I remember the first time I thought that I might be.
It didn’t make sense that I was.
But how was I to know?
I wasn’t a hair dresser, or a florist, or a cross dresser.
They were the only ones I knew. I wasn’t like them.
So, I couldn’t be.
Maybe everyone had the same feelings as me. Felt like me.
That would make me normal.
And I lived my life as if I was. Normal.
I dated. Women
I married and bought a house.
It was all as it should be.
Once I fell in love. With a man.
We had a torrid affair.
And again, I thought that I might be.
But I had an infant son.
And I couldn’t be.
Dads couldn’t be. It was 1975.
So, I forgot about it. For the most part.
I remembered to straighten my wrist when the topic came up. Deepen my voice.
I acted more like a man. And I wasn’t.
Time passed. Years passed.
The world changed. I changed.
I rarely wondered if I was. I knew.
One night, standing on a bridge. Contemplating.
I knew that I had to be. To go on. To survive.
And so … I am.
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