Once Upon a Time, There Was a Lost, Gay, Little Boy.: 101

By Jo Gabriel

Jos mission is to connect with any who can relate to or care about abuse on any and all levels.
Jos vision is to see gaps of misunderstanding bridged between all who come in touch with victimizationwhether between victims, survivors, first responders, aggressors, perpetrators, or mere bystanders. Without those bridges, there will never be growth.
Jos mission and vision continue to keep her focused on her work. It is clear to her that those bridges between peoples will only be as strong as those who are working together to build them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514427408

Jo Gabriel

Jo Gabriels entire life work has involved working with vulnerable populations. However, it was not until she was at a Summit for Sex Trafficking that she took a look at her own life through different lens. Jo Gabriel puts pen to paper to tell the story about her many challenges in life. She has gone from being a victim to a survivor over the years in her own life. She shares with us her challenges dealing with gender dysphoria, eating disorders, sexual abuse, domestic violence, and living on the streets. Jo has moved on to be an inspiration and success. She works tirelessly to support others who have been through similar challenges as her own. Today, she holds various higher educational degrees. Through her own LLC, she pursues educating others and creating awareness as a keynote speaker and support group leader. Her writings continue to honor vulnerable populations. She has had the honor of being nominated for numerous awards for her work, her empathy, and her publications.

Book preview

ONCE UPON A TIME, THERE

WAS A LOST, GAY, LITTLE BOY.

101

An Autobiography Written by

JO GABRIEL

Copyright © 2015 by Jo Gabriel.

Library of Congress Control Number:                   2015919283

ISBN:                   Hardcover                            978-1-5144-2742-2

                            Softcover                              978-1-5144-2741-5

                            eBook                                    978-1-5144-2740-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 02/23/2018

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Introduction

Chapter One — Vague Memories

Chapter Two — Born Wrong

Chapter Three — Endless Nights

Chapter Four — Escaping to Other Worlds

Chapter Five — Don’t Be Silly

Chapter Six — Welcoming Pain like a Lady

Chapter Seven — Planning and Plotting

Chapter Eight — But I’m not hungry

Chapter Nine — Movies and Shows

Chapter Ten — My Sister

Chapter Eleven — Stealing my Soul

Chapter Twelve — The Big Barn Door

Chapter Thirteen — A Darker side

Chapter Fourteen — Growing Pains

Chapter Fifteen — Welcome to the Real World

Chapter Sixteen — Ring, Ring

Chapter Seventeen — Stabbed

Chapter Eighteen — Holidays and Love

Chapter Nineteen — Just a Typical Weekend

Chapter Twenty — Death and Fire

Chapter Twenty — One Whirlwind

Chapter Twenty Two — Smarter but not Smart Enough

Chapter Twenty Three — Family Vacations

Chapter Twenty Four — Downward Spiral

Chapter Twenty Five — On the Streets

Chapter Twenty Six — JOSELITO

Chapter Twenty Seven — Sheer Survival

Chapter Twenty Eight — Lightning bolts and sex

Chapter Twenty Nine — A Peer’s Demise

Chapter Thirty Safe — Sex

Chapter Thirty One — Staring at the Crossroads

Chapter Thirty Two — Playing House

Chapter Thirty Three — On Stage. One More Time.

Chapter Thirty Four — A Piece of Wedding Cake

Chapter Thirty Five — Change of Heart, Broken Heart

Chapter Thirty Six — Religion Came-a-Knockin’-at-my-Door

Chapter Thirty Seven — Forming a New Me

Chapter Thirty Eight — Shifts are A-Happenin’

Chapter Thirty Nine — Confused but Hopeful

Chapter Forty — I’m a Mommy!

Chapter Forty One — Double Honor!

Chapter Forty Two — Beautiful Babies

Chapter Forty Three — Surprise in the U.S.A.

Chapter Forty Four — Special Needs?

Chapter Forty Five — Shock in the U.S.A.

Chapter Forty Six — Wedding Bells Overseas

Chapter Forty Seven — Stuck in a Cycle

Chapter Forty Eight — By the Sea Side

Chapter Forty Nine — A Stranger, A Sister?

Chapter Fifty — Plana

Chapter Fifty One — Back to the Sea Side

Chapter Fifty Two — Gianna

Chapter Fifty Three — Work Ethics

Chapter Fifty Four — A Reality Check

Chapter Fifty Five — Arriving to the U.S.A.

Chapter Fifty Six — Culture Shock

Chapter Fifty Seven — The Yo’Mama Van

Chapter Fifty Eight — A Fresh Start in the U.S.A.

Chapter Fifty Nine — The Job Hunt

Chapter Sixty — Malcolm Back in the Picture

Chapter Sixty One — Joselyn

Chapter Sixty Two — Facts of Life

Chapter Sixty Three — At Last!!!

Chapter Sixty Four — Maybe It Is In My Blood After All?

Chapter Sixty Five — Repercussions

Chapter Sixty Six — Deep, Deep Down Under

Chapter Sixty Seven — Thrown Through a Loop

Chapter Sixty Eight — Stupid, Stupid, Stupid

Chapter Sixty Nine — Losing my Religion

Chapter Seventy — Our Animal Kingdom

Chapter Seventy One — A Special Sharing Love Day

Chapter Seventy Two — Eight Year Break Over

Chapter Seventy Three — Tough decisions for all

Chapter Seventy Four — Professional Changes

Chapter Seventy Five — Mason

Chapter Seventy Six — Gay, Straight Alliance

Chapter Seventy Seven — Policing and Me

Chapter Seventy Eight — Wine and Spirits

Chapter Seventy Nine — End of a Trip, Beginning of a Journey

Chapter Eighty — Feeling Some Body Art

Chapter Eighty One — More Coping Changes

Chapter Eighty Two — It Was Time

Chapter Eighty Three — M’Lady

Chapter Eighty Four — Taking Things Slowly

Chapter Eight Five — Nature person?

Chapter Eighty Six — The Damned Dam

Chapter Eighty Seven — A Call Out of the Blue

Chapter Eighty Eight — Dating and Triggers

Chapter Eighty Nine — Out Of My Skin Again

Chapter Ninety — Big disappointment, Big Changes

Chapter Ninety One — News to Share

Chapter Ninety Two — Husband and Husband not Wife and Wife

Chapter Ninety Three — Guardians No More

Chapter Ninety Four — What the Hell Am I?

Chapter Ninety Five — Heath, Logan, Kerena, and Carson

Chapter Ninety Six — Four and a Half Decades

Chapter Ninety Seven — The Brakes Came Crashing Down

Chapter Ninety Eight — Not for Naught

Chapter Ninety Nine — Regrets?

Chapter One Hundred — Grace and Dignity Above All Else

Chapter One — Hundred And One Food for Thought

Analysis One — Attachment Issues

Analysis Two—The A.C.E. Study

Analysis Three—Health Issues

Analysis Four—Eating Disorders

Analysis Five—Suppression of Free Gender Expression

Analysis Six—Sexual Abuse

Final Closing Thoughts

DEDICATION

I dedicate this book to my children - four very special people who were my guardians even before they were born. I hope they realize just how very much they enriched my life.

I do not know that I could have done it without them.

Heath, Logan, Kerena, and Carson.

You have been the light of my life, always.

You are in my heart always.

Whether near or far, I will be there in spirit with all of you, always.

_________________

I dedicate this book to two very special people in my life who are excitedly looking forward to becoming parents soon.

To my brother, Mason and his husband, Kent.

This book is a reminder to let those children that will be joining your loving home be who they be no matter what that looks like or how it feels.

I know you will both be amazing, loving, and accepting parents.

Whether from just down the street or wherever else I am, I will be there in spirit with you always.

_________________

I dedicate this book to a special friend who lived a similar life as me but only found herself just in time to pass away from cancer. Had she lived on, she would have touched many more lives.

Jemmima Croswell

09/08/1963 – 07/03/1915

_________________NOTE TO THE READERS:

For editorial purposes, the names of all characters and locations have been changed to fictional names and non-descriptive locations.

INTRODUCTION

I t is with a rather strong sense of urgency that I am putting pen to paper to tell this adventure as I feel it is one that must be told.

I was at a Summit for Sex Trafficking for work related purposes. While there, I discovered from the verbiage and definitions used that I had been more of a victim of sexual abuse than I had ever let myself believe. I had many mixed emotions about this discovery. None of my emotions were positive emotions.

The strongest emotion I was feeling was indignation. I was rather put off with the presenter for making me walk away feeling as if I had been sex trafficked. It was easier to blame her presentation than it was to confront my denial. Up until that day at the training, I had simply believed that I had experienced one misfortune after another. For a myriad of reasons, I should have realized much sooner the degree to which I had been victimized.

During this summit, many different people came up to the podium to speak. Some of them had been victims and spoke of their experiences as victims. They were part of a group organized by a local domestic violence/sexual violence coalition. After they had shared their experiences, my social work peers from the audience would ask them questions. The sessions were very educational for those who had never been victims and yet worked with victims.

As the different victims of various forms of abuse spoke, I started to feel an overpowering obligation for the sake of other children to tell my story as well. Maybe from the happenings in my life, parents and teachers could learn about small ways in which they could make big differences. Maybe from those same happenings, First Responders and support staff could learn about victimization straight from victims rather than from textbooks. Maybe from those same happenings, other victims could have hope. Maybe from those same happenings, I could make a small difference for someone.

Making a difference for others in some small way, shape, or form has always been my goal in this lifetime.

I will warn the readers that my transitions from a lost child, to an angry teen, to a confused young person, and finally to a balanced middle-aged person, has much graphic language. It is not my intent to offend the reader. However, I have chosen not to taper my language for my book. I am using the language that I had and understood at each of the periods of my growth as a human. Please bear with my story as I carry you from one stage to the next.

Keeping me ignorant as a child had a direct impact on my experiences. Important adults in my youth who chose not to share important life messages with me had a direct impact on my experiences. Simple, timely and basic education could have saved me much pain and kept me much safer.

Education has saved my life in many ways. I feel education is key to success in all the arenas of our lives. Hence, I have assigned my book the number ‘101’ as a learning institution would do for an introductory course in their course catalog. This is the introductory course I have experienced in my life and that has brought me to where I am today. The ‘101’ chapters covered in this book are a narration of my transition from complete chaos and dysfunction to extreme functionality.

Throughout my years, many people failed me. Parents failed me. Teachers failed me. Clergy failed me. Police failed me. Neighbors failed me. Family failed me. Most importantly though and for many years, I failed me. For this, I am now paying a very high price.

If you take nothing else from my life story, and especially if you work with or raise children, please take these messages with you:

- Children need to know about body development BEFORE their bodies develop.

- Children need to know about sex BEFORE they become sexually active.

- Children need to know about safe people and resources BEFORE they have a need to do so.

- Girls need to know about menstrual cycles BEFORE they get them.

- Girls need to know about breast development BEFORE their breasts develop.

- Girls and boys need to know about birth control BEFORE they have sex.

- Boys and girls need to know about relationships BEFORE they get into one.

Not having sexual education classes or health classes in schools is inexcusable. School boards, principals, curriculum committees and parents that are blocking the existence of these educational classes are acting ignorantly. They are needlessly allowing much potential for disaster to exist. If we do not teach them what healthy sex is supposed to look like, how will they recognize unhealthy sex?

I implore adults to reflect seriously on their stance on speaking about bodies and sex with children. Allow children to be educated. Learning about sex is not an encouragement to go out and have sex. It is a knowledge that is necessary for healthy living. Young people need to have the tools to make choices and understand what is happening in their lives. If we cannot communicate openly about intimacy with them, how can we ever expect them to be able to come to us for any uncertainties they may have?

Please take away the following thoughts in addition to the messages above:

- Children need to have a right to their opinions no matter how outlandish they may seem from an adult perspective.

- Children need to be allowed to express themselves no matter whether they fit our adult preconceived ideas of who they should be or not.

- Children need to have their fears addressed no matter how irrational or silly they may seem from an adult perspective.

- Children need to be encouraged to express their preferences and dislikes no matter what those look like through an adult’s eyes.

- Children need to feel safe to be able to thrive. That safe feeling needs to be present on their terms, not on our adult terms.

- Children need to be allowed to have their own gender expressions. If they are allowed to be who they are without being forced into any preconceived ideas, their gender expression and personality will shine through.

I have often wondered how different my life would have been had I been given the option of knowledge. I wonder how different my life would have been had I had someone to whom I could turn for those confusing life questions that came up when parts of me were developing and other parts of me were not developing. I wonder how different my life would have been had I been respected enough to be educated about my body and sex. I wonder how different my life would have been if I would have had healthy examples of other gay people in my life. I wonder how different my life would have been if I would have been allowed to keep my voice and use it.

Today I share my story, as I too am now a member of that same group which spoke at the summit and so strongly affected me. It is organized by a local domestic violence/sexual violence coalition and has become an important part of my life. I attend events and tell a little bit of what life has been like for me and how others have impacted me. If something can be learned, than my life has not been a waste.

I speak from experience.

I speak from pain.

I have finally found my voice.

Here is my story for you to take from it what you will….

CHAPTER ONE

Vague Memories

S ince all of our lives begin at childhood, childhood is where I shall begin my story. I have blocked most of my childhood memories out. My earliest memories are simply fragments of memories. These are fragments upon which I am not sure how to reflect. Hence, they are merely snippets in time, which are mostly devoid of any feeling.

I am an American person. The earliest memory I have took place in Europe. I was about three years old at the time. We were living there with my mother’s family at the time. I was walking down to the bread shop with my European grandmother. My European grandmother was a traditional old lady who was always dressed in black. She always seemed ancient to me. I cannot imagine her ever having been a young woman. She was holding my hand as we walked to the bread shop. At that time, a loaf of bread cost what was equivalent to mere pennies. Their coin no longer exists today. Today, all of Europe uses the Euro. I think I was happy then. I think I felt safe.

Europe was an old Europe when I was three years old. My mother, my sister and I lived with my European grandparents while my father was off at war doing his patriotic duty. There was a dictator ruling at this time in the country we lived in Europe. He and his police had run the King and Queen out of the country. The dictator ruled over the country with an iron fist. The dictator was the country’s Hitler. The dictator’s police stood out. They wore funny black shiny hats that were flat in the back. The hats were flat in the back because the officers would stand for hours on guard leaning up against walls. The officers were mean. They were hated. I was afraid of them. I was too young to understand why, but I knew they were to be feared.

At three years of age, I could not recall my father’s face. I just remembered a shaved head and a uniform. I remember us huddling around a cassette recorder recording messages to my father. My mother told us what to say. I do remember that when my father returned from the war, I did not know who he was. I did not remember him. I cried afraid of the uniform and the strange, bald man. He had been gone for a long time. I think while he was gone was when my mother started to have her own agenda. I think I started my fears then.

I was about four years old. We were all at an open flea market in a big city I will call by the fictitious name of Latala. Suddenly, there was much screaming and pushing. I was pushed into a corner and bodies were shoving against me. They were crushing me. I felt like I could not breathe. I could hear cries of fear from the crowd that was caving in on me. I could hear stands getting thrown down and items flying everywhere. A gang had come running through the flea market throwing down tables and taking whatever they wanted. Just as quickly as it had started, the suffocating crowd dispersed. The gang had moved down to the end of the flea market and we were back to normal. Nothing was said as to what had just happened. We were just continuing our walk as if nothing had happened. I had peed myself in fear. I just wanted to go home. I think this started my lifelong distrust of crowds, my dislike of shopping, and my hatred of pretending all was well.

I was about four years old. I was still in Europe living in Latala with my mother’s family. The front room window was open. I could smell the rain. I could hear the pitter patter of the rain. I was sitting at my European grandmother’s dining room table staring at my plate. My short, chubby legs did not reach the floor. My little feet were dangling. I was not allowed to leave the table until I had eaten everything on it. My mother was screaming at me. My grandmother was screaming at me. My sister just kept looking at me. I sat there for hours. I did not want to eat. I do not remember why. I do not remember what was on my plate. I remember I felt as small as the bug I saw crossing the front room tiles. I cried. I remember wishing the bug was big enough to eat me and take me far away from there. I remember wondering why my eating or not eating held such importance and power over my mother and my grandmother to make them so angry. I feel this moment was the start of my lifetime sentence with no parole.

My next memory was in the U.S.A. I was about five years old. I was jumping in a big pile of leaves. There was orange and brown all around me. There were nuts on the ground. The trees were tall and strong. Deep into my adulthood, I still loved those colors. I still loved how nature looked in autumn. It has always been my favorite season. I do believe this must have been a happy memory.

I remember being in the bathroom having my hair brushed by my mother. The bathroom was in the middle of a long hallway. I was five years old. I hated the pulling of the knots and tight ponytails. They gave me headaches. While brushing my hair, my mother would lecture me the entire time about how pretty little girls did not get gum and knots in their hair. I was not a pretty little girl. She could not see that. Nobody could see that. Nobody really looked at me. For some reason, my father was in the bathroom with us. I casually said, One day, I’m going to run away. I remember my mother immediately started screaming at me. My father whipped me with his belt for that comment. I did not know why the comment had offended them so badly or why I was getting beat. I just learned I had better watch what I said around the two of them from then on. After my beating, I was more certain than ever that I wanted to run away.

I remember a large, tall, strong tree that I saw regularly. It was outside of a building. I do not recall what the building was or why I was constantly near this tree. However, I used to imagine that I would build myself a home under its protective strength. Its long falling branches would cover me and I would feel safe. Its falling branches would be the walls hiding me from the world. Nobody would find me there. Years later, I came to learn its name was a Weeping Willow. I wondered if it had gotten its name because it cried as much as I did. I wondered why such a beautiful tree was as sad as I was.

I remember a big vicious dog chasing me through a snow-filled field as I headed home. My short chubby five-year-old legs ran as hard as they could. I just knew I was going to get devoured violently. I got to our house and ran through our screen door. The dog ran in right after me tearing the screen. I was screaming hysterically, crying violently, and yelling for help. My father was able to chase the dog out of the house. While a fear of animals stayed with me for many years after that, the urge to run away from similar monsters stayed with me forever.

Still in the U.S.A., I remember riding a little bike with training wheels. In a sudden turn on the sidewalk, I flipped over and landed smack straight in a big cacti in front of our house. I was crying as I ran home for help. I remember the shame and embarrassment of having my mother going over every inch of my painfully shy five-year old naked body as she pulled out splinter after splinter. She was laughing at me and telling me to keep still. I do not have any feeling about this memory.

I was six years old and I was back in Europe. The dictator died. It was winter of 1975. The city streets went crazy with joy. The people in their cars and on their bicycles were honking their horns with joy. The country’s Queen and King were able to come back to reign. Things became very different overnight. It seemed that everyone was able to breathe and just be themselves. It was rather unruly until things settled but at least, there were no more whispers about people being found shot dead in the park. I did not understand why dead people would go to a park. I was scared of parks.

When the dictator died, the country entered a period which translates to The Uncovering. All of the societal rigidity was gone. Every free expression that had been suppressed was able to flourish. Everything and everyone that had been prohibited under the dictatorship came out from hiding. One big thing in particular that changed was that while the dictator had lived, we had only had two channels on television. Both channels had been black and white and filled with political propaganda. When the dictator died, television became extremely graphic. I grew up in a very liberal environment.

I remember being out with my mother, aunt, cousins and sister in Latala. I was about six years old then. I was walking ahead of the group. Suddenly I turned around and the group was not there. I panicked. I turned cold all over. I looked and double looked not believing that I was all alone. I freaked out and started crying in a panic. I started running back in the direction from which we had come. I was running for what felt like a very long time. I ran through big streets with tall buildings. I ran over a bridge. I ran up and down more streets. Cars were honking at me. People were looking at me. I eventually got to a familiar street. I got to a familiar business. I stayed there crying. I could not believe my family had left me. Eventually, when my family returned to our street, I found out they had gone into a store to look at shoes. They had not thought to tell me. I remember my mother laughing to dispel my fears as being silly. I remember feeling more worthless than a pair of shoes. A sense of worthlessness and fear of abandonment became my daily struggle from there on out. I did not trust my mother. She was not my protector. I said nothing. I did not want to be silly.

I saw a movie where a man had been murdered. In looking for him, the detectives finally found him hanging by his feet in a chimney. When the detectives looked up the chimney, there were the man’s dead eyes staring back at them. The scary, thundering organ music accompanied this scene. It was a spooky scene. It scared the wits out of my little six-year-old mind. We had an artificial chimney that moved with us from house to house over the years. No matter where we lived, I was always scared to death to go in the front room. Everywhere we moved, the chimney went with us. Everywhere we moved, the dead man went with us. I hated coming home because I just knew the dead man in the chimney would surely get me. This fear haunted me for years. My mother told me not to be silly. Home was never a safe place in my mind. Home had a dead man hanging in the chimney with an organ screaming in the background.

At about six years old, I remember news flash after news flash of the local terrorists in the European country in which we lived. They are a nationalist and separatist terrorist organization originating in the north. Their acronym stands for Country and Freedom. Founded in 1959, this paramilitary’s goal is to gain independence from the rest of country and become their own Greater Country. Since 1968, they have killed over a thousand people, injured thousands more people and masterminded dozens of kidnappings. Their hatred is greatly feared. Initially, the terrorist group primarily targeted political institutions. When that did not get them enough attention, they then started to bomb civilians as well. They would bomb streets, train stations, airports, shopping centers, buses, football stadiums, etc. The television would show scenes of blown up parts of the city with bodies and body parts everywhere. One scene that replayed in my mind over and over was a young woman who had her legs blown off by a car bomb. The news showed her bleeding all over the sidewalk begging for help. Her legs and parts of her legs lay scattered all around her. I imagined her pain. I wondered how she would walk. I tried to imagine how I would live if I had no legs. It was hard to imagine. It became the usual to hear of a terrorist attack. The attacks were random and came often. Public, crowded places were simply not safe places to be.

My last memory at six years of age was when I was running down the hall in our apartment. My father was coming around the corner carrying a boiling, hot, pot of soup. I came running around the corner from the opposite direction. I totally collided with my father. This resulted in the entire pot of boiling soup spilling directly onto me. I was badly burned. I do not know why but I remember pretending my ankle was hurt so that I would not get a whipping. I am not sure why I lied about my injury. Being burned should have been sufficient to warrant a pardon from the belt. However, for some reason in my mind, it was important that I pretend I had hurt my ankle. Either way, it worked. I did not get a whipping. My burn marks went away with time. I did not mention them. I nursed myself. Cold water felt good.

Throughout all of my younger years, I remember countless hours traveling in a car all over Europe. My mother felt she had to culturalize my sister and me. We drove endless hours. We saw innumerable castles and cathedrals. We saw innumerable aqueducts and small villages. These historical beauties came to mean nothing because the drives to see them were so miserable. We were a captive audience during the drive. My mother would nag and bitch the entire time. Why would she never shut up? My father and she would fight horribly on these trips. Ever since I had learned of the existence of a divorce, I had wished my parents would get one.

Traveling in that prison on wheels, I would read to drown out my parents’ droning voices. I learned how to ignore both of them well. If I got into trouble or into a fight with my sister in the back seat, my father had figured out how to reach out from between the front seats and hit us hard while still driving. He did not even jerk the car off the road. Eventually, my Walkman became my best friend. I would blast it in my ears so that they were all just faces with moving mouths. I learned to drown out the world with loud, loud music. We would eventually arrive to our destination and take endless fake pictures. Of course, we were always smiling in those pictures. We were a happy family getting culture. What was there to not smile about?

I remember every weekend going over to visit my European grandparents. This was part of our culture. Even if no one could stand each other, family had to stick together. We called our European grandparents Yayo and Yaya. When there had been a particularly ugly fight between my parents, my mother would tell my Yayo and Yaya that my father was not there because he had to work. She was a hell of a liar. My sister and I did not dare contradict her stories. We would just look at each other and roll our eyes.

My father was very handy around the house. He had to be to fix all the damage. The doors had fist holes. The walls had kick holes. My father would beat up the house as he screamed violent cuss words at it. I never understood why he beat the house and not my mother. My father never hit my mother. She was a whiner and a nag. I always thought she was lucky he did not hit her. I knew she could bring out the worst in anyone. I did not yet realize that whining and nagging were not her worst traits. I was too young to understand. With time, I clearly understood my father’s frustrations.

Discipline from my parents looked very different from one to the other. From my father, it was whippings with the belt or some heavy, hard whacks with his very strong hands. From my mother, it came in the form of screaming and throwing her slippers at us. My mother’s discipline was a joke to my sister and me. However when she whined to my father about our behavior, he was quick to take action. My father’s discipline was not a joke to us. Either way it was a no win situation. The safest was to make sure to never piss them off. Somehow, I always seemed to be pissing them off. They wanted a pretty, little obedient girl. I was not a pretty, little obedient girl. I was the total opposite in every possible way imaginable.

Those are my earliest child hood memories.

While I realize that these memories helped form me, I am not sure how I feel about them.

I think that many of those memories should bother me. However, I am completely detached and disassociated from them. It is as if they happened to a little girl with which I do not identify. After all, in my mind, I was a strong, little boy. I was not that weak, little girl.

Those memories just dangle in the back of my mind somewhere. They are useless and unwelcome. They are devoid of meaning.

CHAPTER TWO

Born Wrong

M oving forward in time, my memories become a little less filled with gaps. I jump to when I was seven years old.

The main emotion I can relate to my childhood was the constant feeling of dread. I dreaded where I would be forced to go. I dreaded what I would be forced to wear. I dreaded what I would be forced to say. I dreaded what I would be forced to eat. I dreaded what I would be forced to see. I dreaded who I would be forced to be around. I dreaded the circumstances for which I would be forced to smile. I just had a constant, overbearing, endless sense of overwhelming dread.

At some point, my dread became pure hatred. I do not remember exactly when that transition happened.

I am the product of a European mother and an American father. I believe I was born at a time when getting married and having kids was just what people did. There were not too many choices at the time if one wanted to fit in with society and with their peers. Maybe if my parents had lived in another time, my parents would have chosen not to have children. I know I certainly wished many times that I had not been born.

I always differentiated my European side of the family from my American side of the family. I had a very traditional European family in Europe. I had a not so traditional American family in the U.S.A. Ever since I can remember, I identified with the American side of my family. I had a constant feeling that I was being raised in the wrong country and by the wrong people. I remember being very resentful of this fact.

We would travel to the U.S.A. from time to time in the summers to visit with my American side of the family in the deep South.

I loved how they talked. I loved how they dressed. I loved how they walked. I loved what they ate. I loved how their houses smelled. I loved shopping in stores to buy American things. I particularly loved to see how my American grandmother mowed her own lawn in bright flowery shirts. She even drove herself to Bingo games at her church.

I would compare my youthful, colorful American grandmother to my always ancient, dressed all-in-black European grandmother. I could not believe that my American grandmother was actually older than my European grandmother!

Everything and everyone was so different in the U.S.A.

While I did resent always having to leave the U.S.A. to go back to Europe, that was not the greatest resentment I dragged around with me all the time.

My absolute greatest resentment of all was that I should have never been born a girl. I was supposed to be a boy! I was supposed to be brave and strong! I wanted to be a cowboy and pioneer exciting lands. Instead, I was a stupid, ugly girl forced to wear stupid, ugly dresses with stupid, ugly squinchy things on the front and stupid, ugly bows on the back. I was very confused!

My girl parts were all wrong. My thoughts were all wrong. My life was all wrong. My blood line was all wrong. I felt certain that I was in the wrong family, in the wrong country, and in the wrong body. For the longest time, I found consolation in the thought that maybe I had been adopted or switched at birth. My real family would be searching for me and would eventually find me. My nonexistent penis would grow as I got older and things would start developing, as they should.

However, this is not a fairytale. My real family that loved and missed me somewhere never materialized. My non-existent penis never came to exist. My closet filled with the stupid, ugly dresses with the stupid, ugly bows my mother forced me to wear never blew up in the middle of the night. It was all just hopeful thinking on my part.

I was stuck in a girl body, in this foreign country, with this wrong family.

None of what I hoped and dreamed ever happened.

I realized dreams were stupid.

I realized dreams were futile.

I realized dreams were fairy tales.

Fairy tales were for girls.

I hated fairy tales.

I hated being a girl.

CHAPTER THREE

Endless Nights

I remember being seven. I remember every night was dark…literally and figuratively. My mother had her strict, unpardonable rules. We had to go to sleep in the pitch dark with the door closed. Since my mother’s way is the only way, any straying from it was absolutely not allowed. Being scared to death of the dark was not an option. Unfortunately, I did not know that it was not an option so I was scared to death every night.

I hated nighttime. I hated sleeping. I used to take my extensive collection of stuffed animals and line them up all around me on the bed so that their magical powers would protect me from the monsters. My stuffed animals truly loved me and were always there for me. They were my protectors. They understood me. They each had a name and I talked to them all the time. I trusted them. They never laughed at me. They never beat me. They never told me I was being silly.

The dark was my monster. It taunted me as I lay in bed night after night frozen in irrational fear. I knew without a doubt that something was going to jump out from under the bed and do things to me. I learned to sleep three hours a night. I slept just enough to get by so that the rest of the night I could be on guard from the monsters that were surely coming to get me.

I was too afraid to get up even to go to the bathroom. I would hold my pee for hours until I