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JamieLee1 - 51-55 years old - female

Posted by JamieLee1
on September 22nd, 2011 at 6:45 AM


September 23, 2011

I have often over the many years, tried to remember my childhood, and what it was like with the memories associated with it.

I was born into an average loving family. I received all the love and attention that anyone could expect. My parents were proud, hard working and respectful. My father was a Lt. in the Army during the 40’s, which was the tail end of World War II. He had three other brothers who were also in the Military. Two of his brothers were fighter Pilots and were shot down and killed.

My mother on the other hand was born in a family of 5 brothers and 5 sisters. Her father was a Burgess in Phoenixville, Pa back then.

They all were a close family who had their generational, concrete morals and expectations which were virtually un-changeable. A man was a man and a woman was a woman. There was no compassion for anything else, and those values were strictly enforced.

I had only one older brother, three years apart from me. He was also required to fit in and conform to these strict religious and moral values and beliefs.

We were both required to perform the roles as they considered and perceived it, to be a man. Any behavior that could remotely considered feminine was abruptly dealt with in forms of mental or physical discipline. They had zero tolerance for any type of gender confusion or behaviorisms. If you did, they would call you a sissy and embarrass you in front of other people. And in the worst case scenario you would be taken for therapeutic help for the apparent mental illness. With possible commitment back then and they would blame themselves for doing something wrong and raising their child with a certain mental infliction.

My brother as far as I ever knew, was happy with his male gender.

Me, on the other hand was totally different. When you ask someone who is Transsexual, what age the felt that they were different. They all respond with the same thing, between the ages of 6 to 8 years old. When I realized that I was different and that something was wrong with me, I truly felt that I was mentally ill for feeling this strange way. Also knowing that I could never tell any body for fear of what would happen.

So at that young, tender life of 6-8 years old, I began my intensely lonely “Hidden Soul” and survival by entering into a life style of “Private Lies”
So began a life of torment for me! At that young age I really didn’t know what was happening to me. I just knew that I wasn’t a boy with very unique and intense feelings flowing within me. I also learned very quickly that I had to hide these and never tell a soul, because if I did, it would be devastating beyond anyone’s comprehension in so many ways and manners including mine! I was terrified. I was so lonely frail and tormented. I truly felt I was mentally sick.

The only way I could deal with this as a child was to somehow build my own secret life and fantasy world.

So began my secret life at 7 or eight years old. Our house had a large yard with a detached garage toward the rear of the property. The garage was used to store an old automobile in it. It was an old wooden structure. It also had a second floor to it which was filthy, dirty with wooden crates, straw and packing material. There were layers of dust, trash, gas cans, pipes and lumber stored up there. The only manner to get up there was an old wooden ladder which protruded up into that space. No one ever went up there. Because, you had to be cautious, that you didn’t fall, through the floor.

So it was born! It was the beginning of a devious plan, even, at my young age. This would become my home, my private world, in total secrecy and hopeful seclusion.

On numerous occasions I would wait until nobody was around and sneak into my mother’s bedroom, with my heard pounding I would slide open her drawers. I was terrified of being caught. I took certain articles of her clothing. A bra, panties, nylons, slip and anything else I could find that I needed. I took them all and placed them into a brown paper grocery bag. And then I left. She also had some shoes, dresses and more clothing stored in closets on the third floor. I went up there, took a dress, some shoes that were too big for my feet, a blouse and any other article of clothing I wanted, placed them into my bag and hid it.

I waited until the right time, got the bag, and snuck outside, climbed the ladder and placed it in a corner of my new home above the garage. Now I was ready. So far my plan was a success, however, ever so dangerous.

Then came, the next part of my deviate life. I would tell my parents that I was going out to play or visit a friend two houses down the street. And instead walk down the sidewalk through my back yard, look back to see if anyone saw me and then slip into the garage. I climbed the ladder, heart pounding with the most intense fear that anyone could understand. I took off all my cloths, got my bag, and started putting on all those beautiful cloths, I must have looked ridiculous, wearing a dress and slip that was to big, nylons that were baggy and shoes that my small feet, couldn’t even begin to fit. I got a wooden crate, pushed it under a window that faced the rear of our house and stood on top of it and stared at the back door of our house. I trembled and prayed that the back door would open and my father would emerge, walking toward me

I stood there crying, with panic, abandonment, and an overwhelming feeling of loneliness, sadness and extreme isolation and fear. But I did this time after time because I felt like a girl, and felt pretty and at piece with my self, which made this all so worthwhile. I was finally HER!

I then changed back into my cloths, hid the paper bag, until the moment that I could live again, just for a moment. Just for a very special moment. I did this for years as I remember.

Where did I come from? Why was I born? I was so fragile and innocent.

In my childhood I struggled with school, my brother always excelled and I always felt that I was a failure. I was raised in the Lutheran faith and truly believed that there was someone special who watched over us and could perform miracles. As a child I held no rights or privileges on my own. Everything needed approval. I was to be seen and not heard. I wasn’t even allowed the dignity to know who I was. My thoughts, emotions were not real, valid or important, sensible or even realistic. I had restrictions, curfews and requirements that if I bent in the slightest manner, would result in the most sever discipline. They believed back then that you were not valid until the age of 21.

My role models were insufficient and theirs were forced upon me. Don’t you want to be a man?

I didn’t like school and my parents made be go to bed early every night by 8:00 pm.
I would go, kneel by the edge of the bed and recite the Lord’s Prayer. Pray that God would let me live as a girl. I would climb into bed and cry myself to sleep. Hoping my parents wouldn’t here me.

I can remember all the other things that I felt between the ages of 6 to 12 years old,

I had a cousin named Susan, who was my best friend, my relatives visited a lot. So we played together all through the early years. Even at my young age I wanted to know all the difference between a girl and a boy. I can remember saying to my cousin, one day in my house as we were playing. I will show you mine if you how me yours! We snuck to a private area; we were approximately 9 years old. She opened her pants and showed me what a girl looked like. I ran away and hid. This was the first time I realized that a mistake was made with me and I was born wrong, it made me sick, I was not like her!
Now was the time that I began hating not only my existence but also my body. Because, after all! I was broken, and could not be fixed. I was scared and could not even tell my parents that something was wrong with me down there.

Like I said previously, my parents gave us all the normal things a child needed. The provided us with love and guidance.

But, one thing that they could never do was to give me the love and compassion that I needed because I was different, and they didn’t have the capabilities to understand that.

Everything was painful and traumatic to me! I was so alone. I had to lie and deceive to survive.

My parents took us to parades. I would sit on the curb of the street with my mother and father watching and waiting for the parade to appear. I was excited. My parents felt it was because of all the normal things. They thought it was because of all the fire trucks, and the entire normal things to a boy. Well it wasn’t! I was waiting for the bands to appear. I wanted to see the other pretty girls. Especially the “Baton Twirlers” I stared at their stunning and sparkly outfits and I wish that I was as pretty as her, and I was one of them. And when she disappeared into the horizon I became so sad. When we went home I would sneak into my back yard, find a stick, and march around the yard, trying to twirl that wooden thing and pretend to be her. I closed my eyes and dreamed that I could be like her.

Since I had a lot of relatives they were always visiting. I always had some one to play with. While, they were talking in the kitchen, I would get my toy soldiers and sit in a corner and play. I watched as girls played across the room. I saw them giggling, jumping and having fun. I would get up, go over to them and sit down. I loved playing with them, until I heard that distant voice from my father. What are you doing? Nothing Dad! I just wanted to ask the girls a question. I got up ran back to my toys and heard him say “Just leave them alone” Don’t be a sissy! “And in front of everyone he would yell “or I’ll put you in a dress” Jeeze, if he only knew that that would have made me the happiest child on earth! I would fix him; I would go to my little home away from home in the garage, and put on girls cloths anyhow!

Many times I would watch my mother put on her makeup, she was so beautiful. I liked to watch her. Sometimes she would spray me with a little of her perfume. I would yell at her and run away. But all the time I really loved it, because I smelled so pretty.

Christmas! Now it was Christmas again. This was one of the most exciting times in my life. This was happiest time of the year. Presents, Christmas tree, good food, toys, Christmas stockings. Wow! There was music, fun and everything in the world seemed different. I always asked my parents if I behaved enough that year, so I wouldn’t get that dreadful coal in my stocking. “Visions of sugar plums dancing in my head!” I tried to subdue all the suffering that I had endured during the year. Then it arrived! Christmas morning! I would sneak down stairs and peak at the Christmas tree, and see if there were presents for me. There were, so I snuck back upstairs and woke up my brother. We made a lot of noise, hopefully to wake up my parents. Santa Clause came at last!

My brother and I sat on the floor in front of the tree and presents. My parents sat on the couch behind us. We begged them to let us open our presents. Toys, toys and more toys! Then it happened! The dreaded cloths, shirts, socks, pants! I opened them and threw them to the side, on top of my little trash pile. Then it happened. It always happened! I looked at my parents with tears swelling in my eyes and said “I don’t want these”

Then, came the time for my parents to open their presents. I sat and watched intently. I really didn’t care about what my father got. I was waiting to see my mother’s presents. Wow! She got beautiful blouses, skirts and cloths. She got jewelry and all kinds of frilly things. She held it all up to show everyone.

My eyes got glassy again, and I felt ashamed of myself, because I wanted all those things my mother got. I wanted them so bad. I hated myself for these horrible selfish thoughts and feelings.

There were so many nights, that I cried and cried myself to sleep! Who cared about me? I tried to make it through every lonely, lonely day and unending night!

I don’t like to think about my childhood, because it to this day makes me cry. I don’t blame my parents! They were just products and victims of their generation, just like me!
They raised me like a normal boy! But how were they to know that I was born a girl in the wrong body. Sometimes I question? Did they have any idea? Did my mother know?
Did she miss any of her cloths?

Why is it, that I can’t remember any of the other nice things about my childhood? Just the pain, loneliness, suffering, loneliness and torment, which, I had to endure? I still cry this very moment when I think back, because it was so hurtful and traumatic to me!

There was more, but I choose not to remember them at this moment!

Jamie Lee

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3 Comments (add your own)

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  1. Jaxsson21 - 61-65 years old - male

    Posted by Jaxsson21 on September 22nd, 2011 at 7:48 AM

    I can really relate to your story.

    Although my aim was different. I pushed myself away from showing my female streak. Fighting it so intensively I am now caught between gay and straight life. I get no pleasure from either partner.

    Jamie, I hope you have found what you are looking for.

    Reply | 1dislike | Flag

  2. Anonymous

    Reply by An EP User May 22nd, 2015 at 11:38PM

  3. shelle48 - 61-65 years old - female

    Posted by shelle48 on April 29th, 2012 at 4:42 PM

    Compelling and oh so much like my life story. Brings back a lot of memories.

    Reply | 1dislike | Flag

  4. Anonymous

    Reply by An EP User May 22nd, 2015 at 11:38PM

  5. JamieLee1 - 51-55 years old - female

    Reply by JamieLee1 Apr 29th, 2012 at 5:06PM

    Dammit Shelle, this is what I am teaching you! Stop with your pity party and be your self! You are my friend, my inspiration, and my student! Learn........................from my pain!


  6. louannatg - 51-55 years old

    Posted by louannatg on June 2nd, 2012 at 7:48 AM

    I could only change a few words in this story to make it my own. I realy understand how you felt, and still feel about your childhood.

    My Love To You Sista


    Reply | 1dislike | Flag

  7. Anonymous

    Reply by An EP User May 22nd, 2015 at 11:38PM

Experience Project is a community based on authenticity, support, and respect. EP encourages you to post with these values in mind.

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