Journey of a Lifetime

Journey of a Lifetime

Journey of a Lifetime

by

Karen M. Vaughn

TransGender Publishing

an imprint of

Castle Carrington Publishing

Victoria, BC

Canada

2021

Journey of a Lifetime

Copyright © Karen M. Vaughn 2017, 2019, 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reprinted, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, and recording, or otherwise, now known or hereafter invented without the express prior written permission of the author, except for brief passages quoted by a reviewer in a newspaper or magazine. To perform any of the above is an infringement of copyright law.

Published in paperback in 2021 by TransGender Publishing

Cover Photo: © Karen M. Vaughn

Cover Design: Margot Wilson

ISBN: 978-1-990096-16-7 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-990096-17-4 (Kindle e-book)

ISBN: 978-1-990096-18-1 (Smashwords e-book)

First published in by Kindle Direct Publishing in 2017, 2019

ISBN: 978-1-5485109-9-2 (paperback)

ASIN: B078QV558R (e-book)

Published in Canada by

TransGender Publishing

www.transgenderpublishing.ca

an imprint of

Castle Carrington Publishing

www.castlecarringtonpublishing.ca

Victoria BC

Canada

Contents

Acknowledgements

Author’s note

Preface

In the Beginning

Finding the Courage

The World Changed

My Battle Plan

Christmas 2016

And the Aftermath

Cha, Cha, Changes

For the Lost and the Brave

The Knowing

The Knowing Becomes the Happening

A Cleansing and the Letters

Good Intentions, But Bad Information

Butterflies of Hope and the Nightmares

Who Will I Become After the White Dress?

Haley’s Graduation, Back in the Closet

Pride and Determination

Adjusting to the New Me and My New Life

Afterword

About the Author

Other Publications from Castle Carrington Publishing Group

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Lynn Scott for her assistance in the editing of this book. Friends of Leelah Alcorn for her letters. Beverly Zywiczynski for her patience and understanding. My family and friends for their support. Every transgender person that I have met that has helped to guide me. To everyone who encouraged me in my journey and the writing of this book. Last but not least, a very special thank you to Erin Moran Wiley, LPCC MA and the staff at the Willow Center in Maumee Ohio. This second editing is revised and, therefore, slightly different than the original e-book version . Any errors found are of my own and not those of the trusted friends and associates who I have mentioned who assisted me with the creation of this book. This book is released in the memory of Leelah Alcorn, her voice silenced too soon.

Author’s Note

Music was and has always been a sanctuary for me, so much more prior to my transitioning. Julia Brennan’s song, "Inner Demons"¹ really touched me. Each of us has some. Mine have stayed with me for a very long time. This song sums it up so well for me.

Preface

(So much forward)

In the fall of 2016, I began my transition into womanhood. I have struggled with my identity as a woman for all of my life starting at an early age in Catholic school. Back then, being transgender wasn’t a kitchen table topic as it is now: you were either gay or a transvestite. I didn’t identify with either of those then or now. Although I will admit in the 80’s I did enjoy going to the Rocky Horror Picture Show whenever or wherever it was being shown. It wasn’t until the late 90’s that I seriously began to question my sanity and learned that identifying as a woman was considered as being transgender.

By this time, I was well on my way to a mediocre career at a factory job. I was also married and had two children. Each day, I fought with the thought of being transgender: even though I was surrounded by hundreds of people, I felt alone. Alone with this conflict raging inside me, alone with having to maintain an illusion to survive. I had a never-ending guilt take hold of me: it held me so tightly that I felt strangled. I struggled to decide if I could make the transition to female and deal with the consequences of that decision?

For years, the fear of the unknown, of hurting those I cared so much about, the fear of destroying the only positive, and what I considered loving relationship, kept me from making my transition. I was scared, I was depressed, and I developed what, at that time, I thought was a coping mechanism but, in all actuality, was a modern game of Russian roulette.

My therapist suggested I keep a journal of my thoughts and daily events. This book is a compilation of that journal. It also includes my Facebook Life Events that I shared with my friends who supported me throughout this whole ordeal. It tells the stories of my ups and downs, of the challenges I faced, and the victories that I won, of the new friends I have made, and the supporters who have been there with me. Out of the heartbreak of losing relationships, friends, and sometimes family, it is my hope and desire that reading this, you will get a better understanding of what transgender people experience before, during, and, with love and understanding, after they transition.

Perhaps by reading this, you might understand what it is like to walk a mile in our shoes. As I write this introduction, the number of negative people I have met in person so far can be counted on one hand. I feel very fortunate for that. Sometimes, I feel guilty because my transition started out problem-free with minimal roadblocks and negativity, while friends and other transgender men and women I have met have struggled with their families and friends who refused to support them and, at times, even abandoned them. They have lost jobs, careers, and relationships because of their need to transition. Even as I write this, our basic human rights, which should be unquestionably granted to every human being, are being attacked within the transgender community. From healthcare to public bathroom access, our very existence is being denied.

For the past several years, schoolchildren who identify as transgender have been protected from being discriminated against in schools by federal laws. However, after the election of Donald Trump a new GOP agenda began to take place. Those rights have been removed and liberties were stripped away, and school children all across America who identified as transgender or non-binary found themselves in a fight for their very lives.

Sadly, some of them did not win those fights and are no longer with us. Some of them were brutally attacked, raped, and murdered just for using the bathroom for the gender with which they identify. We as a nation, and as a civilized people, should not allow this type of behavior. Yet, in our nation’s capital, politicians ignore these events. With complete disregard for civil rights and human dignity, they continue to allow these attacks to continue. They allow those who instigate, perpetrate, and motivate these actions to do so without punishment or retribution. The GOP has allowed the religious right to open up hunting season and we are the prey.

If there is just one thing we must do, it is to support and protect the transgender youth of this nation and the world from those who wish to do them harm. Far too many take their own lives because they feel abandoned or hopeless in their identity. Being transgender is not a choice someone makes because it seems trendy or because it is a fad or some cool new thing to do. It is a necessity for our survival. It is having to decide if your life matters enough to you to make the changes to become your authentic self. When I hear anyone say otherwise, I have to stop and seriously question their intelligence.

I don’t believe they understand that, far too often, transgender persons decide to give up on life because of the negativity that is directed toward us. The reasons are many: they may not have a safe place to transition or have the support they need, and the isolation from society that trans people suffer when they are abandoned by family becomes a slow, silent, and painful death, as they lose their will to live. For us, survival depends on our transitioning, which brings the happiness and salvation that we all desire, no matter who we are.

In this book, I describe being gender dysphoric, as the knowing. But how can I describe this knowing to you? I can’t. It’s like trying to explain what the color blue smells like to a blind person. A young girl once said her knowing was like writing with your left hand when you were right-handed. You just know something isn’t the way it was meant to be until you put the pen into your correct hand.

This book is dedicated to my wife, Beverly, our children, Haley, and Castor. To all the people who I have met along my journey, and who have supported me. I could not have done this without all of you. I am thankful for each and every one of you. Thank you for being a part of my journey, for being a part of my life. To the many strangers who I have met, who offered a smile, a wink, a hug, advice, words of encouragement, a shoulder to lean on, or the simple act of opening a door, your silent gesture meant more than you know. It meant acceptance.

This book is also dedicated to the memories of each transgender person who has lost their battle, who are no longer with us. We shouldn’t have let them lose their fight, their will to survive. My heart aches for each and every one of them.

With that being said, I think we should begin this story on a far less serious note.

I was born a poor white male in rural America...

In the Beginning

November 30th 1961

But really, I was born a poor white male on this day in Toledo, Ohio. My parents, Frank and Sally, were Roman Catholic, and I was the second son born to them. Later, there would be three of us boys who made it into the world, and a brother and sister who didn’t. My parents had it rough growing up during the 1920s as did everyone else during that period.

My mother had grown up on a family farm in rural northwestern Ohio, raising chickens and a fair number of crops. As was typical of most farm families in that era, she had many siblings, three sisters and two brothers. My father also came from a large family, having two brothers and a sister. Amid the Great Depression, my mother’s family lost their farm and, with it, the ability to support the family. As a result, she and her siblings were split up and sent off to separate orphanages. When they became adults and were no longer wards of the state, they began to search for each other, and, eventually, all of them were reunited by their late twenties.

My father came from an immigrant family. He was the first generation born in America. His parents had sent him to college in the hopes of a better life. When World War II broke out, he was studying law at the University of Toledo. He left college and entered the Army Air Corps, serving with the 93rd Bomb Group, 409th Bomber Squadron of the 8th AF in England. He was shot down on April 1st, 1944, and was taken prisoner until the end of the war.

Our parents had raised all three of us in a strict and devout Roman Catholic household. This meant we went to a private Catholic school, part of which included starting each school day with Catholic Mass. Of course, on the weekends, we also attended church as a family. That is until one year during my 6th-grade education when things changed.

Myself, as well as my brothers, were removed from that Catholic school and sent to a public school. No explanation was given. For my older brother, this meant he couldn’t play sports during his senior year in high school. The Northern Lakes League prohibited students from switching schools and continuing to compete. For my younger brother, it meant losing his classmates and having to make new ones. But, since most of those new classmates were kids in the neighborhood that he already knew, it wasn’t that difficult for him. For me, it was completely different. I wasn’t afraid to go to school any longer. Of course, our parents still made us go to church on Sunday and the holy days.

Part of my childhood nightmare was over, a dark secret I kept to myself. One that I was ashamed of and too afraid to speak to anyone about, not even my parents. At least not for another twenty or so years.

Journal Entry September 21, 2016

My Day of Admission and Commitment

On this day, I admitted to myself that my gender dysphoria was real and not what the Church had been feeding me. I committed to change, to come out of my shell, to become the authentic woman I was meant to be.

Journal Entry October 6, 2016

That Brave First Step

I know, it’s been a long time since I entered something in this journal, I have been very busy with the yard and work and other things and, well, I have news, great news. I did it. I came out today!

I told my best, if not my only, friend. I will admit it was terrifying, to say the least. I was not sure if I would have the courage to go through with it. I was also deeply afraid she would hate me for it, or not want anything to do with me. But that didn’t happen! In fact, we are planning on a few girl’s days soon: she has promised to take me to her nail place so we can get my nails done and to go shopping soon. I felt awkward confessing to her, there at the bar. But it was necessary and something of a safe place to be, I guess. My next step—I really have to get this done—is to call one or both of the therapists I found and see if they will take me as a patient.

The rest of October went by slowly, and, a week later, I made an appointment online to see one of the therapists I had found. I was looking forward to talking to her about what I thought my problem was because her online profile for her clinic indicated that this particular issue was one of her specialties. Unlike the other therapists I had seen in the past, I would not be reluctant to speak with her. As I was certain she would know more about this than I, or any of them, did. There was still a bit of anxiety there. I wondered if my self-diagnoses was correct. Or, would what a previous therapist had once told me be more accurate? Or, perhaps, there was some other condition from which I was suffering. I nervously filled out the online questionnaire, along with the forms that were required, and then I waited to hear back from the Willow Center.

A day or two after making my appointment with the Willow Center, I was second-guessing myself. I felt a sense of panic start to fester. The seeds of self-doubt that would cause me to cancel or, worse, not even show up for the appointment. I needed to quell this: so, in my head, I started to validate myself with reasons as to why I felt I was more feminine, and not masculine. I have always felt like I had to fake being a man to survive. It wasn’t so much about being a woman as it was having to hide being that woman. Because I felt I didn’t fit into society’s mold or criteria for being a woman. As I got older, I found the best way to hide the woman inside of me was to project the image of a man. I learned to adapt to my environments at an early age, knowing when to stay silent, to blend in with the other boys, and how not to be honest with myself—all of the things I had gleaned as a result of my early years in the Roman Catholic Church. I honed and perfected my skills and abilities on the playgrounds while playing with my childhood friends in the neighborhood. I always felt that I had to keep this part of myself hidden in order to survive.

But even then, I never really became good at it. I knew if anyone looked closely enough, they would see that I was faking it. So, I made sure to never have close friendships with men. I also refused to participate in contact sports or to go to the gyms. Anything that required me to disrobe around other males would give me an anxiety attack. I found it far easier to relate to girls and had more friendships with females than I did with males. In my mid-twenties, I started shaving my legs daily. One day, I just picked up a razor and shaved one leg to see how it would feel, and then, I did the other one to match. When the hair began to grow back a few days later, I shaved them again. I repeated that from that moment on. It became a part of my OCD, eventually spreading to my underarms, my arms, my hands, and everything from the neck down. I liked the sensation of bare skin under my clothes or when the wind blew across my legs and arms.

When the warmer months came around, I found myself in another daily struggle, of having to force myself to stop shaving, so that my arms and legs would return to resembling a masculine appearance. I was having to force myself to be a man, to look masculine to hide my authentic self. For decades, I lived in T-shirts and the tightest blue jeans I could find. I