Introduction

[some-effulgence.livejournal.com]

When I was very young, my big brother was my role model. I wanted nothing more than to be best friends with him and all of his friends. I wanted to play with his toys, I wanted to wear his clothes, I wanted to learn how to be cool like him. To anyone else, it would have looked like a simple case of me idolizing him, but I knew that wasn't all that it was.
I would do yard work with my father. He taught me to chop and saw wood. We built houses, racecars, birdhouses, and dolls out of two-by-fours that he would get for free from his work. We would rake leaves, mow the lawn, and play sports. I loved it.
I had no interest in spending time with my mother. I didn't want her to play with my hair, I didn't want her to “make me pretty,” and I threw a fit when she forced me to get my ears pierced when I was seven years old. I felt like she was trying to make me into her pretty little princess, her damsel in distress, when all I wanted was to be a knight.
To outsiders, I would have looked like a tomboy. I loved bugs. I loved dirt. I loved sports, cars, math and science, looking “cool” instead of “cute”, and I always took initiative. I wasn't girly by any stretch of the imagination, although I loved animals and reading and was very shy. Nevertheless, nobody seemed to suspect the truth; that deep inside, I wanted to grow up to be a man.
As time went on, I decided to try to fit in with my female peers. I was plenty attracted to boys, so I had that advantage, but I was always very awkward. The degree of discomfort that I felt wearing most dresses must have been clearly visible. Unless it looked like a costume, I looked gangly and awkward in it, and my awkwardness only increased as the years progressed. I tried, to no avail, to figure out fashion and makeup. Nothing that I was willing to do would make me look like the other girls. I always looked and felt like I was in costume at best, or lying to everyone at worst. I tried to get in the habit of shaving, painting my nails, and getting perms, but I was too lazy for the first two, and my hair refused to curl. At age 12, I gave up.
I knew that it wasn't supposed to be that difficult. All the other girls seemed to have an easy enough time doing what they were supposed to. Was I just being ornery? It seemed to be so natural for them. I just wanted to surf and hang out with the guys. No, not just that. I still wanted to be one of the guys in a very literal sense, although by this time, I had learned that this was impossible. I was devastated. When I was fourteen, I attempted suicide. I tried to hang myself. Without going into details, I'll just say that it was clearly a failed attempt.
When I was 18, I finally learned about transgenderism, and over the course of the next several years, I came to understand that THAT was what I had needed to know about for all these years. I was transgendered. I AM transgendered. I was elated to learn that being a man only in my own mind doesn't have to make me not-a-man.
The name on my birth certificate is Laura Leigh Collins. I never cared for that name. I'll still respond to it out of habit, but that isn't me. A few months ago, I was born anew. In early autumn of 2009, 25-year-old Dominic Lee Collins was born.


A few days ago, on Christmas, I was speaking with my semi-estranged mother over the phone. I generally make it a point to tell her as little as possible about my life, due to past issues with such things, but I had been contemplating whether or not it would be appropriate to formally come out to her. A few months ago, on National Coming Out Day, I posted everything about my bisexuality/transness to Facebook, and figured that would suffice. I heard nothing further about the matter from her, so I figured she had not seen it. Then, out of the blue, when I was talking to her on Christmas, she brought it up and said that she was completely okay with it and wanted me to know she supports me. ;_;
After some discussion, though, it came up that she's not really sure of the differentiation between transgender, transexual, and just being a tomboy, and she really wasn't sure she had the mental capacity to fathom it, so while not everything is sorted out completely, we have agreed to settle her understanding of the discussion on the fact that I do not think of myself as a woman, and she should probably not buy me pink sweaters or be weirded out by me looking like a dude. She doesn't know my new name yet, though. Baby steps, I guess.

x-posted to femme_ftm