When I was a little kid I do remember finally crying that my mother did not like me because I was not born a girl. My mother had the idea the perfect family was husband, wife, son (preferably first born) and daughter; dogs and cats optional. My brother was born first. She promised to never tell me that again; and she didn't. When she had the chance she beat the shit of me. Later, when I was eleven my mother had a daughter. Some of the pressure was taken off me, but, I swear she still hated my guts. I don't know if any of this made me predisposed to becoming a wearer of women's attire. I could have easily gone in a different direction and become a serial killer of women.
The lure into wearing women's attire was my mother's nylon full slips. She use to hang them on a clothes line to dry in our apartment. I loved the feel of the silky fabric. I had no thoughts of wanting to be a female. If anything I suspect some visions I had as a young child; maybe age four had an effect. I had thoughts/awake dreams that I had been a young woman who had been murdered. I had visions of the woman, who was me, laying dead in the mud, attired in a white slip. At the time our family did not have a television. I have no recollection how that image became engraved in my mind. Many times I draw upon that image, and, I know my other experiences it is possible to keep pulling up an image. Anyway, the lure of the silky nylon finally compelled me to take it down and try it on. I also discovered her long nylon nightgown. None of this exploration caused me to wish I had been born a girl. When puberty finally hit, the cross dressing bug kicked in. I dabbled in my mother's lingerie draw. This caused a lot of mental turmoil for a young teen lusting after Annette Funicello and other starlets and female classmates and neighborhood girls.
My PTSD counselor is of the opinion each man and woman has some dna in his or her genetic profile of the opposite sex. In some it is greater than others. If anything, serving in the infantry in Nam and getting wounded twice, showed me I was as virile as an knuckle drawing buffoon down at the neighborhood bar. Wearing women's clothing actually did become therapeutic; an escape from dreams/daymares that I know are based on fact. The dead young woman in the parking lot falls in the potential of "past life" experiences. I figure I paid full price for my ticket in life, so I want to enjoy the ride.
Originally Posted by AngelaYVR
