On Monday, I opened a new Facebook account under my girl name; and on Tuesday I requested that they close the one under my old name, which I've had for years. It will take 14 days for the closure to take effect. Later that day, I discovered that the new account had been suspended; they didn't say why, but I later learned that it was because my identity was unverified. Subsequent exchange of emails make it clear that this can only be cured by submitting documents that do not currently exist. With some effort and time, I think I might be able to create them; but, frankly, Facebook isn’t worth the trouble. There are only two people I contact through that medium, and both of them now have my email address. So, so long, Facebook.

Getting rid of my old name, my “name assigned at birth” (NAAB), has become increasingly important to me. I still have to deal with it at work, in situations where my legal identity is relevant and when interacting with anyone to whom I don't want to out myself; but I've started to erase it where I can. On Tuesday evening, I renamed my PC, which was named using my NAAB; and I renamed myself as a user/administrator. Now, when I turn on my computer, it says, “Ann.” I love it.

I ordered a keychain on Amazon that bears the name “Ann” in silver and a nice script; and I bought a DIY bicycle plate at Walmart and created an “Ann” plate to remind me who I am. It may seem silly, but it isn't. When there are so many forces pulling at you to think of yourself as who you aren't, you need some others to remind you of who you are. Besides, the truth is that I've always hated my NAAB. On Wednesday, I went to the post office and had my new name added to the list of people eligible to receive mail there.

I was sitting at my desk at work yesterday when the stud in my right ear fell out. It’s supposed to stay in for at least two weeks, and it fell out after six days. I did find both pieces; but, when I tried to get them back in my earlobe, I dropped one of them in the bathroom sink. Yep. Down the drain. Someone told me recently that, with freshly-pierced ears, they would not feel comfortable removing the studs for more than a few hours at a time. The place that had pierced my ears has very restricted hours; it would be several hours before I would be able to get in for replacements. So, I grabbed a paper clip (small), unbent it, swathed it in hand sanitizer and tried to put it in my ear – this time, from the rear. It slipped right in. Thank heaven.

After I got off work, I discovered that the piercing place would be closed all day. I couldn’t leave a paper clip in my ear for 48 hours; so, I did what I always do when I need down-and-dirty help on a moment’s notice: I called Walmart. I had to buy new studs, but the jewelry department put them in my ears for me. Saved.

I wore one of my new camisoles to work yesterday. I love the spaghetti straps; they make me feel so feminine. They also sometimes slide off my shoulder, but not often. I kind of like having to reach in and pull them back up. I love being a woman.

While at the mall, I stopped in at a shop selling eyeglasses. I asked the salesgirl if she had any frames that were androgynous, that could be worn by both men and women. She knew they were for me, and there could be only one reason I would ask such a question. She seemed amused, but I didn’t care. I just don’t care so much anymore about strangers knowing. Most people who know me, however – I’m not there yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if I were there soon; things are changing quickly.

The reason I don’t care so much anymore is that I need to shop for myself as the woman I am; I can’t sit around worrying about what people, especially strangers, are going to think of me. That’s childish. If they want to mock me or regard me with contempt, that’s their problem. This attitude that I have about this is something quite uncharacteristic; formerly, I could not have imagined shopping as I do. I’m still a little nervous in the ...

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I watched videos about make-up for transfeminine newbies, and I took notes; but every time I went to the store to buy what I needed to get started, it was hopeless. I couldn’t look at my own face while trying to tell what shade of foundation to buy; and I wasn’t sure of my skin tone. Those were the biggies.

In desperation, I called a woman I used to work with. When we worked together, she and I shared a number of confidences. Although I thought she could probably be trusted with knowledge of my situation, I was nevertheless uncomfortable with the idea of opening up to a second civilian. However, I was determined to attend my second session with the therapist dressed as I should be and as I wanted to be; so, I bit the bullet and contacted her. When I told her about myself, she wasn’t even sure what “transgender” was; but she took it pretty well.

We went to the store, and she helped me pick out what I needed. She also very kindly gifted me with a makeup bag and a number of items she had acquired that she didn’t fancy for herself. My next appointment with the therapist is a little more than three weeks away; and my friend told me to practice, practice, practice.

Today, I started. Session One. Using one of the videos I’d found online, I would play the portion of the video related to what product I was trying to apply, then pause the video and go to the bathroom and try to apply it. it went about as well as you might expect; it was a disaster.

I over-applied the foundation, trying to cover all signs of my beard; and then the conditioner made me look like I was from south of the border. She picked it out, and she was looking at me; so, I’m guessing I simply over-applied it. The woman in the video was using a liquid foundation, dotting her face with it and then spreading it with a brush; I really liked that. I’m thinking of getting some liquid foundation tomorrow and doing the same thing. I’m also thinking of waxing my facial hair; I’m afraid nothing else will work.

The eye shadow didn’t go well, but I think that’s simply first-time clumsiness. The procedure isn’t all that difficult or delicate. Eyeliner and mascara are other matters; OMG, I looked ridiculous after trying to apply those. Instead of using lipstick, I decided to use a nudish lip gloss my friend had given me. That actually went fairly well.

Fortunately, my friend had included in our purchase some wipes that are designed for removing makeup. I used those, a wet washcloth and, finally, jumped back in the shower. I think I either got everything off, or at least got to where it was no longer noticeable. Round Two tomorrow.

I’ve been waiting for the arrival by mail of some white camisoles with spaghetti straps. I have been hoping to use them for undershirts and throw my undershirts in the trash. They came today. I was surprised that they were marginally detectable beneath a powder blue uniform shirt I wear to one of my jobs, and completely visible beneath a white dress shirt I wear to my other job. I may stop wearing white shirts; but, in the meantime, I saved two undershirts and tossed the rest in the dumpster; I can’t get rid of my boy clothes fast enough to suit me. The camis were the largest size available for this product; they are a little snug, but still comfortable. I *love* wearing something with spaghetti straps; they make me feel so feminine.

I had to go to the post office to pick up the camis; and, on impulse, I reapplied the lip gloss before leaving the apartment. Because of the lack of color, I wouldn’t be surprised if no one noticed it; but I noticed it – its feel, its smell, its taste – and, again, it made me feel so feminine just to have it on.

On the day of my appointment with the therapist, I’m planning on leaving the apartment in girl clothes and makeup. I’m going to paint my nails again (yes!). I got my ears pierced last week, and I hope to find suitable earrings and a matching necklace. I’m going to look for a purse, as well; and I’m also going to...

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I’m fading fast, but it has been such a great day that I must get it down while it’s fresh in my mind.

Before I talk about my day, I need to report that I got my ears pierced yesterday. I’m going to be wearing dresses soon, and when I do I’ll need to accessorize.

A friend sent me a message telling me that the Cracker Barrel where he lives was displaying vintage ladies wear and that it had reminded him of me. So, I decided to check out our local Cracker Barrel and see if they were carrying the same stuff.

It’s a bit of a drive; and on the way I stopped at a Walmart where I never shop to pick up another package of Hanes size 10s, because six pairs of briefs are not enough. Since I never shop there, I took my time in the women’s department, checking to see if they have the ever-elusive cheap white camisoles (they didn’t) or any cute t-shirts I could wear mall walking – yes, I’m becoming more open. I can’t help myself. Nothing struck my fancy, and I left.

I got to the Cracker Barrel, and found the vintage ladies’ wear. In my current circumstances, it was a bit more than I could afford – even if they had anything in my size, which they didn’t. I paid my taxes today and there just isn’t any discretionary money at the moment. Anything I spend comes out of the food budget. However, I saw some clearance racks and looked at that stuff; and, golly wow, I found a tan cardigan, size XXXL, priced at $20 (half-price). If I had an outfit it would go with I would have eaten rice and beans for the next week to get it. But, alas, I’m just starting out, and I don’t have anything. I did hold it up against me, even though there were several women shopping in the same area. I just didn’t care.

After leaving Cracker Barrel, I went to the mall to walk my three laps. The mall opens for walkers at 8:00, but the stores don’t open until 10:00; so, the stores are never open when I’m there. However, today, I got to the mall around 9:30; so, after walking a lap or so, the stores started to open – and, by the time I had done two laps, they were all open. So, on my third lap, I started stopping in at some of the stores selling ladies’ wear or jewelry as I passed.

I’m not going to discuss the big box stores I visited, other than to say that no salesperson approached me as I browsed. My second, and best, stop was at a little boutique that I pass every morning while walking. They have the most attractive lounging wear in an Indian (from India) motif that always catches my eye, and which looked like it might possibly fit me. Today, the store was open, and I went in. I walked over to the lounging wear and checked it out. It was too small; but, while I was standing there, the saleswoman came up to me. She was very outgoing. I told her that I passed the window frequently and found the lounging wear in the window striking. She responded by telling me a little bit about its virtues. I then replied, “But I don’t think it will fit me.” She didn’t bat an eye, and responded that she was always having the same problem. She let me browse. I limited myself to ladies’ wear exclusively, and I’m sure she noticed. When I found a lovely long skirt that looked like it might fit me, she came back and started telling me about it. I pointed out the “lovely stretch waistband”; I’m sure she knew I was thinking of wearing it myself. Alas, it was over $30, so I had to pass it up. But I would have liked to have it. I’m partial to long skirts. When I left the store, I thanked her, called her by name and said I’d be back. She was very friendly. Oh, I didn’t mention; she had asked my name when she gave me hers, and I gave her my first name (legal). Am I coming out, or what?

I was ignored at the other stores I visited. But there was one that I may have mentioned before, that I pass by ...

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I’ve said that I am not in control of this process. I’m seeing little changes in the way I act and think that were not orchestrated by my conscious mind. It’s amazing to see. I’ve noticed that Ann – the woman inside me, who is the real me – is more balanced, even-tempered and mature than the me I’ve known all of my life. I stopped at the grocery store a few days ago, and, while there, I picked up a frozen pizza, to “celebrate” my epiphany. (I know; it’s pathetic.) I put it in the grocery cart and was headed toward the cashier when I suddenly stopped and thought, “I don’t need this.” Without a feeling of self-deprivation and without a complaint or regret, I returned to the freezer and put the pizza back, feeling a sense of gratification in so doing. That was Ann. It sure wasn’t anyone else.

The other day, when I was feeling particularly Annish, I just decided it was time to fold clothes and pick up around the apartment – not because those are traditionally women’s tasks, but because it was sensible: the apartment and laundry needed attention. Again, I didn’t feel imposed upon; I was happy to do it.

I’ve thought about this, and I realized that I have always spent a lot of time distracting myself from negative feelings. I have used food, films and alcohol to do this. Ann doesn’t need to be distracted, because she isn’t hurting. She’s been living deep inside me for a long time, waiting for me to find her.

Something a little personal, but fascinating, has been happening very recently. Like a lot of cis males, I imagine, I regularly engaged in self-pleasuring. (You can add this to the list of distractions, above.) I haven’t done so for a number of days now. There have been a few occasions when I felt desire stirring; but, on both occasions, I had an immediate awareness that it was … and here I struggle for the right word … inappropriate. Not wrong, not forbidden – nothing like that – but improper somehow. “Not the thing to do,” if you will. I could have ignored this awareness, but I didn’t want to, inasmuch as it seemed to come from somewhat the same place as these other things. In other words, I thought it would be in my best interests to listen. I didn’t have a clue at the time why this was true; but I have a pretty good theory now.

I am a woman in a male body, looking forward to transition – and, if not transition, then at least maximizing the expression of the woman I am. Self-pleasuring, in this body, as it is currently configured and with its current complement of hormones, is a powerful tie to the maleness I have long mistaken for mine; it reaffirms the link between me and maleness, which link I am working to break forever.

I don’t want to go out on a limb; but I think I am losing my regard for that part of my body as sexual. I’ve read that pre-operative trans-females tend to have difficult relationships with that particular body part. My relationship with mine isn’t “difficult,” at least at the moment; but I think it is losing its sexuality. And I really do think that’s a good thing – nay, a wonderful thing.

Besides, I imagine I’ll give its eventual replacement a good workout.

I looked at my last blog post before starting this one. Only five days have passed. It seems like weeks. So much has happened.

I’m a transwoman. I’m a woman. I know it now.

After coming home from mall walking in my new panties, I wore them again to work. When I got back home, I threw every pair of boy undies I owned in the dumpster, along with the cat litter. Someday, all the rest of my boy clothes will follow. I’m a girl, and I need to wear girl clothes. However, I’m also employed, and I need to stay that way. I don’t know how soon employment is going to lose this argument, but if it goes on too very long I think it will. The drive to live is too strong. I’ve only been half alive all my life; now that I’ve tasted what it means to really be alive, I can’t resist. I’ve seen that principle in operation already.

This has not been an easy process; but in all honesty it hasn’t been as difficult as it might have been. When I started trying to bring out my “feminine side,” I asked my Goddess for help. I don’t hear voices, but sometimes one gets a feeling, Impression or thought in response to prayer; and, on that occasion, I got the distinct impression that she replied, “Are you sure? Because once done, it can’t be undone.” And here we are.

I have had some great support here, on PsychForums; but I felt a need to connect with someone locally, in person, who could give me some direction. I contacted the local LGBT center; and, while their initial replies were promising, that avenue collapsed. Through a friend, I was connected with them years ago in a small way; they were dysfunctional then, and apparently they’re dysfunctional still. However, that failed attempt reminded me of someone I had been acquainted with at that time who had transitioned. I could only remember his first name, but found him through Google and Facebook, contacted him, and asked if we could meet. He was very accepting. And, although I had not known him well, he had known my friend much better; and he wrote back that, based on what my friend had told him about me, this news – about me being trans – did not surprise him. Gee. I wonder how many other people knew first.

I saw a therapist today, someone with experience in the transgender area and well-thought of by the community. I think it went well. I can’t afford to see her often, but it was a good beginning. She was supportive. I was hoping she would be an objective critic, in case I was somehow leading myself astray; but, although she told me that she didn’t see any mental illness in me, she would not confirm my self-diagnosis. She said it was for me to decide. Therapists.

I have a very good friend on Facebook – someone I’ve never met in person, but who does know me under my legal name. (I won’t say “real name,” because that’s the name of the zombie that’s been staggering through life, half-alive.) We have never discussed the subject of trans-ness, but knowing her as I do I was sure she would be welcoming and supportive. So, after I got back from the therapist’s office, I came out to her – by email, of course, not on Facebook. I didn’t want the world to know – not yet. And she responded just as I thought she would; she even called me “sister.” So, I’ve come out to someone, now, someone who knows me IRL who isn’t a therapist and isn’t transgender himself. My first civilian.

Indeed, I want to tell everyone. I want to start Hormone Replacement Therapy. I want some of that magic estrogen. But, at this point, it could be economic suicide.

So – congratulations, me!