As if my harrowing day in NYC was not enough, I decide to bite the bullet and tell my youngest son when I get home.

Age 17. Senior in high school. Interested art school. And a Brony.

I’m not good at waiting and I don’t want him to think my moodiness has anything to do with him.

So I come home and announce I have something to tell him. Something I’ve hidden from the world for 40 years. And no, I’m not gay.

In a flash, I get a vision of him not responding well. Of never wanting to see me again. Of being ashamed of me. And I lose it. In front of him.

I try to gather myself up, but tears are streaming down my face. Deep breath. REALLY deep breath.

So I dive into my sixth (!!!!!!) admission of the day (are you nuts!?!) and finally speak the words, I am transgendered.

I look up and he is staring at me expressionless. Nothing. Nada.

Not good. REALLY not good.

So I start to babble. This is me babbling. Oh wow have I have become good at babbling. Then I pause.

Wait a minute…

Do you know what the word “transgendered” means?

No.

Omigod, omigod, omigod. It’s second chance time. Like losing a football game on a missed kick, then seeing that glorious roughing the kicker flag.

Well, it’s kinda like Eddie Izzard (who we went to see in D.C. and ran into in London at the Monty Python Reunion show).

After more babbling, my son stops me and tells me he is totally fine with it. Really. His favorite Brony musician is transgendered. His Facebook picture is a photo of him with the same transgendered musician.

I am so relieved. I am so lucky. I am so blessed. He’s even intrigued to see me in “girl” mode.

We hug and while I can’t stop the tears, I can stop the fear, the panic, for at least one night.

But morning comes early to parents of high school students. 6:10 to be exact and while all is good between us, not all is good between my ears.

He leaves for school at 6:30 and within minutes I’m sobbing in the bathroom. Everything that I’ve been holding in from the previous day comes tumbling out. Hell, everything I’ve been holding in for 40 years.

I finally pull myself together, throw on my yoga pants and an eggplant long sleeve women’s ribbed tee over my bra. I tie my hair in a side ponytail, put on hoop earrings and my clogs, and appraise myself in the mirror. Not too shabby. A little cute, actually. Very understated. Very non-threatening (I hope).

3:00 comes and I hear the front door open, my son returning from school. I’m upstairs, so I give him a minute to get settled in, then text, Do you mind seeing girl mode?

Silence.

After five tortuous minutes, I add, Should I take that as a no? 😉

More silence. A LOT more silence

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Then my phone buzzes. Sorry, the cat sat on me and I feel asleep. I would not mind.

Deep breath. Deep breath.  Don’t hyperventilate. Deep breath.

I come down the stairs and my son is waiting for me. He breaks into a broad smile and says, Wow, you look really nice.

Either he means it or he’s going to do really well with women. Either way, score!

I spend the next few hours in girl mode. With someone I know. With someone I love. Who isn’t freaked out by it.

Life is good. Scary, but really, really good.

Today is the day. The day I start telling people I’m transgendered.

And I am terrified. 

It begins with an early morning breakfast with an old friend from my days at AOL. She was a coworker, a boss, then I replaced her as boss when she moved on to bigger and better things. But most importantly, she’s a friend. That said, I haven’t seen her in person in something like seven years.

We meet at a small cafe and she looks fantastic. We chit chat for a bit, and I tell her I have some news. Big news. I’m scared and grinning at the same time, but dive into my little spiel. 

I take a deep breath and with a wry smile, spit out, I’m transgendered.

Her reaction brings tears to my eyes. She is beamingly happy for me. Thrilled. I think I’m going through a mini bout of post-traumatic stress after 40 years of secrets, shame and denial, but the happiness in her eyes, her unbridled joy, her love, carry me through the moment.

We talk about the joys of yoga pants, crying jags brought on by hormones, overly sensitive nipples. She asks me a million questions and it’s awesome. We are both SO overjoyed and I am SO relieved.

Welcome to the club, she says and I can’t remember the last time I was this happy. After all these years of shame, secrets and hiding, I’m being accepted for who I am. And it’s awesome.

An hour passes and we both need to run, but she gives me a long hug and tells me I’m going to have an amazing year. I smile through wet eyes and realize she’s right. I’ve been so caught up in THIS moment of revelation that I haven’t really thought about the future. Deep breath.

We part closer than when we met and I am over the moon.

But I have another morning meeting, this time with a guy I used to consult for. Another coffee does wonders for my nerves and as we catch up, he let’s me know he would love to work with me again.

I wasn’t planning on sharing my news, my big news. A few close friends and see where it goes.

But this is tear-off-the-band-aid time. Hell, it’s tear-off-the-damn-scab time.

So I tell him and he doesn’t blink. Literally. But he is genuinely happy for me and tells me the offer still stands. I try to explain that I’m still figuring things out, but I’m happy to show up to meetings in boy mode, this is business after all with paying clients — and he cuts me off.

No. You need to be who you are.

I am so blown away. I mean, first off, two-for-two. Second off, unconditional support I had never believed was possible.

I thank him from the bottom of my heart and make him promise to keep this under his hat for another week until I can tell his business partner who I’ve known for 15 years. I don’t want people finding out through the grapevine. I want to let them learn about my journey on my terms, so they can see how genuine I am at this crossroad in my life.

I mean, it’s not like a midlife crisis choice between being transgendered or, say, buying a motorcycle. Hmmmm… heels or a Harley? I’ll chose the heels.

We shake hands in a most manly way and I hop the subway back to my office, realizing suddenly I’m committed. I mean, I’ve really gone public with this. Screw band-aids and scabs. I’ve just jumped off the the damn cliff.

I get to my office and three of my coworkers are there. No time like the present, right?

It feels a little like a movie montage, only it’s my life…

Colleague #1: I’m still nervous. I’m still REALLY nervous as I’m about to tell someone with whom I’ve worked all-nighters for the past three years. I mean, I know he’ll be supportive. But I don’t know he’ll be supportive, if that makes sense. Despite having quit smoking some time ago, I ask if he wants to go out for a smoke. I do my little little dance, big breath, and tell him. He grins and tells me how happy he is for me. Big hug. Another deep breath. Hell, another cigarette. I go into more details, but I am starting to sense guys just want to be happy for me and move on to fantasy football. We end with a handshake, another manly handshake, and talk about our fantasy football starters for the week.

Colleague #2: One would think it’d be getting a bit easier by now, but it isn’t. My next reveal is with someone I hired a few years back, a woman. Again, I know she’ll be supportive, but there’s always that doubt in the back of your mind. As I gather up my courage, she tells me to take a deep breath. Yeah, definitely not easier. Deep breath and I come clean. She smiles broadly and tells me how fantastic it is that I’m coming out. We chat for a little more and she tells me if there is anything I ever need, just to ask. No handshake this time, but I’ll definitely be asking her for makeup tips in the future. She has some of the best makeup I’ve seen, period. #jealous

Colleague #3: One more and I’m done with NYC for the day. Maybe because we haven’t worked together for all that long, this one is a little easier. Again, he takes it in stride. Is very happy for me. We share a few personal details on life struggles. Handshake. Fantasy football.

Five for five. Not too shabby. But all I want to do is to crawl into the bathroom and cry. I am SO emotionally spent. I decide to head home early, thank everyone for their wonderful support and make a beeline to the train back to Maryland.

Once on the train, I realize I can’t break down with a person sitting next to me. And Amtrak bathrooms do not good crying chambers make. I finally get back to my car and dissolve into tears. There is a mixture of a) have you lost your freakin’ mind! b) you have the best friends EVER! c) have you lost your FREAKIN’ mind! and d) you can do this.

I drive home and realize I have one more person to tell tonight. My 17-year-old son. 

But let’s leave THAT little bit of terror for tomorrow.

And on Wednesday, I rested.

Now seems as good a time as any to address some questions about being transgendered. Or at least my experiences and thoughts about being transgendered.

There are a lot of articles out there about what it means to be transgendered, and some of them seem to castigate folks for asking “inappropriate” questions or using the wrong words.

My approach is a little different, and let me reiterate that I speak only for myself, but I think allowing people the freedom to ask questions is a step in the right direction. We need to educate people, not discourage them from learning about what it means to be transgendered.

Despite what Thomas Gray might suggest, ignorance is not bliss. So I’ll take the awkward questions and try to answer them as best I can. If it comes from a good place, it’s all good.

To that point, I offer up the first in a series of questions I’ve had to ask myself and expect others to ask, or at least have in their head as I come out of the closet.

Are you gay?

Asking as transgendered person if they’re gay poses problems all itself. Because at some point, if I transition, odds are I will be gay.

To put it simply, I’m not into guys and I still like women. So think of me as a lesbian stuck in a man’s body.

As I say, this can get a little confusing.

Are you a queen?

My understanding is that a queen is gay man who dresses flamboyantly as a woman for entertainment purposes. In essence, a female impersonator. This is not about impersonating a woman, it’s about being who I am.

So nope, not a queen.

Are you on hormones?

Yes. Estrogen and anti-androgens that block my male hormones.

What’s it like to be on hormones?

On the female side, I cry a lot easier, especially the first week. As in I ball my eyes out at sappy commercials. Damn you, Madison Avenue! My skin has gotten softer, my hair shinier and my nipples are crazy sensitive. And not in an erotic way. As in if I clip them on the edge of the table whilst at work, I need to pause and go, oh baby that hurts. I am in the early stages of hormones, so I am getting some breast development but nothing noticeable when wearing a loose shirt. Except perhaps that my nipples protrude like the air conditioning is on high.

On the male side, I don’t get erections anymore. Nothing. Nada. Zip. To quote “One Night in Bangkok,” I get my kicks above the waistline, sunshine.

Are you planning on becoming a woman?

I honestly don’t know. That’s what this journey is all about. I might find that “boy” mode is enough. Long fingernails and a bit more of my feminine side front and center. Think of me as the American version of Eddie Izzard. Only not as funny. Or I may find that that is not enough and “girl” mode is more my speed. But I’m looking forward to finding out. It’s an exhilarating ride so far, and terrifying, but I’m so much happier right now. It’s funny, I find myself grinning a lot more, so I’m pretty sure I’m headed in the direction. All I can say is, stay tuned.

What about your “junk”?

Well, I still have my “junk.” It doesn’t do a whole due to the anti-androgens at present, so again we’ll see how this plays out.

Are you sure you’re not gay? 

This was a big hurdle for me to overcome. I am cool with being gay or bi or whatever. I am cool if people think I’m gay or bi or whatever. But right now, I’m only interested in girls. That said, if Captain Jack Harkness and his 51st century pheromones made a pass at me, I don’t think I would turn him down. But let’s face it, who would?

I’m now looking forward to my therapy. Looking forward to that elevator ride to the 10th floor.

I can’t wait to share all the progress I’ve made in the past week.

Our rapport is improving and she seems a little surprised and a little impressed with my progress. I mean, 40 years of no movement, then something a little bigger than baby steps. Toddler steps?

I realize I need to help her to understand how I’m wired.

So I tell her about my stuttering.

You see, I grew up with two secrets. The second you know. The first was that I stuttered. And stuttering in grade school does not a good school experience make. I got into a lot of fights. But there’s not a lot you can do to combat that when your nickname becomes J-j-j-j-joel.

But I was a smart kid. So I figured out which words I stuttered on and created a vocabulary to circumvent them.

Problem solved right? Not really.

Speaking became an adventure in literally running every word, every sentence through my head before I said it to scan for the danger words of the day. But I soon got the hang of it and everyone thought my stutter went away.

Fast forward 20 years, and my oldest son develops a stutter. And I am devastated.

I did this to him. My genes did this to him, and I can’t hide it anymore. So I take him to a speech pathologist who asks about family history, and my secret comes out. My son quickly improves with a series of games like blowing through a straw to develop better speech control, but she tells me I need to confront my stuttering. I need to face my fear.

The first step is to put up a poster in my office at work about stuttering. The second is to tell people that I stutter. These steps serve to reduce the fear of people discovering my secret, my lifelong shame. Sound familiar?

The final step is to use any word I avoid in the next sentence. This prevents me from building up fear around single words or sounds. It’s terrifying at first and at times my dialogue circles round and round until I spit out danger words like “editor” and “Guinness.”

Fast forward another 10 years and you can’t shut me up. Seriously. Ask anyone I know, especially my kids. I am a chatterbox, usually the first person to offer an opinion in a meeting because I don’t need to filter myself anymore. Perhaps I should, but, god, it is so liberating to speak without fear.

This is a long way of saying that I decided to take the same approach with my transgendering.

And step one is the poster, or in my case, the hair ties around my wrist.

Step two? Telling people. And that little bit of terror starts this week.

Stay tuned.

Remember when my therapist told me to get my blood checked? And remember how I stalled before telling my ex-wife, who already knew I was transgendered, that I was transgendered?

You can probably work out where I stand with setting up an appointment for my blood work.

A little background is in order.

I’ve done a lot of online research about hormone therapy. And we all know how reliable the internet is. In fact, my Nigerian investment should be coming through any day now. So self-medicating hormones based on online research, what could possibly go wrong?

You see, it’s not that hard to get prescription drugs through places like Canada and India. So over the past three years (and law enforcement folks, please note this is what we like to call in trade “hypothetical”), I’ve experimented with various hormones and hormone blockers to see what would happen. Kinda like dropping Mentos in a 2-liter bottle of Coke.

I’ve taken hormones in fits and starts… usually stopping in a panic with internal dialogue along the lines of a) have you lost your mind!?!?! b) is my chest getting puffy? c) I don’t usually cry this much, d) don’t I have a doctor’s appointment next month?

Long story short, I’ve taken about nine months worth of hormones and anti-androgens (male hormone blockers) over the past three years. Specifically…

•  Estradiol: 2mg daily
•  Estradot Patch: 50mcg twice weekly
•  Provera: 10 mg first 10 days of the month
•  Spironolactone: 100mg daily
•  Fincar: 5mg daily

So to fulfill my promise to make progress every day, I decide to set up an appointment to get my blood checked. My therapist gave me two names and I do some online research. And hey, look, I can make the appointment online. No terrifying phone call required.

But something inside of me stirs. Am I being a coward? Again. When will I stop being ashamed of who I am? If I can’t accept myself, how can I expect other to?

Screw it. 

I pick up my phone and call to make my appointment. I share my name and explain I’m transgendered and need to come in for some blood work. The person on the other end of the line is extraordinarily nice, but her thick accent means I’m not 100% I know what I’m committing to. She starts talking about hormone injections… 

WOAH! 

I explain I don’t think I’m ready for that, so let’s just set up the appointment (for next week) and see where it goes.

I hang up the phone and can’t suppress a smile. I’m actually doing this. And that’s pretty cool.

My next big step is to come out to friends, co-workers and family about being transgendered.

I decide to do a test run with my ex-wife since a) she knows I’m transgendered, b) knows how our mutual friend might react and, you know, c) might have some insight on how my TWO SONS WILL TAKE THE NEWS!!!

Not that I have much anxiety about THAT… <ahem>

After a series of postponements and delays, she finally makes it over late Sunday night.

I change from “girl” mode before she arrives, but let me first go off on a tangent and say how much I LOVE geeky girl t-shirts. I found the most awesome Bloo juniors T (from Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends) and I gotta say I looked pretty cute in it with my fabulous yoga pants and clogs. I think this might become my go-to girl look at home.

Okay, tangent over.

My ex arrives and one would think this would be easy, but it’s not.

You see, I first told her 20 some years ago, the same night we got engaged. Right before we got engaged, in fact, in case it was a deal breaker for her.

She was very supportive back then, at least at first. Then not so much. I mean, she wanted to be supportive, but life doesn’t always play out the way you want it to. And I get that. The person you fall in love with, the MAN you fall in love with, probably shouldn’t have better legs than you. So I stopped dressing. At least in body. I’m not sure I stopped in my mind.

Anyway, life happened and our marriage eventually fell apart. Not over being transgendered, but that certainly didn’t help.

So we got separated. Got divorced. Amicable for the most part. Very amicable when compared to other divorces we witnessed from afar.

Moving back to present, I give her my rehearsed preamble. Oldest son in college. Youngest son a senior in high school and looking at art schools. Come summer 2015, there’s not much to keep me in Maryland other than the cat. So I’ve decided to move to New York City next year.

And I’m stalling. Look at me stall. It’s amazing how well I stall.

I’ve been going through some self-examination, yada yada yada. I’ve started therapy, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Deep breath.

I’ve finally accepted that I’m transgendered and I don’t want to hide it anymore. I don’t know where this journey is going to take me, but I’m excited to see where it’s going to end up. And scared. Definitely scared out of my freakin’ mind.

She smiles warmly and tells me she’s thrilled for me — and asks if I want a hug.

Oh god, yes.

We embrace and so much pent up shame/relief/fear/stress/you-name-it from the past 40 years comes pouring out.

We spend another hour together, me sharing my heart with her and her being more supportive than I had hoped.

Maybe our marriage wasn’t destined to last, but to quote the wonderful Paul Williams from “Here’s Another Fine Mess”…

We loved for a while, you can’t call that losing
If I knew our love was gonna end this way
I’d live it over and I wouldn’t change a day…

I just hope she isn’t still jealous of my legs.