Authors: Cindi Jones
“Are you dressing up again David?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t say anything else now, or you will lose everything,”
Squirrel
warned.
I shut my mouth terrified to say a word.
Charlene proceeded to grill me late into the night and I could not respond.
I lay frozen to the sheets watching the
Squirrel
turn the exercise wheel round and round.
Round and round ran the
Squirrel
and he never stops.
“Wa…” runs and runs
..
“
…
avid?” he runs and he runs and never stops “Davi….” He runs as he turns the wheel “Answer” and it stops.
I heard half words, fragments of statements, felt shame in agonizing accusations.
“David, what is wrong?
Why won’t you answer me?” Charlene demanded.
“I can’t,” I told her in terror.
I felt my secret unraveling.
It was dangerously close to breaking out of the bounds I had been able to define for the past couple months.
But it was a tenacious agreement I had made with
Squirrel
. I knew that once
the real secret
was out, there was no putting it back in. The secret would destroy the lives of Charlene and my children. I could not bear to do this to them.
“Please, oh please Charlene, don’t ask me, please keep the secret in,” I thought to myself.
“Don’t tell her,” said
Squirrel
“I know that I can’t tell her,” I concurred.
“Then we agree,” confirmed
Squirrel
. I watched the caged
Squirrel
run and run and run. And somehow I made it through the night.
I honestly don’t remember what happened after that.
My mind checked out.
I lost track of everything.
Did we resolve the situation somehow?
I don’t know. When we woke up, she was cool, but civil
and markedly cool
.
Somehow we managed to enjoy the rest of our vacation. I knew that she was sacrificing her very being to pull herself up in this impossible situation. I was no help. I had no strength to offer her in that regard.
We traveled to Maui and visited the mountain tops where the telescopes peered into space at night. We snorkeled in the small bay outside the condominium we were renting.
We talked little.
I think we had a good time but I could not be sure.
We did have intimate moments but somehow, deep down inside, I was losing her.
The vacation was over and it was time to again address my problem.
I pleaded with Charlene to visit an analyst who was familiar with these sorts of problems.
I did not know the psychiatrist; I only had her name and number.
WE had gone through all of this and to this point we had relied only on our religious counsel. She agreed to see her with me.
The events of the next several weeks are difficult and painful to remember.
I did not keep notes.
But I do have billing statements from the shrinks, and I do mean “shrinks” that we saw. We were desperate.
I faced a
three
hour volley every night when I returned home from work. Charlene needed answers. She did not have to deal with the problem her entire life like I had.
She was trying to climb Mount Everest with inadequate preparation, no jacket, no boots, and worst of all alone. Her strong demanding fortitude was all that held her together. It was also beating me down.
I couldn’t bear to see her in pain.
I couldn’t bear to realize what must be happening to my children.
We visited the doctor up on the east bench of Salt Lake City. I can’t remember if her office was part of the university’s hospital or not.
I believe that it was.
I remember that I talked to her and that Charlene talked to her in private.
She asked me questions concerning my deep seated feelings. This was the first time that I open
ed
up to
a professional
.
I answered her questions as honestly as I could.
I did not feel like a woman trapped in a man’s body. I told her that was the most ridiculous thing that I ever heard.
But I did tell her of my desires to be a girl from my first remembered thoughts.
I told her of my antics when I went out of town.
I showed her a picture.
“May I make a suggestion? She offered.
“Sure.”
“Watch your hands.”
“Huh?”
“Your hands will give you away.”
I retrieved the picture from her. I stared at the picture. The
cheeks
bore a 5 o’clock shadow
. The face was manly square. The wig pulled slightly forward. The clothing didn’t match the heels.
“I think that is the l
e
ast of my problems,” I advised her.
“I need to know how to get myself fixed so that I don’t do these things.
I did get your name and number from the Janus Information Services in San Francisco. Dr. Paul Walker referred me.
I hope that you can help.”
“Let me see what I can do,”
s
he replied.
We talked for a few more brief minutes and then she asked Charlene to come in alone.
Charlene then spent some private time with her.
I learned later that the conversation went something like this:
“Do you have a job dear?”
“I teach piano lessons, but that is only part time. I am a homemaker and I stay home to rear
our
children.”
“You should find a job.”
“Why?”
“My experience is that once these things manifest themselves, there is no stopping them. You will lose your husband. The sooner you can face that reality, the better you will be.
Your husband has gender dysphoria. Yes, he is a transsexual.
”
Was our recommended shrink any good? For me, no.
Had I stayed with her, she could have delayed my feminine transition by perhaps 6 months to a year.
She did however give Charlene excellent advice as we were to both learn.
Next in the line up wearing number 69, Doctor …..
Someone, very prominent in the Church, recommended a psychiatrist in Salt Lake.
He was, of course, top notch.
Yes he was top notch.
Someone, very prominent in the church had just offered to help me by spending my money.
He charged $130 per hour.
He prescribed
an antidepressant and some other medication. I don’t remember the combination of the cocktail
.
Did it help? No.
It was
turned
me into a vegetable.
I couldn’t work from a to
-
do list. I cou
ldn’t even think to create a to-
do list. It had too many syllables.
The numbing effects of the drug worked on me for several weeks before I realized what it was doing.
Before long, you’d never have to worry about calling me Cindi ever again.
But you would have to call me Jack. Thank you very much nurse Cratche
d
. Give me my injection and I’ll just slobber here in my wheelchair for a day or two.
I decided to quit taking the drug
s
on my own.
The good doctor had not told me what would happen as I came. It was one of the worst and most anxiety stricken times in my life.
Here I was experiencing the mental equivalent of a heroin detox and trying to deal with complex issues with my family. These days, the pharmacist gives you a warning note with this drug. Do you know what it says?
“
Do not discontinue taking this drug under any circumstance.”
It’s usually printed in bold red text to stand out above all the other stuff you never read.
I was only one
fighting back
.
There were minions “helping” me. No one knew that I was attempting to dump
drugs
that the good doctor intended me to take the rest of my life. They would never, could
n
ever understand the complicated and contorted vision I had for life during this time when I beat the dependence of this substance they put into my body.
How dare this doctor do that to me because a church member in good standing passed someone in my family a name. Of course you can trust him, he is a good LDS man. How dare he give me a drug that would hang me out to dry. Read my lips. Spell it for me.
Yes, here we go, letter by letter.
“Repeat after me.”
D
R
U
G
S!
“Wooo hooooo!” and the pompoms spin round and round.
Now, are there any questions?
“Ah yes, I have one teacher.”
“
Yes David.
”
“Why am I seeing this doctor? I already have run up a bill of over $1000 that I can’t pay.”
“Because my good man, he is a good church member who disagrees with the common thinking of most of the psychiatric community… yes you know. The ones that WROTE THE FREAKIN BOOK!
“Thank you Teacher.”
“Now be good, go get your milk and lie down”
“Ah where is that freeway exit? Crap! Where am I?”
“David my mother and I agree that….. “
“marketing share can be increased by reducing….”
“Shit… look out for that stop sign!”
Words and events became mumbled and jumbled. I had anxiety attacks left and right. I could not remember who was saying what, when, or where.
I was a leaf cast by about by the river as it floated down the stream.
Will they ever know how they invaded me and reduced me to a tomato?
I broke free.
I broke free and came back only to trust them again. Someone had depressed the handle on a Texas sized toilet and I hung on as my very life essence kicked at the jaws of hell biting at my heels.
Poetic license?
Literary
imagery
, you ask? It was bloody real.
Threaten me with going to hell.
Go ahead.
I’ve been there. I saw the devil and I kicked him in the face. And I survived to return.
I don’t remember how long it took.
I could barely hold my cells together.
I don’t remember eating or sleeping.
How did I function?
I’ll never really know.
Charlene’s father would write to me in a letter after I finally moved from Utah to California:
“I was frustrated and deeply disappointed with this turn of events because I felt then – and I feel the same now – that the only way you could overcome this obsession that has enslaved you would be to put your full trust in the Lord to help you come back and regain your family and your membership in the Church. It would have required constant prayer, commitment to the standards of the Church, and dedication on your part working closely with the bishop and perhaps a licensed counselor with an spiritual orientation through counseling sessions and telephone communication – even daily if necessary – to overcome this deeply ingrained habit of transsexual
behavior
and desires.”
Hmmm… he spells
behavior
like I do.
The one that always breaks the spell checker but is absolutely correct.
Did I tell you that I adored this man?
Maybe it’s the other way around..
Maybe I picked it up from him sometime in the distant past.
His letter was another final attempt to help me.
He loved me very much
,
I knew. But he could never imagine how these words would affect me that day. That one day of all days to read his letter. The words would soak in and stay in my mind for just a few hours until movie time. To him, the context was an attempt to help me see the error in my ways.
I
t is a substantial letter.
I read this statement however, and could only relate to the terror I later experienced.
For it was not over.
Oh no. The best was yet to come.
Had my faith wandered? I didn’t know what to think. I settled into the gloomy muck and dragged myself to work then home then back to work. Time lost any real meaning.
And I continued to receive a rocket barrage from my loved ones.
A new name surfaced from a reliable church member.
This psychiatrist was really good.
I thought that I had played that game once.
Did I win?
Maybe … “
Squirrel
? Are you still alive?”
“
Squirrel
?” No answer.
Squirrel was down.
He was very tired lately.