Origins of Evelyne Part 7 – The First Reveal

20 percent. That is the percentage of couples that survive after one partner admits to being transgender to their significant others. It means that 4 out of 5 couples are destroyed by this news, where the partner immediately leaves or does so shortly thereafter. I knew those odds before I told my wife, and yet it wasn’t something that I could possibly hide from her. First, because it wouldn’t have mattered if I had waited – it would only have been pushing back the inevitable reaction. Second, because I would have caused a lot of damage to myself by continuing to deny the truth about my own soul.

I first started by asking her if she could ask the therapist she was seeing for a reference, because I thought that first passing it off as a depression would probably be a softer entrance to the subject. Indeed, I’d learned that a lot of repressed transgenders did suffer from depression, so it wouldn’t be so far-fetched… But my wife, always eager to get to the bottom of everything, awarded me with a cold reception: she, of course, didn’t believe I was in a depression because I didn’t have all the symptoms, and wasn’t suicidal. Hmn.

That night, she did end up coming back from her therapist with a reference, but not without to continue prodding and poking until she was satisfied that she understood why I was doing it (or, I guess, not until she was satisfied that I wasn’t lying). Having been through this sort of argument with her before, I knew where it would lead so I quickly decided to drop the illusion and tell her, in something of a burst of emotion and passion, that I had Gender Identity Dysphoria, that I was actually a woman inside, and that I couldn’t continue living as a man anymore…

As you can imagine, her first reaction was of disbelief. I can understand a little how she felt by imagining if she told me she wanted to be a man! To suddenly be presented with the fact that the person you married, your husband, the man of your life, was actually going to be a woman within a few short years… I’m sure a possible future flashed before her yes; rejection from friends and family, the heavy eyes of onlookers with the disapproving looks… She has a negative outlook on the future, but I was quick to reassure her that this doesn’t always happen, that we would be fine. After all, we are in one of the most open and accepting cities in the world, and here it’s not the members of the LGBT community that are looked at crooked, laughed at and persecuted… it’s the bigots that try to do the same to us!

Of course, it took some time for Vicey to process and wrap herself around the fact that her husband would become her wife. This is something that I am somehow imposing on her – a choice she didn’t seek, didn’t expect, doesn’t really want…

The first few days were a figurative roller-coaster. Some days she would bawl her eyes out on my shoulders, thinking that I would leave her for a man (which, incidentally, I won’t; I’m a lesbian). Other times we would actually talk about how interesting it would be if we could share clothing, help each other with makeup, become BFFs… And then the stress and tears would come back for a while when thinking about how the family and friends would react again, and how our daughter would take it at her young age.

All in all, I think it took almost 2 weeks for Vicey to really figure things out and be accepting. Because she did, in the end, accept who I was and decided that we could get through the transition and my true identity, together.

So she helped me find some good clothing, helped me put on makeup on the occasions where it was necessary (such as my first outing to the Montreal Pride, which will be for another post), and even helped me shop by proxy the first time.

Unfortunately, there are other issues me and my wife have to deal with, so we’re not out of the ditch yet. However, this isn’t a blog about my relationship, so I don’t need to go into any more details than that, ladies and gentlemen!

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Origins of Evelyne Part 6 – The Discovery

If you’ve been reading all the posts in order until now (and I strongly suggest you do), you may have noticed that I say nothing of my gender issues. This omission was voluntary on my part, as I wanted all of these details on a single page rather than spread across a few walls of text.

Now the thing is, my story is somewhat different than what you could qualify as “standard” in the world of male-to-female transgender, and this is explained by my past. One thing that I didn’t relate in my posts until now was how I actually coped with the life I had, my defence mechanism.

As a child, because of my violent and oppressive step father, I simply closed up and kept to myself. I remember little of my thoughts from my childhood but I do gather from discussions with family members that I just played in my corner and read, which seems just like me. But it was in my teenage years that I had to take it a step further, right after the sexual assaults happened – I escaped into  imaginary worlds that I would build for myself. And oh, the worlds that took shape in my head, they were wonderful. And with time, they became so much more than just ideas. Today, I actually know that eventually I will be writing stories from within those universes, and they will blow your mind away. But for the time being, I am content in knowing that those times spent looking out from the emptiness of my own life and into these worlds were not at a loss.

But with these awesome ideas also came a darker side-effect, one that has continued to affect me to this day. Along came the spider, and along came  fantasies, waking dreams that started off innocently enough, but eventually permeated my mind. At first, it was about transformation, escape from the dull reality, and into a place where I had full control and no barriers. I’d simply transform into whatever I wanted and go wherever my desires took me. But then, most likely from a combination of the sexual assaults and my own puberty continuing its course, the fantasies became more and more sexual. I’d imagine myself not just as something else, but often having intercourse as that body. And, only in rare cases was I of the male gender in those fantasies.

But as the time continued, as I grew older, there was a separation of the morphing sexual fantasies and the other, more normal, imagined worlds. A separation between my personal world where I was present and I could do what I wanted; and the worlds I built “for others”, where I was rarely present and where mostly logical, well defined, based on reality (with added sci-fi “what if” elements of my making). I didn’t think of genders in those worlds, they were just worlds where stuff happened and a universe ripe for storytelling was presented.

I also had private universes in which I had full control, I was the only one that mattered, I could do whatever I wanted. It wasn’t sexual, it was emotional; I was given ultimate power to create or destroy, power over life and death, I could appear to the evil beings in this world and cleanse them, or to the whole world as a saviour. I was a god, a reaper, a being of ultimate everything.

And finally, there was the permeating desire to be a woman. Those fantasies weren’t in any universes. They were me, they were in the present, and there was a hundred, a thousand or more scenarios that my mind came up with that each followed a certain basic script: I was given power, by someone or something more powerful than me, to become a woman. Sometimes it was permanent, sometimes temporary, sometimes I could switch and other times it was one-way or one-time only. The higher power had magic, god powers, technology, science, whatever it took to get me where I desperately wanted to go. Each time I was given the possibility in my dreams, I screamed “Finally!” and took it, letting it take me over and transform me. I had instances where it was painful, others where it was peaceful, some quick and some slow, some where I even took control over another woman’s bodies as a spectator or as the “driver”. I even imagined myself coming back from the future as a woman to give myself the power in the past, and, erm, having my way with myself before doing so.

So in effect the possibilities that my mind came up with were and still are endless, that much is certain. But, as I mentioned earlier, this had a somewhat darker, deeper effect. In recent years, the desires escalated, the fantasy became an obsession, and was even preventing me from functioning to my potential. I would have to literally stop working to go in the bathroom and relieve myself of the sexual tension in order to get some productivity going. Even though I love and desire my wife, I would masturbate almost every single day but only make love to her once a month. But it wasn’t for lack of desire – it was because my fantasies were taking control.

On top of this, with the birth of my daughter, I started to see something evil creep up from behind: the danger that I would somehow hurt my daughter emotionally or even, god forbid, physically, because it was simply too much jealousy and envy for my mind to endure. If I didn’t find an escape, I would have had to leave them to resolve these issues on my own; I couldn’t bear hurt them or lose them. But all of this negative part of me… today, it’s gone. Well, perhaps not gone, but dormant to the point where my life is no longer affected by it. A faithful discussion took place somewhere at the end of July that changed everything.

My wife and I were having a really amazing and intense discussion about one of my universes – the only one where I would have loved to be included, one that I saw (and still see) as a possible future for mankind. The basic idea is to start off with a matrix-like virtual reality (plug into the machine and hijack all the senses), but to the contrary of the movie itself, one would have the possibility of changing their appearance and of course sensations. Financing would start by the military (training troops without putting them in danger) as well as the obvious uses in the pornography industry (experiencing rather than seeing? How many people would pay for this?). Vicey would question the methods, the goals, the reactions of people to it, and even some logistics of sharing and experiencing the sensations of other people. And then, she asked me one question that, at the moment, took me aback:

“Babe, what if you had the possibility to get a surgical operation to turn only your genitals into a woman’s, and leave the rest alone, would you do it?” Keep in mind, she knew about my sexual fantasies and desires but not about the darker side of them. My answer to her was “Nope, actually I wouldn’t”.

But that question… it became something else. Within the crap that I had lived in my childhood, behind the wall of protection that I had built to protect myself from remembering so much pain… was something entirely different. From the back of my mind, wielding this question that became a hammer, came a scream that I could no longer ignore and push aside… “I AM A WOMAN!”

I started looking online for transgender support forums, information about transition, hormones, surgery, everything from the expected growth of breasts on estrogen to the different techniques used in creating a vagina for a man. I became familiar with the terminology, the people, the possible downfalls and pitfalls that I would have to go through… But none of these barriers seemed to be so tall that I couldn’t jump them. I realized, finally, in a liberating moment, that there was no higher power that could give me the tools, the permission, or the power to change my body… I could do it myself, I had the power, and I could do it if this is what I truly wanted.

And then, a few days later, I told my wife. I opened up to her, told her what I had realized, who I was, what this meant for me and her, how I lives could change to adapt to this new reality. I told her of all the little things that confirmed to me that I was really a repressed woman, so much so that I didn’t even realize it myself.

For example, when I was around 18, I debated for weeks on whether or not I should steal some of my mother’s estrogen hormones and start taking them (she was a little negligent on her schedule of that and somewhat forgetful). I didn’t for fear of getting discovered and ridiculed even more than I was at school for having manboobs (or so they would have thought). I had multiple dreams where I was or turned into a woman (real dreams, not ones i controlled or asked for), and even some where I had sex as one… oh so sweet vivid dreams that left me craving for more. In 2004 I dressed up as a woman with a bunch of friends (well, girls dressed as men) for support of the LGBT community… And I loved it. There are multiple but small steps like this that I am slowly remembering and that confirm that I was really Evelyne all along, I just hid it so well I couldn’t find it myself.

And how did vicey, my loving wife, take it? Well, that’s a story for another post. I think 1600+ words is enough for today!

Origins of Evelyne Part 5 – A Wedding Story

For those of you who believe Internet dating doesn’t work, but secretly wish it did, rejoice. I met my wife through an online dating website and we’ve been together for 5 years… Actually, funny story – we actually met through two different dating sites on two separate occasions!

The first time was a free dating site called Plenty Of Fish (you know, plenty of fish in the sea?). I started browsing the website, doing a little search for profiles that may interest me and tagged them using the “Add to Favourites” feature. Little did I know, this actually notified the girls behind the profiles I was visiting! Ouch. So, my wife (let’s call her “vicey” because that’s a short version of her favourite online nickname) sends me a message and tells me something to the effect of, “Hey you added me and didn’t talk to me, what gives?”. Shy little me, after freaking out for a little bit, got my courage in a little ball and replied to her, apologizing for not knowing what the feature did and for, well, “window shopping”.

We added ourselves on MSN and started chatting away, learning to know each other a little bit. At that time I was actually working in a coffee shop as a night barrista, but I never got Vicey to come over and meet me. So we chatted for a couple of months before it trailed off. I had a few dating attempts after that, which all pretty much failed, and eventually cleaned out my MSN contact list, removing people I didn’t talk to anymore. This, of course, included Vicey.

Fast forward another 6 months or so and I’m on OK Cupid, attracted by its more scientific approach to matchmaking. I really loved the way their “questions” were built to find you someone that matched with your character, religion, values, etc. I wrote a blog post (a “journal”, the call it) about my failed attempt at long-distance dating through the Internet and she saw it and replied to it, ending with a “Hey don’t I know you from POF?”. This time, we chatted for a short while before she invited me over to a benefits concert for Engineers without Borders. Funny thing is, she wanted to match me with a friend of hers, and she also invited another guy there that she was interested in. We ended up sitting in the “wrong” seats so I ended up in front of her instead of her friend. I guess that may have been a good thing after all, don’t you think?

She drank a little and became giddy (poor thing can’t hold her alcohol very well), complained about her current boyfriend (calling her “flabby” was a really bad move, sweetie!), and let me accompany her to the metro stop where she went home. Soon after that (I believe, the following week) I invited her over to Karaoke and she came over with a couple of friends. Ah, the fun I had singing romantic songs directed at her. I could take that liberty, being the host of the Karaoke show! I think her heart was pretty close to my net at that point 🙂

We talked on the phone almost every night for a while, and I hiked the 1 hour public transport itinerary that was necessary to get to her place without hesitating. She was worth it, and I had plenty of books to read, so it was always a pleasure to make the trip. Eventually we hit it off and started dating for real.

I feel like I should describe our first kiss, just because it’s such an emotional, and very cute, situation. I had spent the day at her place and was supposed to go to my dad’s for diner that night. While she was walking me to the bus stop, we were holding hands and talking about how it was destiny (even if neither of us actually really believe in that) that we met on two separate dating sites… I told her I changed my mind and didn’t want to go to my dad’s, called him up to let him know, and we went back to her place. We cuddled in bed, chatting and talking about so many different things… At one point I started tickling her and ended up almost sitting on her. I looked down and saw a look on her face that I will never forget. I leaned forward slowly, looked her straight in the eyes and whispered “I can see in your eyes that you want me to kiss you”, and the only answer she could muster was a small nod and a faint “uh-huh!”. And then I leaned forward again until our lips touched lightly. And then, more heavily. 🙂

We dated for only 3 months before moving in together out of convenience; she had lame roommates and I was in an apartment worse than the first. We took all the precautions : a second bedroom, separate closets, etc. We fortunately never got to discover how living with an ex as a roommate works out 😉

My marriage proposal wasn’t the most romantic, but it did have the quality of getting a positive response. We’d been together for a year and a half and, for the occasion, Vicey made a wonderful Beef Bourgignion. It was so good, I actually discreetly went to get a ring I had (of all things, a mood ring!), then knelt down on one knee and told her that she was the one I wanted to marry and would she please be my wife? After a stunned silence she said yes, and the next day we were in a jewellery shop finding her a ring she could actually wear! So we got her a nice garnet ring, prepared for our wedding and got married on October 11th, 2009.

The same night our wedding ended, we ran back home, picked up our luggage and were on our way to the honeymoon, without even sleeping. That week in Panama in the Hotel Decameron was an awesome discovery of our love, a romantic getaway that wonderfully complemented our beautiful wedding.

We’d already decided that we wanted kids, and it was on our first night in Panama that we stopped any means of contraception and let nature take its course. 3 months later Vicey became pregnant and in September of 2010 our daughter was born.

I’d like to say that everything was perfect and that we lived the perfect life, but that would be disingenuous of me. In reality, we are like every other couple out there with our quirks and our problems, our fights and our makeups. Nevertheless, we survive, we love, we communicate, we understand and we are still together today. We settled into a nice cozy apartment just before our daughter was born and, two years later (a mere 2 months ago) we were able to purchase a house together, and it’s in its basement that I am writing this today.

Life hasn’t been easy for me, and even with Vicey, my past kept creeping back up here and there, because of the repression issues of which the origins are now known to you. It was also difficult because Vicey does suffer from a health condition that makes it hard for her to appreciate the life that we have made for ourselves fully because of constant (but however “light”) pain. For those of you in the know, it’s called Fibromyalgia.

But those challenges, those fights, the long periods of stress that we went through… those were nothing compared to the ton of bricks I was about to throw at Vicey. It seems like an eternity ago, and yet it’s been just over a month…

And that, my loves, is the end of this blog post. I will be writing and posting the huge reveal very soon, worry not!

Cheers!
~Evelyne~

Origins of Evelyne Part 4 – Being an Adult

It’s still unclear to me exactly when I became an adult – actually I’m still not sure sometimes! Legally it was at 18, but I think I didn’t really feel like I was until I moved in to my own apartment at 21. It was really a dump, in a bad part of town with whores and drunks and crazy people all around.

Though I wasn’t really scared for my life (chalk it up to being an innocent small town kid, perhaps), it wasn’t extremely pleasant especially being downwind from a yeast factory, but that was only part of the problem… The stove broke down, the pipes blocked, the shower didn’t have much pressure… And I didn’t know much cooking so I ate mostly canned & packaged stuff except perhaps my wonderful shepherd’s pie :). This also happened to be the same building where my big sister had her first apartment, which shows you how I still relied on other people to help me out during my life.

My life starting from this point seems to me like it’s slightly boring. Sure I had girlfriends and jobs and moved around, but this isn’t any different than anyone else. I’m sure most people out there have had similar experiences such as long distance (which of course failed), moving in with someone and having to move out a few months after (ouch) and such.

I was even engaged once, but we had “irreconcilable differences” that forced me to leave her (don’t worry it wasn’t on the altar, we hadn’t even started planning!). But besides that, I consider my early adulthood to be fairly uninteresting.

That all changed in 2007 when I met my wife. I’ll keep that for another post. That makes this post pretty short, but as I said I don’t have much else to say about my life at that point 🙂

Origins of Evelyne Part 3: Sex and the City

My first *desired* sexual experience happened, like it does to most people, in high school. I was 16 at the time, the house was being renovated and I was still part of the “reject” group (and so was my first girlfriend). Regardless of my home situation and the fact that I wasn’t part of the cool kids, it was an interesting part of my life. Michelle, my girlfriend, was a rebel. Black eyeliner, leather jacket, at least a dozen piercings in her ears… I’m sure it was that part of me that was screaming to come out. The first time I had sex with Michelle was at school (and so were most of the other times we did it), in select classes we had access to after school… Talk about extracurricular activities!

Unfortunately, the relationship didn’t end very well. Michelle cheated on me a first time and I was innocent and stupid enough to give her a second chance… Which she blew with the same guy within a couple of months. It’s also lucky for me that there were no STDs involved because I never actually wore a condom with that girl (an error that could have cost me much, and that I never repeated). As far as first relationships go, it’s pretty low on the scale.

It was around this time that I met my first “best friend”. He was part of the same gang and we had similar interests: video games, computers, fantasy and science fiction. He was actually Michelle’s ex, but they never made it to third base, the poor fellow.

The year after the fire, after me and Michelle were no longer together, I started running away from home, from the restrictive environment that I was stuck in. I found little comfort and escape with the few friends I had, and I was starting to realize that there had to be alternatives to being strangled half to death by an alcoholic asshole in an unfinished house badly maintained by a negligent mother. It was mostly temporary escapes however, I was leaving home and not telling my parents, during the weekend, and came back afterwards, shrugging off the admonishments I got fairly successfully… except that one time where I couldn’t shrug the strangle. The last straw for me one that one faithful day where the asshole had spent an hour screaming at my mother for not keeping on top of the budget and the bills and for putting us in financial trouble… After which he promptly decided that he needed a new case of beer.

When they left, I took the asshole’s bicycle (which technically was mine because he exchanged a motorbike I got as a birthday present for it), drove to town using different roads than he took in his car, dumped the bike without even locking it (it got stolen obviously) and hitchhiked my way back to my regular hideout. That happened to be he apartment of the janitor who had sexually abused me (stockholm syndrome?), but I had already established with him that he was not to touch me… I guess looking at me was good enough for him. Since my parents kinda knew where they could find me (having “beaten it” out of me the previous time), they sent the police to pick me up.

The police were quick to come and get me out of the house of a known pedophile, and informed me that they were building a case around him and wanted to know if I’d testify… I said I did not want that kind of drama and just wanted to return… but not at home. I told him about the asshole and how I absolutely did not want to return under his control – best thing I ever did in my life. I got temporarily placed in a foster home with other kids with difficulties. Once my mother was advised of the situation, the asshole gave her a simple choice: him, or me. He didn’t want to pay for the foster home, which he would have if I had stayed there.

Thankfully my mother chose me, grabbed a stash of money she’d been putting aside for the time where she’d drum up the courage to leave the asshole behind, got an apartment for us and moved out. It was a courageous move on her part, and thankfully they weren’t married so leaving was all that she needed to do. I was released into her custody and we started rebuilding our lives together.

I finished high school in the city where she took the apartment (so that was yet another move), and it wasn’t much different than my other experiences. Rejection, teasing, bumping into lockers and such. I had some amount of support from teachers but not enough for me to actually enjoy school. I finished and got my diploma, but only because I’d done “advanced” maths in 10th grade (4th year of high school), thankfully because I miserably failed in the last grade (except with computers and English. those were easy!).

One interesting event during this time was the 1998 ice storm here in Quebec which ravaged cities, turned off electricity in multiple cities for weeks at a time and caused a few deaths and millions in damage. I ended up with my mother in the local community center, which was powered by an army generator, where bunk beds and food was provided. This is where I learned what Karaoke was (I got a standing ovation for my performance!) and it was also where I met my second best friend, with whom I continue to enjoy a relationship.

After high school was over I got a couple of jobs here and there trying to make a life. Cashier in a gas station/corner store (fired because I wasn’t efficient enough), busboy in a restaurant (quick because it was really boring), working in a factory that made roof trusses (those wooden triangle structures, quit because I had a nightmare about being attacked by people with hammers and crushed by a rolling metal press)… I saw clearly that I didn’t have much future there.

It was around that time however that I met my father. I found him online during one of my many random searches for his name. It’s fairly unique in itself but his first name is the name of a city so I got a lot of listings that included cities and names, but not his. When I finally found him on a guestbook, I sent him an email telling him that I would love to meet him if he was really my father, and he agreed. I then discovered that I had 2 other little half-sisters, and a whole different family that was happy to meet me and accept me – though I didn’t see that much more of them than my existing family.

I met a man during my short stop at the local radio station there who was going to British Columbia to start a film company, and he invited me over because I had computer knowledge he would need. I was lucky that this guy was actually genuinely supportive and fatherly, because when I got stuck over there with him trying to survive in his camper and building a company that didn’t actually have any contracts during the time I was there (I had to sell CDs with a screensaver made from pictures he had taken in other visits, at the city weekend market), it would have been really easy for him to take advantage of me. But he didn’t, I had an interesting experience there and learned a lot from him, including critical thinking.

At one point I simply had enough though, and I started getting homesick. So I packed my bags, ran off into the sunset and hitchhiked my way back to Montreal – a 7 day journey that warrants an eventual post on its own. When I came back, my father took me into his home with my two sisters and his wife and I stayed there for a year, spending a wonderful time with my sisters and starting to plan the rest of my life.

I got my first computer job in a small ISP at that point and, after being in a smallish extra room at my dad’s for a year, decided to move on and get my first apartment – a shitty studio in a bad part of town (had a whorehouse right across the street!). And thus started my real adult life (I was 21 at the time)!

Origins of Evelyne Part 2: Teenage Years

I’ve been seeing a sexologist for a couple of weeks now. She’s not a Gender Therapist, but she is helping me deal with the issues that stemmed from my childhood and teenage years. During our initial evaluation, which is still ongoing, she asked me what my first experience with sexuality was.

I would have loved to tell her something different, but unfortunately at 14 years old I was “taken in” by the janitor of the apartment building we were in (attracted with computer stuff…) and was a victim of repeated sexual assaults. I fortunately never had to touch him or even see him, but things happened that were traumatising on their own value.

This probably wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t been in a house fire a year back, since that was what forced us to temporarily move into that tiny apartment. A 1 bedroom apartment for a family of four, oh joy! My sister’s bed and mine were in the living room and there wasn’t even walls around, it was one room with kitchen, living room and entrance. Only the bedroom and bathroom were closed. Privacy? What’s that?

To add insult to injury, the janitor also introduced me to another pedophile who should have given me piano and singing lessons but was more interested by trying to grab my wee-wee. Karma killed that guy with Leukemia and the janitor with jail time since then, but the traces they left in my Psyche are deeply entrenched. After that bout of sexual violence that added to the psychological pressures that I mentioned earlier, one would think the universe would leave me alone for a while, but no such luck.

During and after this time, the pressures of finances, renovations, travel between the apartment and house and his work, probably took a toll on my step father. Coupled with me, a young teenager trying to affirm himself, this lead to an unstable and dangerous period where, on three different occasions, my step father lost his nerve and strangled me until I lost consciousness. Yep, Homer Simpson would be proud!

My mother on the other hand could do nothing to protect me and was strictly under his power (come to think of it, kinda like Marge in those situations), so we can now add physical violence to the mix. School wasn’t the escape it could have been either. I was the little nerdy teacher’s pet that was made fun of, was last picked at sports and had a few occasions of being slammed into lockers, generally being harassed by bullies and such.

Now, after this period of turmoil, we kind of went back to the property where the house was, to live, even though the house itself wasn’t livable – that’s right, we were sleeping in something of a barn in the back (it was smallish, but never used for animals as far as we knew). Propane heating, an electric generator in the house with a long extension for lights (when it wasn’t candles), stuff piled everywhere. By that time my sister had moved out so it was me, mom and the step father, who continued to be the drunk ass he was. In such close quarters (no partitions in that barn) it was a hard sell, and the house took a while to fix because we weren’t paying anyone…

In ’96, we had a second fire. We probably left a candle open and the step father, half drunk, decided that we were going to the town fair (which, at the time we left, was closed). By the time my mother convinced him that there wouldn’t be anything in town, we came back to the barn fully engulfed in flames. Everything we had was in that barn, everything that was dear to me. It was worse than the first one, because this one burned the place to the ground while the first fire damaged a lot of stuff but was eventually controlled – we were able to salvage some clothing and even electronics in there. But this time… There was no saving anything. While we were taken in by blue cross to a B&B for the night, the step father, still drunk, stayed there and from what I remember, he actually dug himself a little place in the ashes of the place and cried himself to sleep on the still hot cement floor.

We moved back in the house then. We had nothing beyond the clothe on our back and what little was donated to us by Blue Cross, and we slowly continued to renovate the house while living in it. We all had to take our showers elsewhere, me at school and the parents at friend’s places. That winter was horrible – I slept with no less than 9 layers of sheets, yet I was still cold in the morning – we were heating the place with a tiny wood stove that couldn’t heat for very long. Eventually though we got a relatively normal life back. I even helped by doing the electricity on the second floor (at 16 with no experience, that was actually pretty cool).

I’ll do a part 2 of my teenage years in a bit, there’s a lot to talk about and I want to divide in manageable pieces.

Origins of Evelyne Part 1: Childhood

Hey everyone!

I thought I’d start off this blog with a little background on myself and my past. I’ll get to the gender issues at one point, but I want to start by putting things into perspective because my past weighed heavily on how I finally discovered that I was actually transgender. So let’s go back to the past.

First, my birth shouldn’t have been. Not that I was an accident, on the contrary, but I wasn’t planned by both parties involved. Basically, my mom was a dancer in a bar and my dad was one of the clients at that bar. They had a short relationship that, according to my father, was purely physical for him. Only problem is, my mother decided that she was going to stop her contraceptive pills because she thought that falling pregnant would keep my father around… That didn’t have the intended effect, ad I didn’t get to spend my childhood with my father (more on this in a later post).

So my mother probably hooked up with a couple more guys in my early years, I don’t exactly know. I do know that she met a guy when I was about 3 years old and he became my stepfather. This was unknown to me until I was 14 years old, but I doubted it. The guy’s an asshole basically, a drunk, violent, ugly redneck. He was extremely controlling and demeaning to both me and my mother, but she was completely unable to protect me so we were both victims of this guy for these so many years.

Thing is, my mother has a slight mental issue (I don’t know what it’s called, honestly, if it’s even properly defined). She has issues taking care of herself, she’s pretty immature and irresponsible. Basically she’s kind of like a teenager, even now that she’s 50 years old. My step-father on the other hand, was extremely strict and controlling, so he at least had the advantage of forcing my mother to pick up after herself.

We moved a lot, on average every 2-3 years, so I never really got a chance to make close and long-lasting friends, nor was I able to have any stability in my life. Beyond some random images from houses and places that I’ve seen, I don’t remember much of my childhood actually. I have a couple of specific memories here and there, but I won’t go into those details.

I can tell you that I was a very introverted kid. I would read or play alone in a corner, trying not to bother anyone (especially the step-father). Didn’t have a lot of friends really, and my sister, who is 4 years older than me, was busy dealing with the situation on her own, so she didn’t have much time to entertain me – though she did protect me as best she could in her young age.

Up until my early teenage years, I don’t believe (or don’t recall at least) having had any issue with being a little boy – not that I actually thought about this. Being so introverted I didn’t even think of the difference between girls and boys, for me people were people and that’s pretty much it.

So that’s pretty much it for my early childhood, at least for the moment. I may come back on some specific things later on.