After years of verbal abuse and some physical, mainly spankings and the occasional cigarette put out on my back was all I endured. If I had to calculate it, between the ages of four and seven, I was verbally abused daily. “Bitch boy,” was my father’s favorite nickname for me during those years.
I’m sure by now you are wondering where and the hell was my mother during all of this? She was getting slightly less abused right next to me. Because it was the early nineties, we lived in a small town, and my dad was a respected police officer, no one and I mean no one took my mother’s police reports seriously. He never did anything that would last long enough or warrant me having to go to the hospital. When she once tried to leave, he punched her in the eye, she went to the police and they did nothing. My father said she tripped and hit her eye on a doorknob. Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? Of course, I didn’t know about any of these police reports until I was a lot older and my mother showed them to me.
By the time I was seven, my mother had sort of accepted that I wasn’t quite right for a boy. Not once did she try to change me, or ask me to be something I’m not. So when I asked permission to grow my hair long she didn’t question it. Once again, I was thrilled, but as soon as it grew past my ears, my father took scissors to my head when I was sleeping, forcing me to have short hair all over again. A buzz cut to be exact, because that next morning with a bed full of black hair my father forced my mother to clean up the mess he’d made. He took me into the bathroom and shaved my head with his clippers on the second to lowest setting.
That same year, my father came home early to find me playing with my mom’s colorful heels inside her closet. That time I peed myself as he sat on top of me, on the floor right inside the closet, my face forcefully smashed into the brown carpet and beat me with the heels of a pair of bright blue stilettos until I passed out. I still have the three circle scars where he had hit me so hard it had punctured my skin. I didn’t realize how bad I had been beaten until I woke up on the cheap rose linoleum bathroom floor in my mother’s sobbing arms. As she cradled me and cried, applying antiseptic to my bruised and bloodied body.
After years of this abuse, both physical and emotional, it was normal for me. I was used to getting whipped by the belt from my father when my mom didn’t cook dinner properly. Once I was thrown into a cold shower because my father was horny and my mom refused to have sex with him. I was the outlet for him, the bad son, all because I was different. I wanted to wear frilly dresses like all the other girls, have boobs, and go through female puberty. I couldn’t help it. I felt shame and disgust with myself for years for feeling the way I do. I tried so hard to convince myself I was a boy and that I liked having a penis, even though I never really have.
By fifth grade I was eleven, I was thicker and curvier in body size and to be honest I looked a lot like a girl. Even wearing boy’s clothes and having shorter hair. I have bigger lips, bright blue eyes, feminine features and soft skin. I liked when people would ask if I was a girl or a boy or made the mistake of calling me a female. It made me feel like I wanted to feel—pretty.
For some odd reason by that age, I had also started to grow small breasts and my mom took me to the doctors because she was concerned. I loved it but I was born a boy and boys aren’t supposed to have breast tissue, or that’s what my mother said. My doctor after running some tests, confirmed I had a lower amount of testosterone than most males my age and that I might grow out of it. I prayed I never would. At the same appointment, my mother spoke with my doctor about my feelings regarding being born the wrong sex. Nothing was mentioned to my father of course, we made sure of that.
The doctor started me in counseling right away and my first counselor confirmed I was basically crazy. The woman had dated my dad in high school. I’m fairly certain that had something to do with her diagnosis. Then I was transferred to a different physiologist. Who by the age of thirteen had diagnosed me with Gender Identity Disorder or GID, for short. Dr. Banks was a nice middle-aged woman, and by the time I was twelve, she had teamed up with my mom to keep close tabs on the abuse I was enduring. We kept thorough records and pictures of all my newest scars and marks. For years I went to Dr. Banks’s once a week and for that hour we’d talk, document the abuse, and she’d help me find a way to try and conceal my female insides until I was able to get away from my father. I had even met children like me, through a group Dr. Banks brought me to. It felt wonderful to know I wasn’t alone. During that time, I had also started to accept having what I call Lady, between my legs. From the age of fourteen, I decided I never wanted to undergo gender reassignment surgery or GRS. I realize a lot of people might want that. I, on the other hand, have grown to accept my extra appendage. An extra appendage that occasionally gives me pleasure. It works for me. Why would I fix something that’s not broken?
Once I turned fifteen, after knowing Dr. Banks for four years she and my mom finally decided to turn my father into the authorities for child and spousal abuse. Not the local cops because that route had always turned out to be a dead-end. With all of our testimonials, the scars that I will live with for the rest of my life, plus other various shreds of evidence, my father was arrested and charged.
During this time, my mother and Dr. Banks without my knowledge had devised a brilliant plan. My mom was already in the process of purchasing the floral store here in Heartfair, the house she owns two houses down from mine and securing a small nest egg from money my mom had hid from my father over the years.
The days leading up to my father’s arraignment, he was let out on bail, thanks to my previous counselor who was tending to my fathers every need during the trial. The subject of my sexuality was my father’s bargaining chip as to why he chose the punishments he had. Evidence was too strong against him, that he couldn’t plead not guilty. Instead, he gave pitiful excuses on the stand as to why he abused me. “He’s a sissy fucker, who needed toughened up,” was the headlining statement plastered all over the newspapers and other local media. It’s not often that you see a ‘stand up’ police officer on trial for abusing his child for ten years. The media ate it up by the boatload.
It was nearly midnight, three days prior to my father’s arraignment. My mother and I were living at our old house. I was asleep in my twin bed, in the same blue walled bedroom with ugly dark brown shag carpeting. When a hand clamped over my mouth and a giant man suspended himself over my body, stinking of BO, cigarettes and whiskey. I didn’t have to guess who it was. I knew it was my father.
“Shut the fuck up. Don’t you scream, or I’ll kill you little bitch boy.” He harshly whispered his hunting knife out of his hip holster, the cold tang pressed to my jugular.
I didn’t move.
“Do you understand?” his voice hissed in a near whisper.
I nodded.
I couldn’t make out all of his features; I also didn’t have a clue why he was there, other than him wanting to kill me.
“I’m going to put the knife down.” He pulled it away from my neck and sat back on my bed. Allowing me to move and sit up, as his dark form took up the end of my bed.
I still didn’t say a word.
“Why did you turn me in? I was trying to man you up.” His voice had dropped down to a slow sadness. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“I’m sorry I’ve never been the son you wanted.” I spoke, my hands wrapped around my knees, pulled to my chest. My back pressed firmly against my headboard.
“You were Lex; you just wanted to be a girl. I never wanted a girl and surely not a son who wanted to have a pussy.” He was getting angry. I could feel the edge of his voice cutting me like the knife he was playing with in his hands.
I wanted to yell at him and tell him, I don’t want to be a boy. I wasn’t meant to be a boy. That I couldn’t help feeling the way I did. I tried to change it. I tried for years to act and walk the earth like a male. Think how fucked up that would make you feel if you had to walk around the wrong sex your entire life. Having to pretend to be somethi
ng you’re not, and knowing if you let the world see you for who you really are, they’d spit at you and call you degrading and hurtful words like she-male or tranny.
Instead of responding to my father, I sat in the fetal position and stared at him. The moonlight lit up my room just enough I could make out his figure and see his shoulders slumping, as his legs hung off the edge of my twin bed. I wanted to scream, I wanted the cops to come. He wasn’t allowed to be there. But, I knew if I did, he’d win and I’d be punished again.
He continued. “The day your mother and I brought you home from the hospital I was so proud. You were a great baby. So cute and loved to sit in my lap and I’d read to you. Then you turned three and it all changed for me. You liked too much girl shit. You pulled on your penis in the shower like you hated it being attached. Once you even told me to take it off. I didn’t know how to deal with that shit. I figured you’d grow out of it. You didn’t, did you?” I couldn’t tell if he was baiting me into another punishment or trying to come clean. I was scared, that’s all I knew. So I chewed furiously on my bottom lip until it bled.
“Lex? You haven’t changed, have you? You’re not a boy.”
I didn’t respond.
“Answer me dammit!” he nearly yelled full force that my mother could have heard him.
“Yes, I’m not.” I meekly muttered, sucking the blood from my bottom lip.
A callous laugh broke through the air and that’s when he pounced on me. I shrieked as the blade of his hunting knife sunk into the side of my small breast. Tearing and slicing while warm blood pouring down my side and coating my bed. My father sadistically smiling above me, he knew he’d won. I couldn’t cover my wound, his body pinned me down and all I could do was scream. As his knife continued to saw away at my flesh and then he went for my other breast. That’s when I heard my mother worried, yelling, trying to break into my locked bedroom and I passed out from the immense pain and substantial blood loss.
Two days later I woke up in the hospital, bandaged wrapped around my chest and sixty-eight stitches total to right my wrecked body. I couldn’t leave the hospital for a week. My father had been sent to prison with a fresh attempted murder charge and he’s now serving life in prison without chance of parole.
We moved to Heartfair shortly thereafter. I turned into a girl during that time and my mother bought me an entirely new wardrobe. Even my school documents my mother forged to say I was a girl. Nobody knew any different. I wore padded bras, grew my hair out, started wearing makeup, and started HRT (hormone replacement therapy). All my dreams were finally coming true. My mother taught me everything else I needed to know about becoming a woman. I started tucking lady away. And the only person who ever found out about her was Roni.
I met Roni in high school. I became the hot chick and she was the tomboy. Somehow, we hit it off one day when we were both playing volleyball in gym class and this stupid girl knocked into me on purpose. Roni helped me up from the gym floor and in the locker room she beat the girl up. It was as easy as that. We became BFF’s.
Roni was raised by severely screwed up parents. Her mom is a bar whore and her dad is a drunk who fucks everything that walks. And yes, her parents are still married. Like I said, it’s a really messed up situation. So she came to my house a lot for sleepovers. A place she felt safe and nearly moved into by the time we hit our senior year. I had willingly showed her lady a few months after our budding friendship took shape and she is never cared a damn bit.
Now I own a business with Roni, my mom still runs the flower shop and I am a woman inside and mostly outside. I got breast implants to feel more like a woman when I was eighteen, then again when I was twenty-four I went to something more realistic. I had laser hair removal on my entire body, including my privates. Being on hormones helps with any manly type hair. Which to be honest I’ve never grown, but I don’t like hair at all. On men is fine, on me, not so much. It grosses me out. So everything in my life is basically perfect. For the first time in my entire life, I feel whole, except for the not having a companion part. Which is another topic, I’m sure you’re dying to know about.
I don’t date. Period. Mainly because of Brian, who I met when I was taking some college courses. I was stupid back then. And that’s enough talking about him…. Dating for me is where it becomes a bit tricky. I like men; I am a woman after all. But, I don’t want a gay or bi man. I want a straight one. Trust me there is a huge difference. The main problem with that is having to come clean with my extra appendage. And I’m not so sure how many of them will react. Brian never cared, but he never touched it either. Lincoln, Roni, Brian, my mom, and my old lawyer are the only people who know about lady. They’re all accepting of my appendage. I just don’t know how any other men would be. I can’t risk everyone finding out and me falling victim to hate crimes and treated different in a town I love wholeheartedly. It’s not worth what I’ll gain, because I can lose so much more in the process. No matter how tempting, it’s not worth the gamble. Flirting is one thing and I can do that quite well. Beyond that is a no, no, in my book. Corey almost came into contact with it tonight. It would have freaked him out, as it should, in a sense. I don’t know what to think to be honest. All I know is I am tired. I had a long night. I just pray that you don’t write me off because I’m not like everybody else.
Chapter Twelve
Saturday
Rolling onto my side, I grab my phone from my nightstand and unplug it. It’s on vibrate and it won’t stop making noise, bouncing irritatingly all over my nightstand. I turned it off at seven this morning when it kept trying to wake me up with my alarm. I didn’t get up and do yoga for the first time in almost a year. I don’t feel like it. I feel like shit. My stomach’s a mess, my body aches and I’m depressed. I might not get out of bed all day.
Sliding on my phone, it’s ten already and I have eight texts. Gee-whiz people, I am fine.
Lincoln: How’s my girl doin?
Lincoln: Corey woke up about an hour ago at the hospital. He’s ok. Told me to tell you and Roni he’s very sorry. Let me know if you want to press charges.
Lincoln: Lex…text me back. I’m coming over at noon if I haven’t heard from you.
Smiling at his sweetness, I scoot up in my bed and hit the reply button.
Me: Elias Lincoln, stop worrying about me. I’m fine and I love you. Thank you for being there for me. But I’m good…Promise. Go to sleep and no I won’t press charges unless he sues Gage.
Lincoln: He’s not suing Gage. I think he’s worried what’ll happen if he does. If you’re not fine, you had better tell me. I worry about you. You’re my girl and I will take care of you. Seems I’ll have to stand in line for that job. Gage and Roni are ten steps ahead of me. Went to Barbie’s this morning she’s worried about you too. Wants to kill Corey herself. That woman is a mama bear when it comes to you.
Me: I love Barbie. If she’s my mama bear, what does that make you? You know you’re my number one Linc. I love you.
Lincoln: I love you more and I’m the protective pit-bull in your corner.
Me: You can’t be like Lucy
Lincoln: I’m not, but I can relate with her. Have I told you how much I love her and appreciate you giving her to me?
Me: Not lately, but I’m sure the first year of free sweets from Barbie’s made up for it. Lol. I’m just glad she loves her daddy.
Lucy is the blue nose pit I bought for Lincoln three years ago for Christmas. After everything that went down with Brian years before, I never felt like I could ever repay him enough. A year before that, his dog Frank died of old age, and I knew he needed a companion. So I surprised him with Lucy. She was an abused rescue dog from a shelter three towns away. I knew they’d be perfect companions for each other. I’m not sure why Linc doesn’t date but I’ve never seen him with a woman. And I know he’s not gay. That’s why a dog suits him just perfectly.
Lincoln: That she does. I’ve been pounding the coffee back waiting to hear from you. I’m going to catch some z
zzz’s. Call me if you need anything. Love ya, sweetheart.
Me: Love ya too, ya big lug. XOXOXO
Well, that’s three of the eight messages down. I’ve got five to go.
Mom: Lincoln stopped by this morning at work and told me everything that happened. I’m going to do the mom thing and ask if you’re alright. Love you.
Me: Mom, are you actually texting?
Mom: Yes. I can hang with you kids. How is everything?
Me: It’s fine. I keep telling everyone that. I’ll come see you today or tomorrow. Don’t worry.
Mom: I’m your mom; I always worry. It’s part of the job description. See ya when you stop in.
Seems as though I’m a popular girl today.
Roni: I’m out with Bob. Won’t be home till late. Fresh rocky road in the freezer and your favorite caramel sauce on the counter, White Chicks in DVD player all ready for ya. Holler if ya need me.
This is why I love Roni. She doesn’t baby me. She gets to the point, which makes life a hundred times easier. I knew I picked her as my best friend for a reason. Her cleaning skills surely wasn’t one of them.
Unknown: It’s me Gage. How are you feeling today? Just doing my due diligence and checking in.
Unknown: Text back when you get a chance.
Unknown: Left early last night, hope you had a nice time out.
What the heck? Opening up the messages and checking the phone numbers the first two match and the third one is from a different number. I put Gage’s name with his number and click reply to the unknown texter.
Me: Who is this?
Unknown: Deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.
The Suit Master!!
Me: Suit Master, how did you get this number?
Unknown: I have my ways.
Lex (Unconventional Hearts) Page 13
