If you know anything about people with ADHD, then you know that we are notorious for diving headfirst into a project, getting about 2/3 of the way through it, and then losing interest and leaving it undone. I think that’s what ended up happening with his blog, and is why I haven’t updated it in several years.

To say that SO much has happened would be such an amazing understatement.
I’ll try to spend the next few post describing all that has happened, but this is pretty much the synopsis:

– Pandemic Unemployment
– Drama, life problems, and how quickly your “friends” will leave you behind
– Being in isolation with a spouse who’d rather you just die
– It’s time to Come Out and get a job
– Wow, have I been misjudging people!
– Toxic Narcissism and how easily it goes unrecognized
– Super Proud Mama Moment
– Divorce, alcohol, and child custody
– Dating as a Gen-X’er

I’m going to do my best to pick this back up, as I think it was very therapeutic for me, and several people told me the content had really helped them process things that were either happening to them, or to people they loved. As Rachel Maddow loves to say, “Watch This Space.”

So…about Renaissance Festivals…If you’ve never been to one, GO!

I remember going to the Texas Renaissance Festival quite a few times when I was a college student in the early 90’s. I spent much of the day looking at the women, as I dreamed of being dressed up, made up, and laced up. Especially the laced up part. SO sexy!

Fast forward about 25 years…

Some very good friends of mine, the first married couple I came out to, and who I believe are the very pillars of my support network, are members of a Clan that camps for the duration of the season every year. The wife and I have become very close friends, and I think I have flipped through every RenFest picture on her Facebook page, hoping that could someday be me. While she and I were getting our nails done one day, she brought up the Renaissance Festival, and invited me to bring my RV and camp as their guest at the Clan’s group camping area. I could almost hear my credit card scream with delight, knowing we were about to do some serious shopping! A couple weeks later, I found myself in The Spotted Pony, looking for the costume I’ve wanted to wear for so long. Yes, I know this sounds cheesy…don’t worry, it gets worse. 🙂

I truly had no idea what to expect when I got to the campgrounds. I had been to the Faire many times, but had never ventured into the camping area. I didn’t realize the place was so big, with so many campers. This was going to be a blast, and for the first time ever, I went on a trip without a shred of male anything. I arrived at camp, got my camper parked and began the most amazing weekend with a loving family of people who have no idea what my deadname is or what I look like in male-mode. They don’t want to know either, because they only care about me for who I am, not for who I’ve been forced to be for so many years.

Before all of this, I had shared what was going to happen with my therapist. She told me this may end up being one of the most pivotal events of my life, and she was absolutely correct. I’ve never spent this much time totally immersed as myself. MYSELF, the woman I’ve been searching for in every mirror for 40 years. The end of the weekend was a lot harder than I’d expected, even though that was another thing I was told I needed to be prepared for. I think it all came crashing down when I realized it had to end, and I had to go back to my male life. I was saying my goodbyes, and was talking to my friend in her tent. I couldn’t hold it in any longer, and a flood of emotions came rushing out. I collapsed into my friend’s arms and just bawled for all I was worth. I will never forget spending the weekend with no judgement, no fear…pure acceptance.

I have found my people, and they have adopted me. My family has been graciously extended, and I will forever be grateful for their love and hospitality. You know who you are. Thank you so much, I love you all.

I know I haven’t written anything in a while. But, I’m dealing with private stuff right now that just doesn’t belong in the internet. Thank you to the few people who have noticed my absence and expressed their concern and support. I’m working on a few topics and will post an update as soon as I can. Thank you. ❤️

Roughly 10 months ago, when I started HRT, about two weeks later I felt a huge relief wash over me as my anxiety and depression virtually disappeared. Ever since then though, I occasionally have issues with impostor syndrome. You see, I’m one of those people that doesn’t get weighed down too much with dysphoria. I do have dysphoria, but it’s not so severe that it gets in my way or debilitates me like others have been so unfortunate to experience. Because of this, I sometimes wonder if this really is the path I should be on, or I wonder why some people have dysphoria so bad and I don’t seem to be that affected by it.

Today I had my second lesson with a speech language pathologist, so that I can work on feminizing my voice. About halfway through the lesson, he was having me read off some different tongue twisters so that I can work on annunciation of different consonants in what we’re working to be my pitch range. He asked me if I wanted to hear what I sound like, as of course he’s recording everything. As he played it back for me, I could hear myself working to keep it in the female range, but I also could hear this low and bass-like undertone to my voice that, to me, sounded disturbing. I got quiet, and he asked me what I heard. I told him I could hear a bass undertone, it sounded like…a man. And then I started to cry.

I realized today that I don’t have impostor syndrome at all. I realized today that my dysphoria is absolutely real, and definitely does affect me when it shows it’s ugly head. I’ve heard how my voice sounds before, plenty of times. I used to be a DJ in college, and know exactly how my voice sounds coming from outside my head. Today was different. I felt like no matter hard I tried to sound like the woman I feel inside, I just couldn’t seem to get rid of the man the world sees. My coach said he doesn’t hear it the same way, but he does understand that my perception is my reality. I found out today that learning how to feminize my voice is not just going to be about pitch, resonance, and timbre. This is about more than technique and muscle tone. More than anything, it’s going to be about vulnerability, courage, and confidence.

Brene Brown says, “That impostor or phony feeling at work or school rarely has anything to do with our abilities but has more to do with that fearful voice inside of us that scolds and asks, ‘Who do you think you are?’”

I am a woman. I feel it in my soul. The world may not see it yet, but they will. I know this road is going to be hard, but I can’t let it defeat me.

What are some of the ways Dysphoria and/or Impostor Syndrome affects you in your life or in your transition? What are some of the things you do or think about to help yourself get past them?

I’ve been having so much trouble sitting down and finishing my little trail of flashbacks. Not sure why. But, I think it’s time to stop rehashing the past and move on with the now. This will be my last recounting of what brought me here, because I’m very ready for where and what is next.

** Flashback to October, 2018 **

Now that my wife knew, and the shit had certainly hit the fan, it was time for me to finish the list of the most important people in my life…my parents. I wasn’t so worried about them abandoning me. One thing that our home was never short of was Love. Even after my father gave me a much deserved butt-whoopin, it was still followed up with a hug once the dust had settled.

I think part of the reason I wanted so desperately to tell at least my Mom was that I just needed someone to talk to. My wife wasn’t yet ready to talk about anything (without it turning into a nasty fight), and for the first time since I was a child, I needed my Mommy.

I hadn’t really planned exactly when I was going to do it, I just knew that it had to be soon. I finally saw the opportunity one evening before heading out to join my dad for a weekend of deer hunting. My dad had asked me to stop by their house and pick something up, and I knew my mom would be there alone. When you have a close relationship with your mom, she has this amazing ability to see right through everything and know that something is not right.

All she had to ask was “How have you been?”. I took a deep breath set down at the kitchen table, and everything just started to come out. I told her about the depression and anxiety that I’d been feeling, and I even told her that it got so bad that I wasn’t sure if I could continue living. I told her that I was finally going to therapy, and that I realized and finally accepted that I am a transgender woman. I told her about how I have known since I was five years old; that every birthday wish that never came true was always the same wish; that I prayed to God as puberty approached that he wouldn’t change me into a man; and that for most of my life I’ve been denying this and burying it down as deep as I could get it to go.

She was crying, I was sobbing, and she just got up and gave me a hug as I cried in her arms. It was the most wonderful and comforting feeling ever. I had been so worried about her reaction, but as the selfless mother that she is, her first three thoughts were:

• What did I do wrong?
  • NOTHING!
• What could I have done differently?
  • Again, NOTHING!  It was the 70’s, we lived on a military base, and there simply weren’t enough resources to prepare any of us for this.
• I wish I had known you were in so much pain for so many years.
  • Me too…  Denial is a horrible thing.  It’s like a rotten seed that you just bury as deep as you can, and over the years it festers and rots, and eventually bursts with a flood of emotions that some simply can’t overcome.

I don’t remember everything else that was said.  But, I definitely got to the deer camp a LOT later than I had intended, and it was worth every minute. The next morning, I should’ve just stayed at camp.  If you know anything about Texas hunting, picture me sitting in a tree stand (chair attached to a tree, 22 feet up), full blown camo, my compound bow at the ready.  But, here’s the thing, you need to be still, and you need to be quiet.  Was I?  Hell no.  I spent 3 hours texting my mom, crying, wiping away tears, audibly crying, more tears.  I can imagine a deer stood there for who knows how long, looking at this emotional basket case hanging from a tree, thinking “why did he even bother coming out here?”.  But, something did happen that day.  I became closer to my Mom than I’ve ever been, and I think we spoke more that weekend than we have in the last 10 years.  That closeness has remained, and I now find it so easy to call my Mom just to talk, for no specific reason.

Well, one down, one to go…Dad.

Don’t take that wrong, I love my Dad immensely, and that love has always been mutual.  He has always been my finest friend and mentor.  But, with that carries a distinct fear of ever disappointing him.  I don’t remember how long it took me to finally build up the courage and decide exactly when this would happen, but I’m sure Mom wishes it had happened a lot sooner.  It had to be torture for her to hold on to this secret for as long as she did.

You might be wondering how I “told” him.  There’s no way in Hell I was going to be able to do it face to face.  I did have a plan though. I had spent the last month or more writing a letter, four pages long, that I hoped would explain everything.  That letter was amended and revised more times than the Bill of Rights.  I still can’t read through it without crying.  I put more thought and emotion into it than I think I’ve ever put into anything.

My Mom was out of town, I think visiting my Grandmother.  I believe I used the excuse of wanting to borrow his pressure washer as my reason for coming over.  I had to do this…I owed it to him to trust him, I owed it to Mom because she needed someone to talk to also, and I owed it to myself to keep this process moving.  As I walked in, he’d been taking a nap, and started to get up to help put the pressure washer in my truck.

“Hold on, don’t get up yet.  Put on your glasses, read this, and don’t stop until you finish.”

Before he could even ask what it was, I was out the door, took a seat on the patio, and texted my Mom.  He’s a fast reader, and I hoped that would still apply. Twelve f*cking minutes! How many times did he read the letter?? It was torture.  Finally, he came out, gave me a hug, and told me he would always love me, and will always be proud of me.  Tears…more tears…

We must’ve sat on the porch and talked for over an hour.  He seemed pretty receptive and accepting at first, but I think now it was mostly shock.  He’s struggled, not sure how he’s supposed to feel about this concept that he realizes he really doesn’t know much about.  He’s getting there.  He says he knows “We need to talk more about this”.  Hopefully that will happen soon.  I’m sure when I’m ready to fully come out, he’s going to have his own “Go, No Go” moment of acceptance.  I just hope he is ready, and our relationship is ready, for that moment to happen.  It’ll happen, it has to.  The most important thing is that I was finally able to bear my heart and soul to my amazing parents, and it ended up bringing us closer.

Best parents a daughter could ever have.

If you would like to see a copy of the letter I wrote to my father, please let me know in the comments below, or email me at renee@becomingrenee.com.  I’ll need to comb through it to keep everything anonymous. But, if it’ll help someone with coming out to their own parents, I am more than willing to share.  Stay strong, you can do this, and you deserve this!!

* Flashback to July, 2018 *

One of the hardest things in life is to face your fears…and your demons. Ever since that first therapy appointment, I had been spending a very large portion of my waking moments contemplating what was going on in my head. My subconscious likely spent many restless nights doing the same thing as I dreamed, even though I don’t remember those dreams. I read, and posted, the stereotypical “Am I Transgender?” topics on Reddit, only to be told by so many what I already knew was true. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that my employer never knew how many hours of productivity were lost to me browsing Reddit and reading blogs such as this one while at work. I must admit, the thoughts about suicide still crept into my mind occasionally. But, thankfully, it was more about reinforcing the conclusion that the world was better with me in it, rather than finding ways of committing the act of suicide itself. For a long time, it wasn’t my own suffering I was worried about. I knew what suicide did to everyone left behind. It would destroy my family. One of my daughter’s best friends took a bottle of Tylenol PM just before the start of their Senior year in High School. A benadryl overdose is usually a one way trip, there’s rarely a way back from it. I was so pissed at him for ruining what was supposed to be one of the best years of her life. To say it devastated her would be putting it lightly. It just wasn’t the answer. Somehow, I had to find a way to make this work. I owed it to myself and my family who I knew loved me. As much shit as my family has been through, surely this could be overcome.

Therapy with Jennie continued on a weekly basis (by the way, my therapist’s name is Jennie…there will be a quiz). I don’t remember if I waited until the second or third appointment before deciding I needed to attend dressed as myself. I even dropped a huge penny on a new wig. After all, if I was going to reinvent myself, I should look good, right? Either way, sitting there dressed as the woman I had been hiding and denying for so many years, listening to Jennie refer to me as Renee and using female pronouns; it was the kind of joy and happiness that can’t be described. It can only be felt, and it had me shaking and crying with tears of joy that I had never felt before. The hard part was coming though, and I was dreading it. I had to figure out how to tell my wife. I had already told one person, and was surprised I had been able to. It was one of those things I had just “allowed to slip out”, because I think it was the only way I was going to have the nerve to do it.

My youngest daughter is a very special part of my life, and has been my little buddy since I first met her when she was 10 years old. She’s 23 now, going on 30, and possesses a spirit that is a beacon of amazing qualities. I do remember when I told her, since she was the first person I told, but I don’t remember exactly how I said it. I was in a fog, still reeling from thoughts of suicide (I kept this from her), but I hadn’t started therapy yet. I don’t think she knew how she wanted to or how she was supposed to react. I really didn’t have any answers. We did agree on one thing though, therapy was definitely the next step. Even though she has yet to see “Me” dressed as myself in person, she has still been an amazing supporter and has had to listen to my drama more than any daughter should ever have to. I love her tremendously.

For the reader – going to therapy does not mean you’re weak. But, it time, it does make you stronger. To this day, my wife has still not attended therapy, and I truly believe this has hindered our progress as friends and spouses. When you bury things away, they fester and rot. If you don’t have someone to talk to, find someone as soon as you can, especially if you’ve ever thought about suicide or if you’re dealing with something that is bigger than yourself. The link below is what I used to find my Gender Therapist. Most importantly, you will need a therapist who can be objective about Gender Dysphoria. DO NOT go to a Christian based therapist. They do not have the ability to be objective about LGBT issues, and I say this as someone who has a very strong faith in God.

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/therapists/transgender

* Flashback to June, 2018 *

This post is especially hard for me to write. As someone who has been working in emergency medicine for 25 years, I’ve developed a…let’s just call it a “less than flattering” view of people who commit suicide. I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I’ve done CPR too many times. I’ve comforted a screaming mother too many times. And I’ve definitely shoved a stomach tube down someone’s mouth way too many times so we could try to pump out the pills before they could be digested and possibly kill the host. I thought they were cowards, taking the easy way out. Until now.

My egg had indeed cracked. I see the significance of that statement now. I’ve described this as having a dam that had been holding back the water for forty years, and now a crack had developed. The water was coming, the crack was getting bigger, and any moment now, the shit was certainly going to hit the fan.

I had never truly experienced anxiety before, at least not the kind of anxiety that was life changing, crippling, and debilitating. Add to that the depression that seems to go hand in hand with the anxiety. Wow…where the hell had this anger and rage come from?

It is amazing how the simplest things that most people can just simply laugh off were now catastrophic. I’ll try to keep it short (too late?) with one example, which unfortunately wasn’t an isolated incident. My short term memory has always been horrible. I would often remind myself on my way out the door to grab my sunglasses, then I’d walk right by them and not realize it until 10 minutes down the road when the sun hits my face. In the past, I’d just blow it off…not anymore.

“You’re a f***ing idiot! How could you be so stupid?!” I’m screaming this at the windshield as if the idiot looking back from the rear view mirror had some sort of explanation, or at least would be able to say, “they’re in the center console, dumbass!” No such luck. This was quickly followed by anger, and RAGE. Rage so intense that I would pull over into a parking lot, scream at my stupidity and half-mindedness, pounding the steering wheel of my truck, yelling until my throat hurt. It sometimes took me 5-10 minutes to calm down enough to pull back on the road, but then I’d spend the rest of the day obsessing over my ineptitude.

My poor children. I have two wonderful loving boys, who were 9 and 10 when I was going through this, and my 10 year old has Asperger’s. I was such an ASS! I would yell at them with the kind of volume and timbre that would make a child’s joints ache. It still pains me to remember how I would leave my fragile 9 year old wailing after I’d dished out a verbal lashing that even R. Lee Ermey would think was too much. Especially when I wasn’t even yelling because my son needed it. I was yelling because I needed it, and he was an innocent victim. Even now, I cringe and get emotional when I remember the sound of his cry. It was the sound of pain, pain that I inflicted, and still haven’t forgiven myself for.

How the hell do you stop something when you’re not completely sure what started it? What’s the answer? Is dying the only answer? Is a bullet the only way to stop this torture? I couldn’t believe the thought had even emerged, but there it was. For the first time in my life, I actually contemplated suicide as an option. I can’t be transgender. I can’t put my family through this. My wife would be better off not seeing her husband become her wife. My children need their dad, my parents need their son, my brother needs his brother. If I can’t be those things for them, then what good am I? Right? RIGHT???

Thank God for my family. Thank God for my friends, and the friends I call family. If not for the love I have for them, and the love they have for me, the thought of suicide as an answer might have lasted longer than the few seconds that it did. By the end of the week, I had spoken with 3 different therapists over the phone, and was on my way to see the one I felt the strongest connection with. She literally saved my life, even though she told me something I wasn’t sure I was ready to face. I finally accepted what I’ve known to be true ever since the day I was so jealous of another girl’s dress in Kindergarten. I’m a Transgender Woman. As soon as she started to refer to me with she/her pronouns, I lit up. It felt so good, and so right!

If you ever feel like suicide is the answer, it isn’t!! Please contact one of the following organizations if you feel there is nowhere else to turn.

Trans Lifeline is a national trans-led 501(c)(3) organization dedicated to improving the quality of trans lives by responding to the critical needs of our community with direct service, material support, advocacy, and education. Our vision is to fight the epidemic of trans suicide and improve overall life-outcomes of trans people by facilitating justice-oriented, collective community aid.
US: 877-565-8860
Canada: 877-330-6366

The Trevor Project is the leading national organization providing crisis intervention and suicide prevention services to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer & questioning (LGBTQ) young people under 25.
1-866-488-7386

* Flashback to May 7, 2018 *
“My egg cracked” …What?

I’d never heard of that before I started reading trans posts on Reddit. It made sense though, the more I thought about it. Now, I’m not sure if this was the day it actually “cracked”, but it was a pretty amazing experience.

It was the second year in a row that my wife and I went to the New Orleans JazzFest. If you’re a Cajun food and all around music lover, I highly recommend it. Sunday morning, I was putting her on a plane to fly back home, while I was staying until the end of the week for an IT conference, and had a couple days to do my own thing in between. As we’re walking past the gay clubs doing drag shows, she makes the comment, “If you’re going out tomorrow night, please be careful,” then looking at me, says, “I’m not stupid, I know you brought your stuff with you.”

Holy shit…she really had me pegged. Not only that, she pretty much gave me permission to turn it loose and have fun! Woohoo!

I think she expected me to hit the drag shows and what-not. But, that actually has never really been my thing. I don’t feel comfortable in that type of setting. All I’ve ever really wanted to do was fit in, blend in, be normal, feel normal. I took a chance, got completely transformed, and went SHOPPING! Such an exciting day! I stopped for dinner (I don’t remember where), went to a movie, and went back to my Airbnb for a few glasses of wine before crashing for the night.

The next day…and I’ve always wanted to say this…I got up, put on my makeup and something pretty, and got ready for my day. Wow, this was turning out to be pretty amazing. I’ve never gone to bed as a woman, woken up that way, and then spent the whole next day doing the same. I’ve never in my life experienced this kind of happiness and nervous excitement. It was time to pack up the Airbnb, because the next 3 nights would be spent in a hotel closer to the conference center.

But first, I had one more day to myself…as myself. So, it was time for my favorite breakfast spot in NOLA, The Ruby Slipper! Dear God, this is breakfast from Heaven washed down with a couple Bloody Mary’s. With some liquid courage in my tank, it was time for something I had planned for a while. I was spending the entire day at the National WWII Museum. Holy Crap, that place is AMAZING! If you’re even close to being a WWII history buff, that museum is a must see. It was also one of the greatest days of my life. I heard Ma’am and Miss the entire day, and even had doors held open for me. I was on cloud nine!!

As the day started to wind down, I knew it was time for me to, as well. But first, I had to navigate the hotel lobby. Like I said, I’m here for an IT conference, and there were quite a few people there who I know professionally. And while I’m a day early for the conference, I know for a fact there were others arriving too. So, I walked as “normal” as I could muster up to the desk, presented my corporate credit card and driver’s license, and put on my prettiest smile. The young lady looked at my cards, then at her monitor, smiled wide and said, “Yes ma’am, I’ve got you right here Mrs. _____, welcome to New Orleans! Up to my room, I went!

Holy shit…what a day! Time to wrap it up and get some dinner at a place I knew on Chartres St., then head back, change back to boy-mode, and drown my sorrows in a few glasses of good whiskey. I always hate changing back…crawling back into that closet that has been my home since I was so young. I had no idea at the time just how much was going to change over the next year. For now, though, such wonderful memories.