I am Me and Me is Marie.
The more I am Marie the more I am Marie.
By Marie Anne Greene
This is not a typical Marie Adventure. It is the combination of multiple thoughts and memories, which have been stirring around in my cranium for the past several months, perhaps longer, but each was superseded at the time by other obligations, which claimed a higher priority. This delay and the mental reexamination (mulling) that subsequently transpired, almost every other night, has resulted in this soliloquy.
This is not a claim of “dysphoria" which is defined in the
American Heritage Dictionary as "an emotional state characterized by anxiety, depression, and restlessness." This term is often used in articles and by some blog authors as an almost "throw-away" term when discussing the contest between our physical gender and the inclination toward our preferred gender. Given the dictionary description as stated above, I decided to conduct a study, "A Case Study of One."
One of the original prompts for this effort was rooted in
Kandi’s (and other bloggers) repeated admonition to her readers to grow your own level of confidence by going out among with the reward being that it can be fun on many levels: externally, the satisfaction of blending and being accepted, and internally, by a tinge of excitement and inner self-recognition. However, as Kandi and
Rhonda have repeatedly stated going out should be done with care and confidence.
This is very well founded advice and I believe it should be supported by a period of planning, learning and evolving experiences and possibly the most important factor being self-acceptance of your female persona. This latter acceptance is a challenge that can be overcome. Many, if not all of us have been conditioned by society for a period of 20-30-40 years to suppress our inner feelings and inclinations. This includes the full spectrum ranging from physical, emotional, intellectual, moral and social.
In the very early days of my experimentation there was desire and exploration on one hand and anxiety and worry on the other hand... the latter particularly, if publicly caught engaging in this societal forbidden behavior.
Before I came alive in my full-blown girl persona, my early adventures were short lived baby steps into the unknown, often with a deep sense of trepidation and fear of disclosure, humiliation and potential loss of job and family. The greatest fear was being involved in a traffic accident where identification would be required and a police report of some type might be filed and conceivable published in a local paper or even on a television news spot.
Throughout my early exploratory adventures into femininity, most of which were tentative and measured from a few minutes to a few hours, these fears made all such excursions an exercise in timidity. What was missing was knowledge and confidence of what is required to be or at least present as a woman.
This icannot be accomplished overnight and is in my opinion, an evolution in values, attitudes, skills, awareness and confidence. Before I came to the fore, my predecessor for at least 10 years was an unnamed "Guy in a Dress" (GID) and I recall several instances where being terrified was the correct description of the incident.
Perhaps the first recollection of this type occurred when on business trip when I picked up a mix and not matched set outwear, blouse, skirt and shoes, but no jewelry, makeup, etc. These were beyond my skills and budget at that point. The first terrified instance occurred while standing
en femme on the balcony walkway outside of the second-floor motel room gazing out over the adjacent parking lot. I noticed a man walking toward the motel, then he looked up at the balcony and after 20 seconds or so waved. I assumed he was signalling to the “woman" on the balcony. I was instantly terrified by the thought of the stranger knocking on my room door seeking some kind of interaction with the “balcony woman.”
I immediately abandoned the balcony and fled into the darkness of my room, locking the door, turning off the TV and the room lights, shedding the female clothes and changing into male apparel while waiting for the dreaded knock in a petrified state for at least 30 minutes before slowly relaxing, and mentally replaying the episode numerous times over.
The next incident transpired a few years later, although not terrifying as the first, it was scary in another way and again was on an out of town business trip. I had become bolder and was dressed in a black pseudo-leather miniskirt, soft form-fitting Angora sweater, hose and three-inch heels, nicely done makeup and a small black handbag containing the essentials lipstick, a purse-sized perfume, hair brush and car keys.
The plan was simply to exit the hotel, calmly walk through the parking lot, slide into my car, relax a little, perhaps listen to a music station for a few minutes, apply a touch up to the lipstick, a quick brush of the hair and add a spritz of perfume and return to the room through the lobby. I was torn wanting to be seen as my feminine alter ego and at the same time scared of being noted as a GID. This was my internal dilemma.
That was the plan and I was nervous when I stepped out of the room, walked the long hall feeling more feminine and relaxed with each step. Wanting to avoid meeting anyone in the close quarters of the elevator, I chose to proceed down the emergency stairway two flights to the street level. I was becoming more relaxed as I descended. Beyond the door was a pedestrian walkway with shops, bars and restaurants. It was busy being close to 8 PM on a summer Saturday evening when I opened that door.
As I pulled back the door, I was greeted by a trio of smiling, boisterous singing and slightly inebriated young twenty-something males with beer and wine bottles in their hands. The opposing apparitions momentarily shocked both me and the three songsters. Shock, surprise and terror coursed through my body. I was the first to react, spinning on my heels and fleeing like a scared gazelle up the stairs with the click of my heels resounding in the stairway to the sounds of male firsts pounding on the door accompanied by the muffled sound of “Hey, baby doll, open the door.” Needless to say, this misadventure, although not quite terrifying was fearful and stifled my inclination for similar forays for quite a while.
This incident was surpassed about a year later and the momentary terror of the two previous events was replaced by a period of concern. While stopped at a traffic light, I was rear-ended. I was not injured, but did have a gym bag in the truck containing a
femme outfit. My vehicle was not drivable and I was informed it was going to by towed to a disposal yard. I extracted the gym bag from the trunk, crossed the road deposited it in a public garbage container.
A person in a nearby fast-food restaurant witnessed this action and thinking, the action was suspicious (possibly drug-related) told the police officer who was writing up the accident. The bag was retrieved and contents examined by the officer who then asked me if it was mine and why I had deposited it in the garbage container. I responded yes and I was embarrassed. He informed me the bag would be impounded and could be recovered from the county police evidence locker in 30 days if it had not been linked to any criminal activity.
Fortunately, the accident occurred several counties away from my family resident and there were no local newspaper reports of the matter Bottom line: for the next 30 days I was very concerned. On day 30, I went to the evidence locker, signed for the bag and its contents and promptly disposed of them at the local garbage dump. No dysphoria... just extended concern of possible discovery.
Another incident on a far lower scale occurred in an upscale hotel with carpeted hallways, mirrored elevator waiting areas and a large vendor machine alcove on each floor. This sojourn into part-time womanhood took place 18 months or so after the previous event and in the interval I had evolved in both attire, presentation and confidence, but was still extremely worried and cautious when venturing outside of my hotel room except for an occasional short excursion to elevator lobby or vending area.
This particular evening, I was wearing an expensive pearl-trimmed two-piece floor-length cream-colored “mother-of-the-bride” outfit, which I had acquired that afternoon at an upscale consignment shop. It felt absolutely wonderful and fit just right. This moment of near terror, no that is not correct, a brief moment of concern occurred when with full and carefully applied makeup and jewelry, I crossed paths with a group of nine young folks coming down the hallway making their way to the elevator area.
Fortunately, the group was busy chatting amongst themselves and did not pay any attention to the woman coming out of the vending area with a soft drink in one hand and room fob in the other. I smiled at one young woman as our eyes briefly met and continued to calmly walk back to my room. Arriving there I smiled broadly, pushed a stray hair back over my left ear and admired the pleasant and elegant looking woman I saw in the full-length mirror as I entered my room.
Trading the soft drink can for a long-stemmed glass, I stepped out to my balcony and stood for a few minutes admiring the lights of the city and then scooping my skirt behind me, gently settled into one of the softly cushioned chairs, crossed my right leg over the other and relived all the events of the day with my elevated self-confidence.
While sitting in full exquisite feminine regalia and a cloud of feminine scents, slowly sipping on the soft drink, I began mentally reviewing my history of adventures and misadventures. I was enjoying those that were especially memorable as well as the half dozen close calls, two which have been mentioned above. Two other incidents came to mind during this kaleidoscopic review. These occurred much closer to home; in fact, both occurred in the family home.
One took place when my spouse was out of town visiting her mother. I found a new nightgown that the lady of the house had left hanging in the bathroom. I did not notice it until preparing to take a nighttime shower. I could not resist the pink polka-dot empire-styled nightgown. I slid it over my freshly-shampooed head of hair, sat down at the makeup table and brushed my shiny black hair in a fluffy feminine style and then rolled back the light blue satin sheets of the canopied king-sized \ bed. I GID snuggled under the sheets, positioned my tousled head on the king-sized pillow and quickly fell asleep.
When I awoke with the sun pouring into the room, a shocking but very pleasing sight registered. The vision was the pronounced dual mounds of soft breasts peaking out of the cups of an empire neckline. The view and realization were pleasantly surprising and exhilarating. Those were her breasts, not some substitute. I did not have another opportunity to enjoy this experience as mysteriously, that delicious nightie shortly disappeared after the lady of the house returned from her visit.
Another recollection then flashed into my mental movie screen of a similar nature. The couple had recently visited an upscale mall and my spouse with me in tow purchased a fantastic LBD at Nordstrom. It was expensive with a scrounged style bodice and a full floating double layered skirt, perfect for the dance floor and either a tango or a waltz.
As might be expected, I was captivated by this example of pure femininity and inwardly dreamed of slipping into this absolute vision. Less than a week had transpired, when I gave into the dream and donned the LBD. It fit beautifully and felt totally thrilling, however, I had gone one step too far.
Captivated by the feeling and the image of the sophisticated lady with the pearl drop earrings and three strand-necklace reflected in the full-length mirror, I completed the experience with a few sprays of the Vanity Fair perfume. With regret, I divested all and placed them back into their proper place including the LBD to its cushioned hangar.
It was a few days later, I was confronted by a determined spouse with the LBD in hand saying she could not wear this and I want you to return it to Nordstrom and get full credit and it is up to me to explain the return. Without another word, I accepted the dress with all the tags still attached and did as the lady of the house directed. The incident never came up again, however, often at social occasions whenever a woman complimented me (in male mode) for being helpful, the lady of the house was quick to say, "Oh yes, although he has a few issues." I took this to be an implied threat.
During the next few years with only one opportunity a year, I essentially went into a self-imposed long-term hibernation. During that elongated period, I slowly worked through the thoughts of all those elements and incidents and came to the slow recognition along with some physical clues that this gender identified male was more than that and was to some unknown degree, at least partially female physically, mentally and emotionally.
I was now cognizant of these facts and accepted them as reality and after assessing the situation, determined that until my living and working situation changed, I would apply a discipline I had learned and exercised previously when faced with decisions that could not be immediately resolved or if a decision was made in a rash moment, the results could prove to be disastrous and irrevocable.
With that decision made, I put Marie Anne into a mental vault with the proviso not to be opened until a set date arrived or until my living and employment situation changed.
That change came five years later, when during a nine-month period, three events coalesced. The first came when the children were married, leaving the nest and the state. The second was an offer of an early corporate retirement accompanied by a generous bonus. The third and last was the sudden and unexpected demise of the lady of the house from heart failure. Less than 30 minutes from the onslaught of attack to death. It spelled the end of a major portion of Marie’s adult life.
It would be the following Halloween, nine months later, when our I, still locked in the mental vault, received an invitation to participate in a costume affair to raise funds for a nearby children’s hospital. The choice of costume was not a personal choice, but by a hospital committee in a random drawing. I drew Wonder Women and with the encouragement of a female friend, my successful presentation led to invitations on another Halloween and then a Marti Gras party.
Our GIDs' acceptance and fun were major milestones in the transition from just a GID to a full blown femulator and the emergence of Marie Anne (Veronique) Greene.
Two circles of friends facilitated this relatively short journey. The first were cis women beginning with Dream Maker and then my hairdresser/barber who became my "Never had one Sister,” followed almost immediately by another my makerup artist and then "The Nail Specialist." This little group of four was augmented by an understanding and highly skilled dressmaker who could make any and everything fit beautifully.
I learned soon there was another whole world of support out there. This began with Tasi and her
Sister House, Rhonda of southern Florida; about the same time, I found Stana and her wonderful concept and art of femulation. From there, I established an e-mail dialogue with other girls including Kandi (of Kandi’s Land), and Barbara Jean and Carollyn (of
Pretty T-Girls Magazine) and most recently, Cherry of the
The Carolina Transgender Society in North Carolina. All have been immensely supportive and instrumental in my evolution and education into the wonderful world and inner joy of being a member of our special sorority.
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| Wearing BooHoo |
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| Terri Stevens, Canadian professional femulator |
