You know, it’s funny how memory works. I’m almost 65 now, and I’m a transgender woman, but it’s wild to think I didn’t really figure this out until much later in life. Why? Because for about 45 years, I completely forgot a huge part of my younger self.
I’m very good at compartmentalization shutting off feelings. It served mecwell as a Marine and CEO for over two decades but in other areas its not such a good thing
Back then, when I was just a kid, a teenager, I was super attracted to women. Not just attracted, I idolized them. I mean, I still am attracted to them, but back then, I’d just look at them and think, “Wow, I wonder what it’s like to *be* them?” It wasn’t just a crush; it was this deep admiration for women, for the feminine form, for everything about them.
In my early teens, when no one was home, I’d sneak into my mom’s closet or my sister’s room. I’d try on different clothes, just to get a tiny taste, a rudimentary feeling, of what it might be like to be female. It was a secret world, a quiet exploration of something I couldn’t quite name.
Then, just recently, a really vivid memory popped back into my head. I was taking a bath, probably around that same age, maybe 13 or 14. I saw a razor sitting on the side of the tub. And I must’ve thought, “What would it be like to have smooth legs?” You know, like the women I admired. So, I picked it up.
I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I mean, zero clue how to shave. I just started dragging it down my leg, probably pressing way too hard. And then, boom. I must’ve put a three-inch gash right in my leg. It started bleeding. And bleeding. And bleeding. It just wouldn’t stop.
I totally freaked out. I couldn’t get the bleeding to stop, and I was terrified. So, eventually, I had no choice but to show my mom and dad. I remember them looking at my leg, then at me, and their faces were just a mix of shock and confusion. “What the hell were you doing shaving your legs?” they asked, probably in unison. I honestly don’t even remember what my answer was. I probably mumbled something incoherent, or maybe I just stood there, mortified.
It’s such an interesting memory because it perfectly lines up with all those other things I was doing back then – the clothes, the admiration, the deep curiosity about being female.
But here’s the kicker: around the age of 16, I just stopped. In the early to mid 70’s there was no one to talk to, no internet. Thus, I compartmentalized everything. I pushed it all down, locked it away, and didn’t remember any of it for 45 years. Not a single shred. Until I was 59 years old, and then, all of a sudden, everything came flooding back. But how that happened?
Well, that’s a whole ‘nother story.
Dr. Gwen Patrone
