Self-loathing, Self-mutilation and Suicidality
The stream of consciousness continues:
Pre-teen cross-dressing was my dirty little secret. While I was dressed in my mother's lingerie, shoes, and jewelry, I felt very much like the girl that I wanted to be. Unfortunately, the Italian-Catholic guilt that had been deeply ingrained in me would surface frequently. Each time I had to return to my drab life and strip myself of my feminine attire, I removed each article of clothing with a great deal of sadness and an equal dose of self-loathing. My confusion was rooted in my inability to grasp the enormity of my situation.
Was my dressing in female clothes a phase? Was it a "gay" thing? Was it a freakish hobby? Was it a sin? I had no concept of technical things like gender identities, sexual orientations or sex roles. All those psycho-social terms were meaningless at that age. I settled on the fact that I was "gay", although I didn't even have a clue as to what that entailed. If only there was a handbook.
All I knew was that the words "gay" and "fag" or "faggot" seemed to be synonymous and that by being called anyone of those things made you a target of ridicule and scorn. At the age of 12 or so, when you're trying desperately to find your social niche, the very last thing you want to do is to test the boundaries of normal. I wanted to fit in, even if it meant my leading a secret life.
The secrecy and shame that followed my ever-more-frequent cross-dressing weighed heavily on me and I began formulating the idea that I was simply a girl born with the wrong genitalia.This awareness, even at that young age, was somewhat liberating insofar as I now had a concept I could express. My dressing up wasn't a phase. It was what I should be doing all the time. It wasn't gay. I still found the girls in my class attractive and desirable. It wasn't a freakish hobby. It was a dress rehearsal for real life. And it certainly wasn't a sin. God simply had made a mistake.
Unfortunately, I made the fateful decision to tell my mother that I wanted to be a girl. If I was older and more nuanced, I might have approached the conversation with a little more planning and forethought. But, the 12-year-old mind was a bit concrete so I simply blurted out my desire.
I'll spare the reader of the gory details of the immediate aftermath of that conversation. Basically punishments, beatings, trips to the parish priest and even an impromptu exorcism were just a few weapons in the arsenal used against me. My mother's puritanical demons had been awakened and she was going to get me to repent one way or another. My father, to his credit, continued to show me love and affection, and innocently suggested that we seek out family counseling.
What I needed was a fair and impartial therapist, but my mother shopped around until she found a Christian Counselor who spent 4 months trying to convince me and my parents that I was suffering from a mental illness. I don't recall what the diagnostic label was back then, but by today's classifications, I was labeled schizophrenic and given a horrible drug that caused me to have tremors.
Eventually, I found a way to tongue my meds and then spit out the pills when mom wasn't looking, but the diagnosis and the proposed treatment reinforced my internal feeling of craziness.
So that self-image of being crazy followed me through middle school. I did everything I could to mask the real me. This included my laughing when the boys would tease and ridicule a select few with the "homo" or "faggot" epithet. Chances are, the hurlers of these insults had no idea what homosexuality was all about, but for the pre-teen mind, it was about as big of a put-down that they could imagine.
Given the homoerotic fun I had been having with my neighbor (and a few of his friends with whom he shared me), I suppose I should have been deeply aggrieved by the derogatory use of the slanderous terms associated with being gay. Instead, I kept silent, choosing to keep my mask firmly affixed. The guilt and confusion I was experiencing was intense. Depression started manifesting itself through self-loathing, inconsolable tears, stomach aches, and suicidal thoughts. I had contrived several plans to end it all, but I chickened out at the end, At the time, my biggest gesture of cowardice is when I had decided to remove my own penis with a sharp kitchen knife. My reasoning, which I admit was completely distorted, led me to believe that even a botched attempt would required the amputation of my pathetic, disgusting, incongruous dick.
I caused some damage to my penis but the wound was merely superficial. I had been too afraid and it hurt too much to continue the assault on my body. I did, however, wind up in the hospital and received about 20 stitches to my shaft. Funny thing is at the time I lamented the fact that now my dicklet was secured even tighter to my body.
After a brief stint in a mental health facility for youth, I was discharged back home and nothing ever got resolved. My parents pretended nothing ever happened and life went on uninterrupted.
My life would change, however. My secret life was cruelly revealed by my neighbor who blackmailed me because I wouldn't have anal sex with him. This happened exactly a year to the day after my self-mutilation attempt. I was just about to enter into an all-male, Catholic high school in a neighboring town.
The next time I post, I will write about what happened when I was outed.
Thanks for visiting today and I hope to see you next time. 💗
Pre-teen cross-dressing was my dirty little secret. While I was dressed in my mother's lingerie, shoes, and jewelry, I felt very much like the girl that I wanted to be. Unfortunately, the Italian-Catholic guilt that had been deeply ingrained in me would surface frequently. Each time I had to return to my drab life and strip myself of my feminine attire, I removed each article of clothing with a great deal of sadness and an equal dose of self-loathing. My confusion was rooted in my inability to grasp the enormity of my situation.
Was my dressing in female clothes a phase? Was it a "gay" thing? Was it a freakish hobby? Was it a sin? I had no concept of technical things like gender identities, sexual orientations or sex roles. All those psycho-social terms were meaningless at that age. I settled on the fact that I was "gay", although I didn't even have a clue as to what that entailed. If only there was a handbook.
All I knew was that the words "gay" and "fag" or "faggot" seemed to be synonymous and that by being called anyone of those things made you a target of ridicule and scorn. At the age of 12 or so, when you're trying desperately to find your social niche, the very last thing you want to do is to test the boundaries of normal. I wanted to fit in, even if it meant my leading a secret life.
The secrecy and shame that followed my ever-more-frequent cross-dressing weighed heavily on me and I began formulating the idea that I was simply a girl born with the wrong genitalia.This awareness, even at that young age, was somewhat liberating insofar as I now had a concept I could express. My dressing up wasn't a phase. It was what I should be doing all the time. It wasn't gay. I still found the girls in my class attractive and desirable. It wasn't a freakish hobby. It was a dress rehearsal for real life. And it certainly wasn't a sin. God simply had made a mistake.
Unfortunately, I made the fateful decision to tell my mother that I wanted to be a girl. If I was older and more nuanced, I might have approached the conversation with a little more planning and forethought. But, the 12-year-old mind was a bit concrete so I simply blurted out my desire.
I'll spare the reader of the gory details of the immediate aftermath of that conversation. Basically punishments, beatings, trips to the parish priest and even an impromptu exorcism were just a few weapons in the arsenal used against me. My mother's puritanical demons had been awakened and she was going to get me to repent one way or another. My father, to his credit, continued to show me love and affection, and innocently suggested that we seek out family counseling.
What I needed was a fair and impartial therapist, but my mother shopped around until she found a Christian Counselor who spent 4 months trying to convince me and my parents that I was suffering from a mental illness. I don't recall what the diagnostic label was back then, but by today's classifications, I was labeled schizophrenic and given a horrible drug that caused me to have tremors.
Eventually, I found a way to tongue my meds and then spit out the pills when mom wasn't looking, but the diagnosis and the proposed treatment reinforced my internal feeling of craziness.
So that self-image of being crazy followed me through middle school. I did everything I could to mask the real me. This included my laughing when the boys would tease and ridicule a select few with the "homo" or "faggot" epithet. Chances are, the hurlers of these insults had no idea what homosexuality was all about, but for the pre-teen mind, it was about as big of a put-down that they could imagine.
Given the homoerotic fun I had been having with my neighbor (and a few of his friends with whom he shared me), I suppose I should have been deeply aggrieved by the derogatory use of the slanderous terms associated with being gay. Instead, I kept silent, choosing to keep my mask firmly affixed. The guilt and confusion I was experiencing was intense. Depression started manifesting itself through self-loathing, inconsolable tears, stomach aches, and suicidal thoughts. I had contrived several plans to end it all, but I chickened out at the end, At the time, my biggest gesture of cowardice is when I had decided to remove my own penis with a sharp kitchen knife. My reasoning, which I admit was completely distorted, led me to believe that even a botched attempt would required the amputation of my pathetic, disgusting, incongruous dick.
I caused some damage to my penis but the wound was merely superficial. I had been too afraid and it hurt too much to continue the assault on my body. I did, however, wind up in the hospital and received about 20 stitches to my shaft. Funny thing is at the time I lamented the fact that now my dicklet was secured even tighter to my body.
After a brief stint in a mental health facility for youth, I was discharged back home and nothing ever got resolved. My parents pretended nothing ever happened and life went on uninterrupted.
My life would change, however. My secret life was cruelly revealed by my neighbor who blackmailed me because I wouldn't have anal sex with him. This happened exactly a year to the day after my self-mutilation attempt. I was just about to enter into an all-male, Catholic high school in a neighboring town.
The next time I post, I will write about what happened when I was outed.
Thanks for visiting today and I hope to see you next time. 💗
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