The Pink House

(NOTE: This metaphorical story was written in the same month that I attained wellness by accepting Joyce as an integral part of my life and future. I became "ok" with my femme self--no longer tormented by the compelling need to find a cure or someone to blame. I wrote the story as a means of describing my feelings for a counselor I had begun to see. It's almost funny to read now, but at the time I wrote it, I had never told another person on the planet of my desire to become a woman. Learning to discuss these feelings was not too unlike learning to talk. I hope you don't get lost in the metaphor, but can sense the desperation I felt as I first tried to articulate my gender dysphoria to another person.)


I am a house with many rooms. Each of those rooms has the ability to give an image of the house as a whole. You can visit all of the rooms in the house, except one, and discuss anything that is seen inside. That room yearns to be known by all who visit the house, yet it remains a virtual enigma. The door remains locked ever-so-tightly, and no one has the key. The door must be knocked down each time someone is allowed access. No more than, perhaps, a dozen people in my life have had even the slightest idea that the door (much less the room) ever existed. My wife became aware of the door during the past two years of our marriage, and was relentless in trying to discover what's behind it. She remains ignorant of the room's contents. Those having knowledge of the room's contents have gained such knowledge only through very limited and controlled exposure.

What's in the room? To what extent is it important? In this room only, is the very essence of the house known. From within this room the illusion of the house as a whole is created. Every other room in the house gains its essence from behind the door to this room. It has always been necessary to maintain rooms as such. If they, by chance, were seen as they truly were, few would have known them either. Lighting can be adjusted in all the rooms in such a way that a nearly true essence is visible, but that is extremely rare. The curious thing about the house is that everything seen is real, but a lot of it is real by design--a design of camouflage. With the usual lighting, many of the rooms' key elements are unnoticeable by any except those who have viewed them under other lighting conditions.

To illustrate the essence of the house and the incredible lighting controlled from the hidden room, let me go further by describing what is seen by visitors common and uncommon. Upon entering the house or observing it from the outside, people will notice the bright blue tint of all they see. This is due to the blue lights, which are constantly regulated and powered from behind the door. This regulation and power usage makes the house very weary. Yet, another power source is eager to relieve the exhausted system normally in use. After years of tedious regulation, and complaints about the overall effect, the blue lights are glowing dimly.

There were few occasions in the past, in which the other system could be energized. This system, which has a pink tint, would cause a tint of purple to be cast--certainly not the effect ultimately intended. Again, this tint wishes to cast its own essence throughout the house. Perhaps, the system currently in use could continue. However, the locked door, the room behind it, and the pink system's compelling need to assume essence control for the house will never go away.

My wife has become increasingly intolerant of the blue system and everything it has become (and failed to become). She is also suspicious of the door, frustrated by my denial of it and that anything exists behind. In the event she ever became aware of the pink system, and its need to assume essence control of the house, she would never want to visit the house again.

Now, to clarify: The blue system represents the masculine persona, which I've portrayed for the majority of my past. From early childhood, I have hated the person which society said I must be. I felt, however, that if I could do and be all that society outlined for me, then I could disregard my need to express my feminine side: a much larger side. Though I had always known these feeling were present, I had never been willing to accept them, thinking that something was "wrong" with me. In an effort to correct what was "wrong" with me, I went to a counselor this spring. What I learned, though, was that those feelings, as unique and troubling as they are, are "not wrong", and even more importantly, "will never go away". Further study in the area has indicated that those feelings are more certainly destined to intensify. The prospect of pursuing a life in which the very essence of my character makes such a drastic metamorphous (in a society which makes it socially difficult) is frightening.

(NOTE: When this story was written, I was married and so afraid that I would lose my precious bride if she found out about my need to express at least part of my life as a woman. We did separate in August of 1991, while trying to maintain a long-distance relationship. Though the gender issue became something of a scapegoat in our marriage, it alone was not why the marriage failed.

My wife had grown especially suspicious of me--correctly sensing that I was slipping further and further into a dreary malaise. It was her assertion that there was "another woman" that drove me to the revelation that yes, indeed, there was another woman, and I was the woman. The day she was told about my gender-blending by a marriage counselor of ours, was the worst day of my life. She was dumbfounded--couldn't believe it--virtually went into shock. I'll never forget the forlorn look of betrayal I saw as I entered the office following the counselor's revelation to her in private. I would have rather had my heart cut out while I was conscious.

We divorced 24 months after she learned of Joyce. To this day, my ex-wife has never seen me in person as Joyce, nor has she so much as seen a picture. She was never able to get past her sense of betrayal, or reconcile the difference between gender preference and sexual preference. We now maintain a civil but distant rapport. I have always believed that if she could have accepted Joyce into our lives, she would have gained one of the best girlfriends she could ever know.)

This page last updated November 24, 1998.

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