I’ve seen — Oh! — blue skies, through the tears in my eyes… and I realize: I’m going home.

A simple post.

Last night I once again slept naked — this time not as any symbolism of newness or rebirth, but as an affirmation that it is not my clothing that identifies me, that defines who I am.  No matter how I hide or pretend, no matter what role I act for my family, I am always, deep down, that young woman inside.

I am Sophia.
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Now, just the same, Scott will never leave, will never go away, will never die; I have lived and loved and learned and grown as Scott — some of my most valuable life lessons were branded deep into my soul long before I acknowledged Sophia to be there, and I cannot — I will not — burn those years of my life, no matter how trying they were, no matter how often I wish to forget them.

For better or worse, through my most joyous and most painful times, I will not forget myself as the young man I was… and still am.

I am Scott.

What a rollercoaster ride…

So here I was, thinking as we took that trip, “Wow.  I can’t stay mad at mom.  I just can’t — especially when she’s willing to actually drive out to the bank and back with me in my tight new jeans, full chest, and makeup…” I had even intended, when we walked back in the door, to stop and give her a very pointed “Thank you, Mom.” — hoping to be direct enough to show that I was thankful for more than simply the transportation.

But oh, how the world can come crashing down in an instant! as we pulled into the drive, she killed the engine, paused, took a deep breath, turned to me and said, “I have something to say to you before we go in.”

Uh-oh.  You know when someone starts off with “I have something to tell you…” it’s bad news.  She continued, “If you choose to dress… like that… anywhere but in private, you put yourself at risk of a couple things.  The first is, you’re at risk of not living here anymore.. because…” she trailed off, then found words again — “Well, there are a number of reasons.  I can explain better if you need me to.  The second,” she quickly continued, “is that you’re putting yourself at risk in public.  People get beat up all the time because they don’t happen to fit somebody else’s ideas of what’s ‘appropriate’ or ‘normal.’  So you’re putting yourself  at risk there, too.”

All I could manage was a weak, tight “Okay.” and then we both got out of the car and walked inside.

What happened to “We won’t necessarily agree with your opinions, but we will treat you basically the same.  However, it may take some time to ponder and proceed.”– huh?  Did your love and tolerance fly out the door the moment that your son finally felt confident enough, free enough, fearless enough to be your daughter?  Does “treating me the same” now mean throwing me out because you so vehemently disagree with my opinions and choices that you need to rid yourselves of me?

I really, truly had hoped that gradually exposing them to Sophia, little by little, rather than suddenly walking out one day, fully changed, fully ‘Phia — I had hoped that a slow, constant exposure would help prepare them for the more permanent change.  Sadly, that no longer appears to be an option.  So, back we go… back to hiding myself, shutting away the bright, sunny Sophia I truly am — and fronting the drab, egghead tech geek Scott that they know and love.

Maybe that’s the thing — they know Scott.  They love Scott.  I truly prayed that they might someday know Sophia, and if not truly love her… me… at least accept me for who I am.  I know this can’t be easy for them, but don’t they have any idea how damned tough it has been to open myself this far?  How much I’ve struggled with indecision and self-hatred and trying to understand who and what I am?  How can they know anything about me if they won’t even try to learn?

I laid everything out for them as plainly as I could in my initial letter to them.  I told them that I wore lingerie.  I told them that I planned to shop for actual women’s clothes, for shoes, that I hadn’t yet dared to wear makeup but I truly longed to.  Did they somehow think I didn’t mean it?  That I would be content to hide myself, to keep Sophia locked away in my bedroom, never to show myself to anyone — that I would be happy with keeping my life and my beauty a secret?

sigh.  Okay, so it’s a setback.  A major one, even.  Perhaps my previous strategy of “don’t rock the boat” may be the more effective one — for now.  But I refuse to let this end my new life.  I will not kill Sophia, or cage her up, lock her away forever.  Perhaps my time to be a shining jewel is not yet this moment, but I will not lose my hope of the day when I might burn brightly, a gem lit by a fire within, a fire that no person or thing can extinguish.

As I said before… for now I wait.  I hide.  I lie.  And it does hurt — this time not nearly so much deceiving my family as lying to myself, pretending to be someone, something I’m not.  They know the truth now; they just seem unwilling — unable? — to accept that truth.

If any of my friends are willing to help me in doing so, I think I should like to make the effort to — in essence — pack Sophia along with me when the opportunity presents itself; I won’t be walking though this house as myself, or have them criticize me for who I am as I walk out the door, but I would very much like to be myself among those who would accept me.

I am quite well aware of the “risks” my mom mentioned regarding people’s hate, intolerance, and anger.  I realize that there will always be those who choose not to understand, who choose to close their minds and lash out at anything that makes them insecure.  How could I not know?  I spent my whole life with them — the bastards at school who teased and bullied because I didn’t spend my time running around in the mud, throwing the football, scrambling over the playground equipment and shoving the smaller kids to the ground.  The same idiots have grown up — physically at least — and there are many more of them, and they haven’t lost one bit of their hatred for anything they don’t fully understand.  But you know what?  As I told someone just earlier tonight, “Those who care — don’t matter.  Those who matter?  They don’t care.”  I’m ready to take whatever comes my way, good, bad, ugly, painful, everything — I will be free.  I will be Sophia.

Even if it means losing my family, it really is that important to me.  For now, because I really don’t have any other options,  I’ll play their game.  I’ll be the dutiful, obedient, docile Scott.  No bra, no girl’s jeans, no cute shoes, and… yeah, at leas around them, no makeup.  It hurts me, it really does, to have to hold back like this.  But — again, my own words, so fitting — “Patience is a key asset that I must nurture and develop… it will save me in the end, I think.”  And I might add, today, that it will free me in the end.

Wow… an hour’s worth of blog.  But worth it, and being posted now.

Ever feel like your parents play favorites?

Arright, fuck this.  I need input, I need advice, I need guidance and counsel.

How the fuck do I wrench the rest of the family away from their prized child, from their altar of endless worship, their eternal obsession with television?

I’ve been asking my mom for at least the last two days, possibly most of this week, to drop me by the ATM along with the cash that she’s holding for me, since the time has come to make one of the purchases I’d been saving for.  She’s consistently said, “Sure!  We’ll go very soon.”  Finally today — this morning, mind you, around 11 AM — I asked her, “Will you please take me by the bank today?” She assured me that yes, she would, today.

Of course, I reminded her again around 4:45 this afternoon, and she assured me again, that, yes, we’d go in a little bit.  Well, then i got busy doing things, spent most of the evening up at my computer, when about ten minutes to nine, I suddenly remembered that nothing had happened yet.  Walked down into the house, where I could hear all of them giggling and chatting… then I heard the TV.  I softly called in simply, “Mom?  Bank?”  She calls back, “Yeah, yeah!  We can do it still… but it’ll have to be after ‘Psych!’  Just hold on a little bit…..”

More than a little bit irritated, I climbed back to my room, and looked at the clock.  9:57 — Awesome!  That means the show is just wrapping up.  I hadn’t initially planned on it, since I really wanted to just get to the bank and back, but feeling rather spiteful, and having a few minutes to spare, I pulled out and applied all of my makeup.  Then, about ten minutes past ten, I walked back down… and heard the same tittering and chatter over the television.  Did I miss something?

“Uh… did the show start at 10?”  I asked.

“Well, yeah… it always has; that’s when it airs.” came back from my mom.

Okay, time out.  First, I don’t religiously track the evening lineup — that’s them.  I mean, I can accept people sometimes spacing on the fact that not everyone else shares the same depth of knowledge about a hobby they have, but to expect me to have memorized their TV habits and viewing schedule just pisses me off.  Second, how is it that helping out your own son or daughter with something relatively minor, that takes a grand total of perhaps twenty minutes from standing up and grabbing keys and walking out the door to the car, to walking back in the house and sitting back on the couch — how is that so much less important than the hour of television that happens to be starting just then?

I mean, really — in the big picture, which should be more significant, a one-hour comedy that will show up in endless reruns in a month, can be downloaded from the internet the next day, and — if it’s really that fucking critical, bought on DVD in a matter of weeks, or hell, even rented from the damn library if you’re too cheap to pay for the season… or spending a few minutes doing something kind and helpful for your child?

Am I the only one on the planet who sees how truly and utterly fucked up this is?  And if it’s not just me, then how can I help them see what complete douchebags they’re being?

Oh, and to top it all off, my mom walks out here, calls up… I answer, but she waits until I actually open my door, then says, “Scott? It’s…uh… time…..”

Fuck you.  I can wait an hour for your other child… you can take five minutes while I finish my blog post.  Bitch.

I have but one Mother — I also have a mom.

In all the time that I’ve made references — primarily as Sophia, but Scott has made mention, too — about the Mother in my blog posts, until [note: name redacted]‘s comment on my last post, nobody has asked.  That’s fine; sometimes it’s okay to focus on the main message of things, and that certainly wasn’t the primary focus of any of my posts.

Now, I’m not particularly religious — at least, I hold in significant disdain organized religion of essentially any variety.  I grew up with my parents’ Mormon beliefs dominating my life and our home, and while at one point I was happy to accept that and go along, there came a time when I needed to break free.

When I was, oh… maybe 13 or 14 years old, I was feeling very restricted by my folks’ church, and in essentially an act of rebellion, crafted for myself a deity which was as much of a polar opposite to their Christian “God” as I could possibly make, and began occasionally “praying” in a manner which imitated what I had been taught as “the right way” while perverting it just enough to be as sacrilegious as possible.

Thus came into being The Mother of Sex, Masturbation, and All Good Things.  I found myself quickly growing bored with “worshiping” solely to show how much I was set against the worship my parents wished me to engage in, and soon the Mother was forgotten.

However, within the past year or so, as I began to explore — myself, my life, my sexuality — I found that I was truly grateful for a good many things in my life, things which were not the direct result of my actions, nor could I truly feel that they were simply random chance — and I knew for certain that the joys in my life had not come from this “God” my parents prayed to, nor were they gifts from their idea of “The Devil”… and the seed of thought from all those years before had matured into a “personal religion,” if you will, a god made to suit my own needs. After all, doesn’t every religious man create God in his own image?

And so I now, from time to time, say a quiet prayer to my Mother — the true maternal figure I never felt I had, a Mother who loved me sincerely, who not only approved of my choices but encouraged me to live to be happy.  Granted, recently there have been some things that my mom has told me (notice the reference to the woman who birthed me is “mom”) that have increased my love and respect for her enormously, and made me realize she’s not nearly so hateful and disapproving as I’d feared for so many years, but I still am content to speak as needed to my Mother to give thanks for the beautiful things in my life, or to ask for potential intervention on behalf of my close friends in matters of sexuality, and will continue to do so until I no longer see a need.

Now when you see mention made of “the Mother” or “my Mother” or “Her gifts” and so on, my meaning should be a bit more clear… I am referencing my own personal “sex goddess,” I suppose you might say!

People stared at the makeup on his face…

So, it was supposed to happen Friday and didn’t, for various reasons, but today I met a girl who my friend Witness knows; she had offered her time and resources and knowledge some time back, to help me with any questions and advise me toward my goals of a more feminine lifestyle.  Witness and I spent some time visiting with [note: name redacted], or at least I did — Witness had gotten snagged to fix electronics for them.

Along with discussion, [note: name redacted] gave me several basic cosmetics to get me started beyond the great eyeshadow I already had (Thanks Pouf & Baby Hipster!) including a couple tubes of mascara, never used, a small or possibly sample container of foundation, an eyeliner/eyebrow pencil, a few makeup brushes, and some foam pads/applicators/etc. and even a small bag to store and carry everything in — black with red trim, as if she’d hand-picked it for me (or the Mother had Her hand in things, perhaps?)

Of course after getting home, I had to try it all out — and so I did!  I was impressed by the difference that filling in and defining my eyebrows made… but that was nothing compared to the WOW that just a little mascara gave my lashes!  I’d always been pleased with my long lashes, and thought they looked pretty nice… I hadn’t seen anything even close to how delightful they looked afterward!

I promised myself I would write down at least a brief summary of things here before lying down to sleep, and I think I’ve accomplished that… so now I’m going to rest until the morrow.

If I can find a way to swing some pictures of myself sometime soon, I’ll put them up on here so people can take a look!

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