#rainbowflashover

For those of you who didn’t know, I apologise for the “in your face” method that held no illusions about my reality.

I hope I didn’t freak y'all out. I felt the need to tell my story. It also explains my depression, anguish, and anger.

I have been Jessica 100% of the time for nearly 13 years. I haven’t told a soul in years. I usually keep that a well guarded secret, but online anonymity felt safe, and it was a burden I could no longer shoulder.

So anyway. Now you know. This is the last time you will hear me talk about it, until I have surgery. Then I will probably be gushing about it. Also pictures of me and my mom in California where my surgery is to happen. I’m overjoyed she wants to go with me, so that’s something I can’t wait for.

There I was, another zygote. Just hangin’ out, like they do. However a choice must be made, a simple decision really. X or Y? That is the question. Of course, little Zygote Me, being all indecisive, decided to roll the dice on the question and allow me figure it out later.

Years pass. Not many mind you. Maybe 3… 4? Suddenly the question was not only pertinent, but troubling. “Why am I a boy?”, I would quietly ask myself. Women swooned over my pretty red hair and long lashes. They often remarked that such features were wasted on a boy. I’m not a boy, why would they think that? Confusion reigned supreme.

A year or two pass. My mother is with child, and I watch her swell with time. Ecstatic, I watched my mom progress further, and anticipate my own pregnancy in ignorance. My sister is born, and I grow fond of helping my mother care for her. Being a mother it seems, is the greatest treasure on earth! I play the role happily in ignorance, but soon the reality of it all would shatter my dreams, like my fist would soon shatter mirrors.

Diaper changing time! I eagerly assist my mother with changing my sisters diapers. Dreading the smell did me no justice. My fear should have been more properly focused on what else I would find. A difference in gender.

This awareness suddenly became forefront in my entire world perspective, irreparably damaging my young, frail psyche. There I am, 5 years old, pulling genitalia tight with a pair of scissors making my first snip. Lightning blazes my mind, searing pain, anguish unknown to me before immediately induces vomiting, and ultimately depression.

This was the first of dozens of attempts to remove the offending appendage. My soft, sweet, gentle mind slowly evolved into a towering rage. A rage against self and a society that embraced conformity beyond all else. The scars on my body bare witnesses to the many physical abuses suffered at the hands of my peers and parents.

As if it couldn’t get any worse, puberty then strikes unawares. Living in a strict Christian environment, I had no concept of the changes occurring to my body. I was never told. There was no sex-ed or reproductive biology lesson. There was also no such thing as internet yet. Confusion again boiled in my mind, worsening pre-existing depression pushing my mind towards suicide.

I found every excuse to lash out at life and my body. My once gentle demeanor became unstable, violent, and hostile. I retreated from humanity, sought my own company and solace. A beaten dog will tuck its tail and run, but eventually, it will bite.

Finally! The internet is invented, and I comb the new resource with questions that could never before have been answered. What is wrong with me? My fingers clacked away endlessly, searching through site after site, baffled by sexual exploits that seemed distinctly different from the emotions I felt. The pornographic images felt gay… unfeminine, and foreign. I immediately began to hate sex, finding it disgusting and unappealing. This would never change, and became another source of rage.

Stumbling across a site, I discovered a description of the pain I suffered silently. Finally, at long last, I found the answer to my dilemma. I am a transsexual. I wept bitterly, for the answer was not good news. The only way to rid myself of the pain was via drugs, surgery, and becoming a social outcast. My severely strict parents would not only reject the notion, but beat me to death. I still felt compelled to make the change, and my research continued.

My mounting hatred reached critical, and soon I was too angry to feel anything. I couldn’t let the hate slip, but longed to be happy and carefree. Like an epic battle between good and evil, my mind struggled endlessly against itself. Now 16 years old, I began to search for employment, finding work in a grocery store nearby.

This was to be my godsend. With newfound freedom, I spent my money on my femininity with impunity. Buying and stealing my way to a wardrobe hidden in the floorboards in my closet, I began to fear less from the changes I was due to make. Who cares if my parents hate me (more) or if society hates me (more). I had nothing to lose, or so it would seem.

In my ceaseless searches for new articles of femininity, I discovered over the counter estrogen supplements, and gobbled them like M&M’s. My brief stint with puberty was suddenly cut short! There I was, 16 years old and no further along physically than kids several classes behind me.

Naturally, I was the source of much ridicule and never was accepted. My high pitched voice, my soft skin and frail frame were the source of now violent bullying. This was not illegal yet, but was rather encouraged. This appreciation for violence molded me to embrace violence and hate. I fantasized about murdering every human being. I dwelt on that hate, inwardly hating myself for my own cowardice.

This internal battle led me ever onward through my last years of high school. Suddenly my life needed direction. My parents, eager to be rid of me, encouraged my enlistment in the US Military, an option I suddenly embraced with open arms.

I decided to cauterize my sense of femininity once and for all. I refused myself, purged my wardrobe, and shaved my head. I dove headlong at the opportunity to kill people, and enlisted as Airborne Infantry.

Basic training became my bread and butter. I excelled at marksmanship, and leapt at every chance to learn more about my newfound deadly art. I volunteered for duty, when others in my unit would shy away. A Ranger recruiter sought me out, and soon I was in a Ranger Battalion.

My gender issues seemed to subside as I poured every inch of my being into my murderous intent. I turned my depression into a weapon. Then 9/11 happened. The reality of war was soon on my doorstep.

Deployment to Afghanistan followed shortly thereafter, and I was given license to finally wreak my havoc, finding only misery therein. Suddenly it was as if my whole life purpose was only to seek revenge on a cold world that was ignorant to my plight.

I steeped in depression once again. Now feeling hopeless at the situation I had placed myself in. My desire to be a girl rebounded intensely, and my tenure on the planet seemed senseless. I put my weapon in my mouth and pulled the trigger. Defective round. Bummer.

Instead of reloading, I gave up the attempt, and struggled through the remainder of the deployment. Once stateside, I was transfered to the 82nd Airborne, where I once again had access to the internet.

The internet had evolved since I had enlisted, and suddenly there were forums, chat rooms, and blogs dedicated entirely to gender reassignment. I read every one I could, made friends with other transsexuals, and ordered horomones online. This was to be my downfall.

Another soldier in my unit used my computer and found my web history. He confronted me and threatened to kill me. Unsure what to do, I sought the council of my new online friends. They advised me (perhaps inappropriately) to leave the Army and begin transition to become a woman. I agreed and went AWOL to Alaska to stay with a transsexual there.

I enjoyed my stay immensely. I had my ears pierced, wore dresses, and lived as myself for four months. Those four months affirmed in my mind what I needed to do, and I was actually happy for the first time since I wanted to be a mother at age 5. I felt so free.

However, this tenure in the most beautiful place in the world was again cut short. Fearing the retribution of the Army (going AWOL is a federal crime) and realizing the sexual deviance my new “friend” felt for me, I turned myself in to the authorities. The wardrobe I had acquired followed me. This is when I knew I had no other recourse but to become a woman. I openly explained to the Army who and what I was, without shame.

That was a bad idea.

I was handcuffed face down in the floorboards of a Military Police SUV for the 5 hour drive to Ft. Richardson. I was literally dragged into a jail cell, and left there for a week. I was fed once a day (hard boiled egg and a slice of bread) and had to endure the jeering taunts of the MP’s.

I was returned to my unit where I continued to suffer prejudice. I was forced to do work that was very unhealthy and unsafe. I was made to dig fire ant hills out of the ground with my bare hands, made to mow the lawn in the rain with a 3 wheeled lawn mower. That resulted in my foot being mulched by the mower, which amused the other soldiers around me. The rumors about me were confirmed by my mangled broken foot with the painted nails.

This is how my life as a soldier ended. My parents were naturally curious about my AWOL status, and I came out of the closet then. I told them everything, and they resisted me saying I was possessed, confused or mentally ill. Regardless of the cause, I was not welcome home after my military discharge.

So, I found a roommate that was accepting of who I was, and moved in with her after I was discharged. My stay with her was short lived. She too had sexual interest, and when I rejected her, I found myself homeless.

I called my parents, asked them to let me stay with them and was denied. I made my home in a cardboard/paper recycling dumpster. Being winter in New Hampshire, I used the styrofoam as an insulator against the bitter cold outside.

I eventually managed to save money and get a ticket to stay with another transsexual friend in Virginia. I stayed with her and worked tirelessly, and was eventually able to reconnect with my Grandparents.

My Nana and Pa were not only comfortable with my true identity, and embraced me completely. I moved in with them shortly after. The love and acceptance they poured on me was more than I deserved. They bought me gender appropriate gifts for the holidays, took me to a lawyer for my legal name change and pleaded my parents to know me as I am. Their treatment of me tore my family in half for many years to follow.

I eventually moved out of their home for a job in the Philly area. I continued my transition there and had my first surgery. An inexpensive proceedure that eliminated all male horomones permanently. I think you get the idea.

That is about the same time I met a wrecking ball in my life. Ashley. Ashley claimed to be a transsexual, but was actually a shemale (liked her man genitals). At the time I didn’t know that, so having her move in seemed mutually beneficial, but I wasn’t prepared for the derailment I was soon to suffer.

I supported her every need but she had no desire to make my life better. I paid all her bills, fed us both, and kept us on horomones. She moved to North Carolina, and enticed me with a DoD contract job there. I quit my high paying job and moved here in hopes of making huge sums of DoD money. The contract job fell through, and I was soon stuck jobless. I worked odd jobs until I was finally convinced to join the Fire Department.

I loved the FD. I really did. I brought 5 people back from the dead, stopped homes from burning down, and even delivered a baby. This Tumblr stands testament to my pride in duty, and I have very few regrets. However, Ashley continued to be a millstone around my neck. She never paid bills on time, and I was always broke. Soon I left her on her own to fend for herself. Despite leaving her behind, I set myself up for failure.

Depression started to creep back into my life. Badly. My final surgery seemed unachievable, and as such felt suicidal once again. This time I drowned my sorrows in alcohol and pot smoke. I knew what I was doing, and I knew it was wrong, but I just didn’t care anymore.

I didn’t care until I backed a fire truck into a pole and failed the urinalysis. Then I cared a lot. Then I felt stupid, and rightfully so. Depression like I had never experienced took complete control. I sucked down whiskey and weed at a frightening pace, until I was destitute.

Homeless again. My best friends parents let me stay with them, but instead of fixing my self perpetuated plight, I just drank and smoked more. Then my truck got repossessed. Threatening the bank over the phone with a loaded pistol to my head, soon the police descended upon me.

This incident embarrassed me greatly, and I leapt at the first opportunity to leave, and move elsewhere. I found a singlewide mobile home that was in bad disrepair, and moved in. I fixed the place up and made it habitable.

In February of this year, the power and water got cut off. The previous occupants/owners had an outstanding balance with the utilities provider and Ashley had done the same to my account after I moved out. I was stuck. With thousands of dollars required to turn power back on, I became morbidly depressed.

By this point it had been years since I had been on horomones, and with no naturally occurring horomones in my body, my health and mental wellbeing continued to decline, and my depression skyrocketed.

However, by this point I was entirely sober. I didn’t have money to eat, let alone get stoned and drunk. That in itself was a godsend. Going sober snapped me out of my funk, and I got back on track. I used my tax refund to get a vehicle, which had a few problems, but was drivable.

Feeling focused again allowed me to tackle the problems life shelled out, but I was too broke to handle all the problems soon to arise. First the house became infested with bedbugs that had hatched in the walls. The previous occupants never bothered to tell me about them and all my furniture was ruined. Then my truck began to fail me.

The truck already had a bad oil leak, but other problems began to crop up. First electrical problems, then the control arm broke and the tire needed repair, then the battery and alternator went out. Then the radiator blew up. So here I am. Now. My whole disgraceful story has been told. I still sleep on a leaky air mattress on my kitchen table so bugs can’t get at me. I have lived 6 months now without power or water. I go weeks without a shower. My radiator is blown, and because I have no vehicle, that’s costing me one of my jobs. My life is still screwed. Hard.

There is a silver lining however. Since I got this smart phone, I have learned a few things. For starters, my surgery is now covered by insurance. Now, being 100% woman (fuckin finally) is an achievable goal! Maybe I won’t die miserable after all! Maybe I might even get laid or be able to go swimming again! This phone has also put me in touch with my mom, who has made a full 180 degree turn. She even wants to go with me when I get surgery! Her exact words were “when you wake up after its done, I will be there smiling at you” .

I never cried so hard in my life. Not even on the Christmas I spent in a New Hampshire dumpster. I’m close to happy. Finally. I have many obstacles ahead. I still need horomones, truck money, and there are always bills to pay, but I finally feel as if all of it is achievable.

I can do this.

I will do this.

Just wait and see.

My Prefaced Autobiography Written by: Jessica Watkkns

TooL is probably my favorite band. It’s a toss up between them and Pink Floyd. Regardless, my love for TooL popped this out of my head. It has a lot of symbolism, light vs. dark, Mankinds attempts to emulate nature failing, etc. Anyway here’s that.

I work 7 days per week, roughly 10+ hours per day. Sorry I have been a ghost but life is hard, and I am broke as fuck.

Once I get back on with the FD in August, I should be around more.

For Better or Worse

Commissioned for: Ask-De-Writer