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Taking the Scenic Route to Manhood von Wallace, Jeremy L. (eBook)

  • Erscheinungsdatum: 27.07.2015
  • Verlag: BookBaby
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Taking the Scenic Route to Manhood

Jeremy shares his struggles and triumphs of transitioning from female to male. Take this entertaining and informative journey!

Produktinformationen

    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: AdobeDRM
    Seitenzahl: 278
    Erscheinungsdatum: 27.07.2015
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9781483557397
    Verlag: BookBaby
    Größe: 4060kBytes
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Taking the Scenic Route to Manhood

CHAPTER 1 IT'S A BOY...ER, GIRL? "A journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step." - Confucius I n the early summer of 1971 in Southern Michigan, a young couple eagerly awaited the birth of their child. This couple had been high school sweethearts and had already welcomed a daughter, Jayna, three years earlier. Because they were in their mid-twenties, they thought it would be joyous to have another child. So on June 2, out popped a healthy baby...girl? According to my mom, this pregnancy wasn't unusual in any way and everything went according to plan, except my parents thought for sure they were having a boy. Back in the early 1970s, parents had to wait until birth to know whether they had a boy or girl, or rely on old wives tales to determine the sex. Everyone around them thought for sure I was going to be a boy, and in fact, my name was going to be John, after both of my grandfathers. A girl's name was picked out for the "just in case" scenario, which they had to use. I was welcomed into the world as Jennifer Lyn. I'm not sure whether my parents were completely prepared for having another girl and already had my going home outfit, or whether my dad had to run out after my birth, but either way, I thought it was kind of ironic that I went home in a blue dress. My early years were pretty typical and uneventful. I was fortunate to have been born into an amazing family that loved and supported me, and I wanted for virtually nothing. My parents were patient and gentle with me, even from birth. As a kid, I definitely struggled. Growing up can be hard for almost anyone, but for me, I struggled with anxiety and depression from a very young age. My mom tirelessly tried to comfort and reassure me that there wasn't anything to fear or worry about, but I couldn't break free from the cycle. I worried about everything and anything, and then I worried when there wasn't anything to worry about. I always had a deep sense that something wasn't right, but I didn't have the vocabulary to try to explain those feelings. I would then get so frustrated when others couldn't understand me. If my family had had ESP, that would've been helpful for all involved. These issues would always come into play every year at Christmas. I would write a list for Santa a mile long, always filled with sports equipment, Matchbox cars, Star Wars stuff, you name it- whatever toy fad we were currently experiencing. But always traditional "boy" stuff. And year after year, when I would wake up Christmas morning, under the tree would be more than enough. Typically, my list would be filled, within reason, but after all was opened and barely played with, I would get angry, frustrated, sad, and teary. Decades later, I would understand this better and be able to define it, but back then, I would be mad that the one thing I wanted every day, every year, wasn't there-the thing I was most searching for-the real me. Stuff couldn't make me happy; it was empty. Nothing stands out more around this Christmas emotional roller coaster than one year when I was about six or seven years old. As tradition would have it, every Christmas Eve, my family, including my aunt, uncle, and cousins, would go over to my paternal grandparents' house for dinner and to exchange gifts. My grandparents' idea of casual was no tie for Grandpa and a pantsuit instead of a blazer and skirt combo for Grandma, so, of course, we put on our best "Christmas casual" as well. For me, this typically meant a dress, brutally painful shoes, and having to shower and comb my hair. My horror at having to wear a dress was always followed by a temper tantrum and endless tugging on anything scratchy. I looked even less comfortable in that garb than did little Idgie in the movie Fried Green T

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