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Tabatha...or Tim?
"Dressing as a woman gave me excitement, sexual and emotional ,
pleasure, and a wonderful means to temporarily escape from my hated
existence as a man."
I could see my reflection in the window pane of the doctor's office.
Somehow I had managed to nervously bite off my lipstick. A moment
later, with a fresh application of lipstick and perfume, I was more
than ready for my long-awaited appointment.
I gazed out the window, and could see the trees turning from green to
flaming shades of red. I muttered to myself, "This is also my change
of seasons. At last!"
The receptionist interrupted my thoughts saying, "Tabatha, the doctor
is ready to see you now." She led me down the hall to an office with a
large stuffed chair.
Minutes later, I began recounting my story to the sympathetic
psychiatrist. She listened, probed, questioned. I was pleased that she
was so attentive to what I had to say. "I love your dress," she said,
telling me that I made a very attractive woman. "I wish I could look
half as nice as you," she sighed, then paused. "Tabatha, when did you
first begin cross-dressing?"
My mind immediately raced back to the age of four, when I had
contracted polio. Dressing like Mommy was already an important part of
my life by then. Even at that age I was coming to the conclusion that
I was a mistake, that I wasn't a girl like I was supposed to be.
As we talked about my childhood, I dug into my purse for some more
Kleenex. I didn't want my mascara to run, and I hadn't planned on
crying so much. "I'm making a fool of myself, aren't I."
The doctor took my hand in hers. "You poor, poor dear. I don't
understand why you have gone through all of this torment. But I will
see to it that you'll be feeling lots better very soon." Then she
began writing a prescription. "This medication must be taken just as
directed," she said firmly. "You will begin to notice some physical
changes in a few months time. Be patient!"
Later when the pharmacist handed me the bag containing my pills, the
very medication that would transform my whole life, my hands shook
with indescribable excitement. At last, my body would take on the
female characteristics I'd longed to have from the age of a
preschooler. I would become a woman like my Mommy.
Taking hormones of the opposite sex. Consulting with a sex-change
therapist. Dressing as a female in private and public. Often
inflicting harm to myself in futile attempts to rid myself of the
despised male genitalia. All of it seemed to bizarre. Why? I was a
married man, the father of two wonderful children, and an active
church member as well as in Christian leadership roles. My wife was an
absolute delightful woman to live with. I wondered how this wife of my
youth would react to my physical changes. Would it mean divorce? Or
would we continue to live together as my ideal fantasy would have it,
as two women? Not, that would never work, I thought in disgust.
Early Memories:
Since my earliest memories, my closest friends had been female, and
they had eagerly accepted me as one of their own. I loved being
included in the world of the feminine, dressing every chance I got in
Mom's things, or those of neighborhood girlfriends. I had always lived
with the haunting realization that having a boy wasn't my parent's
first choice, either.
"I wish you were a girl so that you could one day take over my beauty
shop," my mother would often say. She regularly dressed me in girl's
things when I was a preschooler, thinking it a harmless activity.
My worst day on planet earth was my first day of school. It was that
morning that Mom sat on the edge of my bed and told me that I would
not be allowed to wear girl's dresses to school.
When I dressed as a girl with the other neighborhood girls, my father
would encourage me to do so by his careless comments and affirmations,
saying such things as, "You're a lot better looking as a girl." I
never felt loved or affirmed by my father when I was a boy.
My relationship with him deteriorated even further when I was a young
teenager. One night I'll never forget was when I had been sick with
the flu, and late that night, Dad came into my bedroom to check on me.
That was something he never did. He discovered me in my bed wearing my
traditional bedtime garb of cosmetics and nightgown. I feigned sleep
as he sat there upon the edge of my bed weeping. When I thought he was
about to get up to leave the room, he yanked me out of the bed, beat
me, yelling over and over, "You're just a damned homosexual!" I was so
hurt that he would call me that, for I knew that I wasn't what he
defined me to be. I was so angry but failed to find any strength to
resist his furious blows. In a way I hoped he would kill me. My hatred
for him intensified from that day on. He had no idea what to do with
me and I only wanted to hurt him in return.
Contrary to what my father thought, I was never attracted sexually to
men. In fact, I hated men and anything to do with being counted among
them, or manhood. But I loved being around women.
It wasn't until many years afterwards while working under professional
care and fully engaging the emotional wounds of my childhood that I
made a startling discovery: I did have latent same-sex love needs. I
desired a man to hold me, care for me, as men do with the woman they
love. Beneath the myriads of self-deception and denial, I realized
that I was homosexually inclined.
In an effort to both get away from home and somehow change my self
view, I joined the U.S. Navy. Of course that didn't work. After
spending 1.5 years as a hospital corpsman, I visited the base
psychiatrist in order to share my anguish with him. I hoped that he
might have some answers for me and help. His remedy was to give me a
discharge and send me home to get the care I required. My folks knew
the reason for my dismissal, but not once did they discuss it with me,
or seek help for me. My next step was to attend college and pursue a
career.
While attending college, I met an attractive and vibrant young lady
named Sherri and we fell in love. Early on in our relationship I
decided to tell her about my struggles with cross-dressing. I didn't
want to go further in the relationship without her being informed.
"You don't look like a woman," she said. "I'm surprised that you'd
have a problem like that." I was 5'11", over 200 pounds, with typical
masculine broad shoulders and manly appearance. The mistake that both
of us made was the notion that marriage would solve the problem. After
all, we were both Christians and determined to do ministry. God would
somehow take care of what was now becoming "our problem."
But even after our wedding, my secret obsession continued. It wasn't
that Sherri lacked anything in the feminine, or that she wasn't able
to satisfy me. This problem had predated her and would not go away so
easily. The problem wasn't a sexual problem. It was one of my basic
gender identity. No marriage contract can eliminate one's self-view.
I progressed into full-blown transsexualism, growing more and more
convinced that I was born the wrong sex. I reasoned that I was really
a woman, but trapped by some kind of cosmic mix-up in a man's body. I
began seriously considering the possibility of eventual
sex-reassignment surgery (SRS).
I was honest enough to talk about masturbation being part of my
overall experience. Masturbation steadily dissipated as my
self-contempt increased, which of course included a severe hatred for
the very genitals which defined me as a male. Multiple attempts were
made to rid myself of those much hated and unwanted members of my
body. One such episode landed me in the hospital for several months
with a major abdominal infection and near death. Remember this:
transvestites do not want to rid themselves of their male sex organs,
for it is in them so much sexual pleasure is derived. They want their
maleness left intact. They do not want to be permanent women.
The main reason
transgenderists may not think of me as a genuine transsexual male is
that we have the tendency to "die of terminal uniqueness." We love to
say, "Well, there's no way anyone can understand me. I am different
than a person like Tim...and furthermore, he's not to be listened to
because if you're a "true transsexual you'd never be able to change
it."
Cross-dressing:
My means of escaping the stress of living as a male and my
self-loathing attitudes was to retreat into the fantasy of my acquired
feminine persona, Tabatha Lynn. It was a well-practiced habit and
chronic form of behavior from my earliest childhood recollections. It
was my neighborhood girlfriends who dubbed me Tabatha. They thought it
was great fun to have me play with them as one of them.
Escaping manhood through cross-dressing became a daily ritual.
It felt so right and good to once again be who I had come to accept as
the real me. Perhaps a conflict would develop at work, and I would
again feel as though I had failed. I would think, "Boy you're sure
stupid and will never amount to anything. Life would have been better
as a female." One the drive home from work, I'd notice all of the
women walking along in their pretty dresses, and I'd begin to wonder
how those dresses would look on me. Soon I'd be headed for the nearest
shopping mall, where I'd buy some women's clothing. Of course, I'd
then invest in other things such as mascara, lipstick, perfume, and
wig.
Then I'd rush home, or stop by a motel, and go through the process of
being transformed into the woman I wanted to be. Many times as I
dressed I would then feel compelled to go outside for a walk or drive
across town, perhaps even going to another mall and shopping this time
as "Tabatha Lynn," my female name. I would feel such a rush of
excitement when the clerks would call me "ma'am" and other female
customers would accept me as just another woman.
Often back in the motel or in the privacy of my own home, my fantasies
would peak as I then stimulated myself to sexual and emotional orgasm.
This kind of masturbatory activity was not always the case, but
certainly an important part in some of my journey. Eventually the
whole experience would have to end, and I would once again be forced
to resume my hated existence as a man. Feelings of shame and guilt,
frustration and anger would overwhelm me. Often the newly acquired
clothes would be hastily discarded in a Salvation Army deposit box as
I made repeated and sincere promises to myself never to cross-dress
again.
A few days later, I'd do it all over again.
Finally, attempting to resolve my inner turmoil, I began seeing a
clinical psychiatrist in order to obtain female hormones. I dreamed of
having transsexual surgery and becoming a woman once and for all. I
even forged a phony divorce certificate to hide the fact that I was
still married.
But during my third visit, I tearfully told the doctor how very scared
I was about actually going through with the sex-reassignment. "I've
noticed a few physical changes," I told her. "But I'm so afraid of the
rejection I'll have to face. I will lose my family and everything I
dearly love. I don't know how I can stand that!"
She stood up and crossed the room. "Tabatha, I cannot supply you with
more hormones if you have no intention of following through with the
procedure. The endocrinologist and surgeon are both supportive of your
decision. But if you have these kinds of reservations I can't sanction
any more treatment from my office."
The drive home was unforgettable. I was enraged and cursing my very
existence. Angrily I tore at my dress, agonizing over my fate. For the
rest of my life, I would be forced to go through the motions of being
a man, always fantasizing what it would be like ... if only ...
I finally reasoned that no matter what or who I lost in the pursuit of
living fulltime as a woman, it had to be done. "Nothing else will help
me or put an end to my torment than sex change surgery," I thought.
So, I began to do all the things necessary to qualify as a viable
candidate for "sex reassignment." I worked closely with my
psychiatrist, therapist, urologist and endocrinologist to adhere to
the traditional codes of conduct for being allowed to have the
surgery. I passed myself off fairly well in the public eye. And
enjoyed the attention men gave me. I obtained verbal and written
permission to fulfill my dream. Their letters were sent to the sex
change surgeon and everything was settled. Except for one thing: I
knew too much about God's ways; and it didn't make sense to me that
the Almighty could make such a terrible and careless mistake.
A Turning Point:
Back home, I entered the shower weeping, crying out to God for some
relief. I had been a Christian for almost thirty years. I knew that my
secret life was painful - not only to me, but to my committed wife and
my Lord Jesus. As I stood there, letting the water wash away my tears,
a tiny ray of hope took hold in my heart. Thoughts of suicide subsided
as I began to believe that God might provide a way out of my secret
agony.
Later that week, I made an appointment to see a Christian
psychiatrist. While talking to him, I could sense Christ's love and
acceptance embracing me. I was determined to find a solution. "If I
don't get help," I had vowed inside my heart, "I will have no other
choice left than to commit suicide."
But that visit marked a turning point in my life. "We are only as sick
as our secrets," the psychiatrist told me, and I knew that his words
were true. The four decades of living a secret life were over. As I
progressed along in counseling and emotional restoration, I came to
see that I had believed so many lies about myself. God hadn't made a
"mistake" in creating me with a male body. It was He that had formed
my body from the beginning. He had a destiny for me. "My frame was not
hidden from You when I was made in the secret place; when I was woven
together ... your eyes saw my unformed body." (Psalm 139:15-16) God
had planned for me to become a man before I had even been created!
So the lie was exposed that there really was a woman residing within
my body, longing to find full expression. Myriads of lies like that
filled my soul before I attended my first grade of school. I had
rejected my manhood, one of God's good gifts to me, before I was a
teenager. To fill the void and somehow soothe my wounded soul, I had
become addicted to the forbidden in order to nurture a fantasy.
Now I had to learn new ways to think about myself, based upon the
scriptures and sound reasoning. With God's help I learned how to
control my thoughts, "Taking every thought captive in order to make
them obedient to Christ's way." (2 Cor.10:5) Satan had accomplished
his mission well by establishing a stronghold of deception in my mind
from the age of three years on up. With members of the Body of Christ
about me ("Jesus with skin on") and learning how to "stand fast in the
liberty with which I had been set free" (Gal 5:1), placing my identity
in Christ, I devotedly took measures against my fleshly desires in
order to tear down the many lies, replacing them with the Truth of
God's Word.
I had to train my mind to repudiate the suggestions that I was only
fooling myself and maintaining myself in absolute denial of how things
really were. I had to repeatedly remind myself that God's ways are
better for me than my own. It took me a long time to fully embrace the
idea that God had made me an intelligent man. I was not stupid, like
my Dad always said. I could achieve God's calling on my life. God
wasn't going to remove my tendency to sin in this manner by some
magical stroke of His hand. His plan was to prove Himself sufficient
in every temptation to once again entertain transsexual notions. I
learned that "through Him, my weaknesses could be turned into
strengths." (2 Cor. 12:9)
None of these changes came easily or quickly. Day by day and week by
week, I had to constantly submit my thoughts and feelings to God,
pleading for His transforming power to change my inner sense of being.
Mine has been a long, arduous trek towards any kind of healing. And I
have found that no matter how long I've been free of the behaviors, I
can only claim lasting victory over transsexual lusts as I daily
commit my soul to the care of God, and maintain myself through daily
spiritual disciplines and oversight by a few who know me well..
God has always used the Body of Christ to help encourage me in my
journey out of my confusion.. One night, another woman I didn't know
began to pray over me with specific insights that could have only been
known by God. She said, "The enemy has assigned a task force to hammer
away at you continually, bringing self-condemnation to you in order to
spiritually castrate you and prevent you from being fruitful in God's
Kingdom. But God is giving you strength and courage to stand up in
your own manhood in Him and defeat the enemy..."
I'd be lying to you if I said that discarding my feminine persona has
been painless. At first I didn't know if I could really emotionally
survive without a day of cross-dressing. Eventually, I could see that
getting rid of that behavior was the very best thing for my
well-being. I had to learn how to renew myself daily in prayer and
make right choices to pursue Christ's way for me rather than what I
deemed best.
I had to learn to not walk by how I felt. I had to learn how to walk
by faith that God's plan for me was and is the best.
Today, I realize that I may well have occasional transsexual desires
looming within my heart for the rest of my life. But I now understand
enough and have experienced enough restoration and Truth to any longer
believe that my feelings dictate who I am. I have clear-cut choices
before me daily. I am learning the ways of a disciple of Jesus Christ.
Enduring temptation and dealing with life in more productive ways
(with God's direct interventions!) is the answer. Not Sex Reassignment
Surgery.
I am today gazing out of my office window to see the season once more
changing its color. The trees are again a brilliant red. My own
reflection in the window pane is different, however. It's no longer a
stylishly-dressed woman, waiting for the receptionist's announcement.
Now I see the man God created me to be and has given grace for me to
rejoice in being . I no longer find it necessary or even appealing to
be seen as Tabatha. My real identity is contained within the name to
which I proudly answer: Tim.
I invite you to repeat this simple prayer with me:
O Lord God Almighty, not the god of the philosophers and the wise but
the God of the prophets and apostles; and better than all, the God and
Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, may I express my heart to thee
un-blamed?
They that know Thee not may call upon Thee as other than Thou art, and
so worship not Thee but a creature of their own fancy; therefore
enlighten our minds that we may know Thee as Thou art, so that we may
perfectly love Thee and worthily praise Thee.
In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
* The Knowledge of the Holy by A.W. Tozer, p1. |
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