trauma I had already experienced in the past. I just had a lot of questions. Why did I not notice was going on? Why didn’t I catch all the warning signs? Was I gay? What are the health ramifications for this lifestyle? Why don’t I feel any emotions? Is this muted affect? Alexithymia?
Returning to work the next day, I found it difficult to function; too many questions unanswered. The same janitor was working that day and just seeing him made it difficult for me to stay focused on the job. When my boss complained and I told him what had transpired, he was completely apathetic to me and insisted I get back to work; just like my father… I don’t know if he had fired me or if I had quit, but I remember officially leaving the work place that same day. I made a police report at a substation not far from the mall where I worked, but they didn’t seem to take it seriously. I almost saw a smirk on one of the guys faces. I offered to show them where the incident took place, but they refused. The guy was still working there when I eventually moved out of state…
I later moved in with my grandmother in Michigan, but it wasn’t because I told her what had happened. Instead, her motivation for picking me up, was brought on when I told her that her daughters were doing drugs and alcohol, and how I had literally slept on the street as a result.
I found work as a pool attendant over the summer, and for the first time, I actually enjoyed the work I was doing. I even made a friend with an ex-convict who I think was still on probation. It was a fake relationship though. I had lied about my nationality so that black people in the neighbourhood would be little more respectful of me having different interest than them. Detroit wasn’t that far from where we lived, so I wasn’t willing to risk my life by encouraging conflict with them. By wearing the façade of being at least half Hawaiian, it elevated my social standing in the neighbourhood and absconded me from having to fulfil the stereotypical roles that were expectant of people within the black community.
The only reason I knew of this reality is because throughout high school; the few black people that embraced thug culture would always bully and accuse me of acting white. Anyway, this interaction with black people was a reoccurring theme…
Anyhow, he got me out the house and through him, I met three different women, which was probably for the best because I was retreating from the public a lot after the trauma in Florida.
The first two women were sisters visiting home from college. The older one was tall and lean, with an introverted and melancholy personality. She had long, dark brown hair that was dull and lifeless. In fact, it almost felt like the world around her was less saturated in colour. She looked like something out of the Sweeny Todd movie; very beautiful with a dark, depressing aura. Between the sisters, I liked her the most; though I must admit, learning that she was a rape victim too might have influenced the attraction. I wanted to tell her she wasn’t alone. I wanted to tell her that I too had suffered…, but to do so would ruin the façade of the normalcy I had erected around myself. I didn’t matter though. She didn’t visit as often as I had liked. Instead, her sister made a habit of showing up.
The younger one was more talkative and outgoing. She had braces, blonde hair, and seemed to be the complete opposite then her sister. I wasn’t attracted to her at all, but with her friendly demeanour and almost regular visits to the pool, I found it easy to talk to her. In that past, I had always had a hard time speaking to women; but between the confidences that comes with having friends; the false persona of being Hawaiian; the requirements of my job; and my regular interaction with her, I did something I never thought I would do.
One particular evening, after a boring but otherwise enjoyable work day, we were talking while I was closing up shop for the day. So, we get the bathroom area where I usually perform maintenance and I find the door to the women’s bathroom to be locked. We’re both dumbfounded as to who would have the key to lock the door. After knocking again however, a black couple came out; apparently just finished having sex. I didn’t complain, but there was definitely an awkward laugh between us. I let them pass with little protest; even though I felt different from the experience. I don’t know what it was; but the next day, when the blonde girl came back; I didn’t see her like a friend anymore. I kept thinking about sex and she was the object of my infatuation. It didn’t make any sense, and as an introverted intellectual, I found it difficult to concentrate. My mind, the very central part of my existence and realm of complete mastery, was being violated by illogical thoughts. It wasn’t long after I called her away from everyone else while they were leave, knelled down with her as if to tell her a secret, and then completely violate her trust by kissing her.
I don’t know what I said, but she didn’t react. I would have been in shock too if the person I thought I knew, suddenly changed their behaviour. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t understand this paradigm and her lack of emotion and willingness to stick around and walk with me toward the entrance of the bathrooms made me feel as if I had a chance of sleeping with her. I didn’t put my hands on her, but I was propositioning her hard. I had visible erection too; which makes me wince in shame just thinking about it now.
She refused, and I’m glad she did, because I don’t know if I would be able to control myself if she entered the bathroom with me. Instead, she told me I should meet her father; and like a horny dog, I followed her to the entrance of her parents’ condo. As we were walking toward her place, the reality of what just happened started to become clear; and when we finally arrived, I snapped out of it when she told me her father would want to fuck me.
The next day, my guy friend found out; and all he could talk about is why I didn’t go up to her room to fuck her. It was only until I told him about what she said about her father that he cut me some slack. I think those sisters went back to college because I didn’t see them any more after that.
The last girl I met was a black girl. She was a light skinned black girl, with long dark brown, relaxed hair and she had smile accentuated by a gap between her two front teeth. She wasn’t like the rest of the black people in the neighbourhood, and she would come to the pool often. In fact, unlike the two sisters before her, she would hang out with us even when weren’t at the pool; which was great. She was like “one of the guys,” and that was good for me because that last experience with the blonde girl was traumatic.
Everything between us was all right until one afternoon, when I went over her house. My guy friend was at work, and she needed help with something. So we went up to her room and she said she needed help with shaving her legs. As I am waiting for her to draw her bathwater, I’m sitting on her bed looking at all the clothes hanging out of her closet and I notice her shoe collection. As I’m looking at her shoes, I notice she’s the same height as me, so I start asking her if I could borrow a pair for Halloween. I hadn’t cross-dressed in for many years, but at the time, I always wanted to dress in drag for the occasion. Unfortunately, once I asked her that, she changed her mind needing my help, so I left.
It wasn’t until she started dating my friend that I figured out what that encounter was really about. I could tell that she didn’t really like him though because she only seemed to be raunchy when I was around. She eventually stopped “dating” my friend and got into another relationship, supposedly with an EMT driver, and then we wouldn’t see her for weeks. When the week of Halloween came, she and her friend visited me at my grandmother’s house she was out. She was wearing her costume, a French maid outfit with all the accessories and stiletto heels to complete the outfit. I was so jealous, because I wanted to wear the same outfit for Halloween but couldn’t afford it. She told me it was for a party her and her boyfriend were going to, but for some reason, she wanted to sit in my lap to have her picture taken. I know should have felt something from the experience, but I was completely flaccid; and I think she knew.
These two experiences, along with my rape experience, solidified my resolve to never desire a physical relationship with a women ever again. As a rape victim, I learned that there is no such thing as gay or straight; that sex is merely self-gratification through the sense of touch, and therefore a form of masturbation. As a propositioner of sex however, I understood the helplessness of my own sexual attacker; the unsympathetic, rapturous, chemical bonds that coerced a man into action without so much as a notion as to the consequences. And finally, as a human-being being propositioned into intercourse, I learned that sex is merely the levelling of a testosterone and dopamine imbalance with the rest of the body. Therefore, I came to the conclusion that as long as testosterone influenced attraction; true love between humans would never exist; that if anything, ordinary friendship is the true form of love.
This realization stopped me from merely wishing I was female, to actively pursuing the long process of transitioning. As a post-op transsexual, I knew my libido would be reduced significantly and I wouldn’t be effected by lascivious thoughts corrupting my sacred space. I could truly love someone really, without any provocation of lust or objectivication. Unfortunately, my living standards and financial difficulties prevented me from taking any action; so I was relegated to playing the role of the heterosexual masculine.
Slowly but surely however, my uncle and other family members started questioning my sexuality. They would criticize my subtle mannerisms and mock the way I walked and interacted with people. Then the people I called my friends joined in and then I started seeing them a lot less. When the season ended, I had to find another job but the people ostracized me where ever I went. I made a conscious effort to monitor how I interacted with people but I didn’t understand what was going on. I still hadn’t crossdressed since I lived with my father, so there shouldn’t have been a reason for people to suspect anything. Admittedly though, the desire was definitely there.
Ever since the incident, my sexuality had been all over the place. I still had an overactive libido, but now, every time it was active, I would go through a series of stages in my sexuality. First it would be sexual attraction to women, and this lust was sin within itself. But then, if I delayed sexual gratification, it would spread into attraction to transsexuals and effeminate men. Then if I delayed gratification, it would spread into men. Then, if I delayed sexual gratification further, then the fantasies would get weirder and more extreme. Still, the only respite being masturbation with shame and guilt afterwards.
I eventually moved away and attended Job Corps in Bangor, Maine. I heard my brother was in a similar predicament, what with finding and keeping a job, and I figured I had a better chance of getting a career if I learned a trade. When I arrived, I learned there was a high turnover rate and that many of the people had been through the penal system. I never went to prison, but I knew the culture would be similar so I didn’t waste any time finding a group to associate with. Remarkably, I was able to assimilate in the Goth culture on account of a matrix jacket I had purchased when living in Michigan. Of what little people I’ve had in my life, it was these people that I enjoyed the most. It was like LARP’ing every day. In their eyes, I was an ex-military tough guy with martial arts training, who happened to be a Goth. I even changed my body language to mimic Wesley Snipes in that movie Blade. In my mind, and on more than one occasion, this allowed them to be themselves without people targeting them; something I experienced throughout my life. At the same time, it let me avoid being the victim in a community largely dominated by black and spanish “thugs.” I was respected and feared by almost everyone there.
But…, it was all a lie. There are consequences that come with respect and fear. When you respect someone, you put them on a pedestal. You don’t treat them the same as everyone else because you’re trying to maintain the fantasies you have built up in your mind, and in that respect, it was my job to uphold those fantasies. This is why leaders are so effective in freeing themselves but enslaving the people; because they project the office they hold rather than their vulnerable human side. There are consequences that come with fear as well. When you make people fear you, you have to keep reinforcing that image of fear or the people you are manipulating get comfortable and fail to respect you. It’s a never ending battle. But if you are intelligent, you know that fear is essentially just an emotional response for a perceived unknown threat. Once people understand you, physically and psychologically, that fear is replaced with ambition, and then they eventually have control over you. I was expelled from Job Corps when I grew tired of being put on a pedestal, and because I showed my vulnerable human side, I compromised my image of fear. I had gotten in a fight with a roommate who previously would never think to lay his hands on me, and then I was expelled shortly after. Fighting is strictly prohibited on campus, even if it is in self-defence.
I eventually moved back in with my father. He was going through a second divorce and I guess he wanted me there for emotional support. Perhaps as a result of the divorce, we did more father son activities together. We went roller blading in Falmouth and Woods Hole, went to museums, and looked for another home. I even helped him start two businesses, something I saw as the ultimate father son activity. This was all a lie however because for all the work we did, I never saw any profit. His ideas would clearly make anyone wealthy, but we never bore any fruit because he never followed through with his plans. He used to tell me about ideas, and a year later, some other guy was making millions doing the exact same thing he had talked to me about. I told him to work on the business plan; I even offered to do it myself, but he always kept his progress from me. Seven years I tried to get him to finish the business plan, but instead I was relegated to creating brochures, building and managing our websites, or some other ultimately unimportant task; and the only reason I stayed was because I had a place to sleep. Looking back, I think his motivation to start a business was mainly a combination of trying to cope with the divorce and taking nothing from the split except what he could fit in the van. It also didn’t help that we moved from Cape Cod, vacation destination, to Newark, one time homicide capital of the United States. The change of scenery did a lot to his sense of work.
As a result of this time however, I had been out of work for seven years. I had a few seasonal positions, but nothing capable of allowing me to find my own place. It didn’t help that I was living in a city that was predominantly black either. I spent most of my time inside because I was too afraid of the people outside. Those times when I did find myself outside, I made a point of ignoring the locals. My theory was that as long as I didn’t let them get comfortable being around me, I wouldn’t get any of the criticisms or insults I had received throughout my past. It worked, and for a time, many people treated me with respect; a similar behaviour to what I experienced in Job Corps but without the lies. Sometimes I would even play with them by acting like an undercover cop or FBI agent. I would put one headphone in my ear at the bus stop and stare at the bodega across the street; putting two fingers to my ear and acting like I was listening to someone on the other end… a lot of uncomfortable people when I did that. It was all in good fun though. Having ignored so many people however, it really affected my ability to find work in the city. Black people were more inclined to hire people they knew in the community, but because they saw me as a rich snob, I couldn’t get help with employment when I needed it. Was the trade-off worth it? You tell me…What use is money if you don’t live long enough to spend it?
I eventually attended a community college; mostly at the behest of my Uncle and father. I would have went earlier, but I didn’t want to be in debt for the rest of my life. I spent ten years learning psychology and sociology independently so that I could navigate social interactions more successfully and cope with the trauma I had received, but because I didn’t have a degree or a career in the field, people never took me seriously when I gave my insight. It was terrible there. For the first time in my life, I was made to look at white people through the lens of racism; something I had only ever experienced twice in my life. I used to argue with my teachers because I didn’t act “like a student,” and blindly follow their twisted nigger logic. I remember telling my English teacher the definition of the word and even cited actual materials to back up what I was saying and she threatened to remove me from class. Sometimes I think these predominantly black schools deliberately set black people up to feel inferior and to see a confrontation with white people where the real confrontation is with themselves. It shouldn’t take a Jay-Z video to put two and two together.
Shortly after college, I ended up staying at my Uncles house and working at his office while I looked for employment. My plan was to earn some money from the work I was doing and move down south with my youngest brother and find work down there. Somewhere along the way, it came back to me that my father used the opportunity to “kick me out;” probably a decision influenced by my new step-mother. She had met my father over the internet and within a couple months of talking online, she had flown halfway around the world and married my father within a week of being there. My father has always dreamt of being with an Asian women, and because he worships women, her work was pretty much cut out for her. She didn’t like me very much either because I could interpret when she was being manipulative. Within a week of getting the marriage certificate, it disappeared and she told my father that I must have taken it. My father asked me if I took it, and the only reason he believed me was because I never exhibited any behaviour on that level before. Another time, she came to me with my father’s voice recorder behind her back and tried to get me to confess to only living there to sponge off my father. If there was anyone I would have wanted to have murdered, it would have been her; and the elaborate psychological tortures I had thought up even made even the therapist I talk to later in life cringe. Her presence there, for me, was nothing more than a distraction to getting the business off the ground; but as I said earlier, the problem was not with her, but with my father. When he was supposed to be working on the business, he instead devoted time to relationships. He sacrificed prosperity for lust, the very thing I loathe.
Anyway, after several weeks of living with my uncle, I eventually found work at Costco and it was determined that I should live with my father again until I could get my own place. Costco, for those that do not know, pays their employees well; plus when I read that Costco was a major supporter in LGBT rights, I was certain that I would be able to use the money to transition and do so openly. In my mind, the loss or diminishment of libido from sexual reassignment surgery would be the ultimate cure for my overactive libido and the sexual confusion I felt. Plus, I would still be able to look myself in the mirror without seeing a scar and being reminded of the trauma. I would essentially be a eunuch, something actually promoted in the Bible; but I would also be able to escape the social ties that come with being a man. By this time, the temptation to be gay was overwhelming. It was corrupting even my desire to transition to avoid sexual fornication; reducing my desires to more base instincts, like feminization, bimbofication and sissification. I actually detailed all of this in a Tumblr where I fantasied about having a man’s huge cock disappear beneath my collar one and having him stroke my throat with his soft hands as he shoot ropes of cum down my oesophagus. I’m not proud of that one, but I did see some amateur pornos with people quoting me…
Unfortunately, working at Costco, the money was not enough to find an apartment and begin transitioning. I looked for a room but everywhere I turned, something was wrong. Even family members that wanted me to get my own place disagreed with the places I thought were liveable. Eventually, however, my career at Costco looked bleak. I started noticing behaviour from other workers that gave me reason to believe the novelty of having a transgender person working there was wearing off. I knew it would happen eventually. The work force was largely made up of cultural Christians, and it was only a matter of time before the effects of Terror Management would take over. I was the victim of many Machiavellian attempts to get me fired. I experienced feelings of extreme paranoia working there. I even started seeing a therapists as a result; partly to transition but also to talk about my frustrations at work. On top of that, somehow my father found out about the pills I had ordered online for my transition, and I was made to pay half the rent for only a hallway sized strip of rug to lay my head. Sometimes he would even drive his car around the parking lot where I worked to make sure I looked and acted according to what he thought was acceptable. I had already tried to save up money for my own place, but with the rent, it just wasn’t possible for me to save money and eat.
I knew I would be fired eventually so I took my money and hired a web design team to build a working prototype for a business to business ecommerce website. Think Alibaba, but geared more toward brick and mortar stores; very lucrative, even if it turned out to be not that popular. This wasn’t a spur of the moment thing either. This was going to fund another business I had started long time ago. Unfortunately, before I could finish bug testing, I ran out of money. I still have a working prototype on my computer, but it has some graphical errors and I am not comfortable releasing it to the public yet.
Anyway, I was eventually fired from Costco for refusing to accommodate customers off the clock; some trumped up charges so they didn’t have to deal with working with a tranny, crossdressing freak. I worked there for about two years, and fought seditiously against their discrimination for half that in order to keep my job. Checks and balances made it very hard for them to get away with anything, and every attempt was met with hard logic and reasoning. They actually had to move their manager to another location because I had evidence of him drinking on the job; great leverage when people are backstabbing. My only real offense came from racially stereotyping a Spanish guy when he disrespected the flag when taking it down and refused to listen reason. When I finally left, they actually hung a brand new American flag out in the parking lot which they had purposely torn and roughed up as a sense of accomplishment in getting me fired. One of their war veteran customers had even taken a picture of it and posted it in a Google Map review of the place. (It’s not there anymore.) I’m rather proud of that.
My father kicked me out of the house shortly after I lost my job. He didn’t like that I had bought clothes for my transition and he used his new Hebrew Israelite religion to justify kicking me out. I actually read a rough draft of this very statement to my father; telling him of my struggles and how the influence he had on me was contributing to them. He basically accused me of being a demon and talked about how he should kill me.
Now homeless, but still collecting unemployment, I ended up staying at a cheap motel; and for the first time in over ten years, I actually slept in an actual bed… and it was nice, even with all the human noise pollution. I knew my unemployment would run out soon, so I spent the majority of my time and money planning my suicide. I read from various news articles about a tree called the yew whose powerful poison called Taxine could stop the heart almost instantly within a 30 minute time span; a quick a peaceful death. But nothing could compare to the power of an inert gas like carbon monoxide or nitrogen. One good whiff of that gas and you would quickly go to sleep and die the most peaceful of deaths. In fact, I still have both methods of suicide at my disposal; and I can honestly say, they are by far the best investment I have ever made. When you’re faced with the constant fear of homelessness and a slow and agonizing death from starvation, these tools become the greatest salvation from the suffering.
In order to get these though, I had to get an address to have them delivered to. Not living at my previous address, I decided to use my Uncles office. It was convenient and I could help him with his taxes as a way to hide the real reason I had been there. I guess he sensed something was up however with the luggage I was wheeling around because he started paying for a room at the Marriott using the rewards he had saved up. This change of surroundings was a serious distraction; Up until then, I was trying to use my bleak surrounds and a dwindling bank account to dredge up some kind of emotions for my final act because I wasn’t feeling anything.
I eventually told my uncle what was going on and about my plans to transition, and for the first time in a very long time, I actually experienced real emotions. But, like everyone else, he went right to stereotyping me as gay; even after all I told him…, about being raped, the confusion I felt, everything. This was sort of a last straw for me, because no one seemed to understand my confusion and the ongoing temptation that was going on in my head wasn’t making my life any better. So, one night I found myself sleeping at the cheap hotel. My uncle couldn’t get a room that day so I slept there. This time however, I made a craigslist ad for free sex. I figured since everyone I cared about kept calling me gay, I should at least experience what it’s like from a perspective of inclination. In the very least, if the experience was bad, I could always use it as a psychological defence. There was no way I was going do it as a man however, so I bought clothes from Walmart and looked the part of a woman. I just couldn’t cope with the idea of being man and sleeping with another man again.
When he arrived, I did all the things I had seen in porn. I let him fuck my throat and I even swallowed his cum for being gentle. He tried to fuck me but for a black guy, he was too short. After the experience, he expressed that he wanted to see me again. I guess he wanted something regular, but in my mind, the experience was bittersweet; and not because of him. During the whole process, I didn’t really enjoy it. It was nothing like a dildo, and it felt like I was like sucking on a wet noodle. It just felt awkward and weird, even for me. At the same time however, for the first time in my life, I actually felt genuinely wanted; and that was a problem. Was I going to live a life as a prostitute to support my transition? I already have a long track record of having no friends, and with the employment issues I’ve been facing, it felt as if the only thing I could do was work for myself; which admittedly is something I have already wanted to do, but not as a prostitute. Now my problems had multiplied, because instead of just battling the emotional confusion I felt for all those years, now I had a logical argument to sleep with men; to make a living. The only reason I refuse to do so is because it’s illegal and every job I have worked in the past has been a steady reminder of the child labour my father put me through. The only work that I’ve enjoyed was at the pool, when I wasn’t really doing anything but managing others, and when I was interning at the greenhouse for the benefit of my business. Everyone keeps telling me that it’s not the work that you do that’s important, it’s the life you lead after work that is; but I don’t have any friends or hobbies. In fact, I actually avoid people because I am sick of being battered by them. The little sense of worth I have left is in the ideas and remedies I have to fixing the world’s problems, and if I’m honest, it’s actually the only reason I am still alive.
My uncle eventually gave me a room in one of his rooming houses in South Bound Brook, where I am staying now. I had tried to get a room in the past when I was employed at Costco but couldn’t because it didn’t make financial sense to my uncle. I saw him on several times coming out the back office at Costco where I worked, so I think he had an inkling of what they were trying to do; or perhaps even had a hand in my separation from the company. I think the only reason he gave me this place to stay was to prevent my suicide, but now he seems to be hinting that he doesn’t want me around anymore because I “cramp his style.” He never supported my desire to transition and every time I have explained my situation, he has been quick to tell me to keep in the closet because no one will hire me.
He’s technically right though. When I researched South Bound Brook, I learned it was located close to Zarephath Christian Church and Star 99.1 Radio Station. That meant the area would be saturated with Christians; and sure enough, my theory was correct. So far, all of the people here have exhibited the first two of five behavioural traits that I associate with Terror Management since I have been here:
- Ignoring the existence of the person who is different than you.
- Discrediting and dismissing the culture values of the person who is different than you.
- Trying to convert the person into abandoning their cultural values and adopting their own.
- Actively ridiculing the person because their cultural values are different than you.
- Fighting and/or killing the person who has different cultural values than you do.
Right now, the people of South Bound Brook and the majority of my family members are at one and two. My uncle is at three, and my father is at five. The only defence I have observed to work effectively is whether you let people into your life. If you make a habit of ghosting people and pretending they don’t exist, then it makes it difficult for them to advance on the path of their mental illness. You effectively make their opinion, whether it’s good or bad, irrelevant; and believe me when I say this, if their negative opinions don’t have any observable influence on you, they will use positivity to get you to open up for their negativity. However, there is a weakness in this defence. If you are forced to interact with people, or you see that person regularly and are forced into conversation, then they will eventually get comfortable and will make bolder statements. In fact, it’s the very reason I was antisocial at Costco, and I suspect it’s only a matter of time before that happens here.
Thinking back, this wouldn’t have been an issue if my uncle didn’t stop me from being myself. When I moved to South Bound Brook, I took full advantage of not having my father looking over my shoulder and dressed my gender all the time. I do not know if I passable, but people were respectful. However, my Uncle started to complain about my looks so I eventually came to his office as he wanted me to look. This then caused people in South Bound Brook to change their opinion of me from women (possibly transgender) to crossdresser. It was a total repeat of the effects at Costco with my father; driving around the parking lot and making sure I looked and acted how he wanted.
My first instance of experiencing the effects of Terror Management in South Bound Brook was when I applied for a part time position at Family Dollar. It’s not my profession, but it’s within walking distance to the room I am staying in. I figured I could work part time to supplement my income while spending my free time on my own business. When I arrive there however, the experience was less than hopeful. I read her like a book, as I often do with people, and I watched her exhibit all the emotions and body language that clearly gave the impression she didn’t want me working there: From astonishment, to contempt, to disgust, to hope, and then relief, and finally resolve. I didn’t pass the psychometric test they give to people applying for such mediocre positions. I later did some research on their line of assessment and found out why. If you ever take one of those tests and they ask questions like “Do you think people are trust worthy or honest?” It’s not to see how vigilant or truthful you are. The assumptions is that everyone conforms to the culture around them, and that by asking you that question, they can assume that you are just like the people you accuse. This is false line of reasoning however, because if you went to school for psychology or sociology, you learn that everyone lies out of pure instinct. But if you want the job… correction; but if you want to survive in this capitalistic world, you have to lie…
I knew I would have trouble finding work in South Bound Brook though, so I went for general assistance. I hate fulfilling the nigger stereotypes, but with many employers not returning my calls or asking to interview me, I had no other choice. Cell phone plans aren’t free. If I had a decent job with the circumstances I have now, I would have transitioned and blended in with society a long time ago. The last thing I want to do is corrupt the youth in this town. I’m an amateur sociologist. It doesn’t come without its insights.
Anyway, when I told the case manager my story, and they ended up putting me in SAI/BHI for a psychological evaluation to determine whether I was sane enough for the workplace. What should have been a two or three week psychological evaluation; turned out to be a four month evaluation with several different psychologist who couldn’t determine whether or not I was sane. On one hand, they couldn’t refute the logic of my philosophy that it is better to commit suicide than to avoid prolonged suffering as a result of homelessness. On the other hand, their reputations as psychologists, as well as dealing with their own death anxieties, pushed them to try to change my line of thinking. I ended up seeing four different mental health professionals, each with Masters or Ph.D.’s.; all of whom eventually diagnosed me as being ready of work. The councillors at social services, however dragged their feet at every attempt I made to get help entering the workforce. They were supposed to put me on general assistant after the first month, but they didn’t help me until five months later. I accumulated three different phone bills as a result of this. By the time my SAI/BHI councillor said I was ready for work, they had already closed my case. In fact, she actually called me on the phone the very next day, after telling me I completed the program, and told me to start the process all over again. I ended up spending an additional month in the court process just trying to get an appeal.
Currently, my life can go in three directions:
- If you are following my other channel, I’m sure you know the first one; promoting human sovereignty and fixing earths environmental problems. If I raise enough money to get those two ecommerce businesses off the ground, I can truly promise a definitive answer to the threat of all life on this planet.
- If I don’t raise that money, than I will continue along the path I am on right now. I just earned my certification for Java Development from the Bright Horizon Institute in Newark. If things work out before the end of May, I will have a decent job and I can work developing my websites in my spare time.
- And if both of these fail however, and I find myself homeless; then I will drink the vial of Taxine that I synthesised when I thought I would be homeless.
I do not have much in the way of selfish desires. I’m not interested in the fancy car or the big house. What I want is simple; a bilateral orchiectomy and I want to begin hormone replacement therapy. I don’t want the daily temptation to reproduce. I don’t want to relive my traumas whenever I feeling amorous. And I don’t want to sit in therapy for the rest of my life and practicing mindfulness meditation. I want freedom; financially, psychologically, and from dependency. I want sovereignty.