Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Growing Up Girl ❯ Chapter 6

Sometime in my life, I became fake. I can't remember how it happened, or even when. It's harder to remember a time when I wasn't fake. I began to smile all the time, even though I was breaking down inside, hating myself, hating what I had done and what I had become, hating everyone in the world. Linda was kind to me. I had no reason to hate her. Yet still I did.

She would come home early, while the sun was rising, while I was getting ready to go to work. She was always exhausted and weary. I would smile at her and sometimes cook breakfast, dinner for her, before leaving. After work, I would come home just as exhausted and weary, though for different reasons, and she would cook me dinner, breakfast for her, before leaving for work. That was my new pattern. I always seemed to find a pattern.

At work, I smiled blankly at the customers. I was kind when they exploded at me about the outrageous prices or the fact that their coupons were out of date. They wore diamond earrings and diamond rings and expensive gold watches. The ketchup was too expensive for them. I wore plastic clip-on earrings and a fake silver ring I'd gotten out of a twenty-five cent machine and no watch. I never complained about prices of ketchup. My smile was so fake. So very fake.

Inside, I felt like a time bomb. Like I was just waiting for someone to shake me around enough that I would finally explode.

I was seventeen. Linda took me to a bar for my birthday. They didn't check ID's. I wondered why I hadn't known about this place before. I could have gone every night and drowned myself in alcohol, something that appealed to me very much, at the time.

The bar was crowded and smoky and noisy. There was a jukebox sitting in a corner, playing 70's rock music. I fell in love with Eric Clapton. Linda and I drank tequila shots with whiskey chasers. When the hard stuff had taken full effect, we moved on to strawberry daquiris and sipped them the rest of the night. I was introduced to other 'working girls,' friends of Linda. I met Ginger and was shocked. Ginger was taller than most women, with broad shoulders and thin hips. Her face was defined, but with a softness about it. I learned that 'Ginger' was actually a man in woman's clothing. A drag queen, she was called. We sat in the back of the room and she talked for hours, about life, about herself, about how hard it was. She told me that one day, she would like to stop being a drag queen and be a woman.

For the first time in my life since my parents, I willingly confided in someone. I told Ginger my secret. "Oh, honey," she said softly, her dark red fingernails tracing along the condensation on her glass of scotch on the rocks. "I guess your name has a meaning then, doesn't it?" I didn't understand her implications, and it must have showed on my face. "Duo. It means two, ya know? Like you're two different people. You've got the mind of a girl and the body of a boy, you see?" I nodded. I'd never realized it before. I'd never liked my name before that time. I'd thought it was a weird name.

I began going to the bar every Friday and Saturday night. The people there slowly came to know me very well. Most of them eventually knew about my secret, and I had no problems, really, with talking about it. I felt comfortable talking to them. But I felt most comfortable talking to Ginger. We were like kindred spirits. "One thing that interests me about myself," I said one night as I nursed another strawberry daiquiri, "I never lie." Ginger gave me a strange look. She was already high, preparing herself for work. She worked the streets, just like I had. "It's true. I mean, I won't just outright lie. But insides, I'm nothing but one big lie. My whole life is a lie. I can't even have a relationship, for fear that someone will find out. I'll be alone forever."

Ginger shook her head. "No, honey. One day, you'll find a nice man who understands you. I'd just want to get the surgery done, first."

I gave her a curious look, interested. What surgery was she talking about? "Surgery?"

"You know..." She looked down at her crotch and back up to me.

My eyes widened. "They can do that? I mean, they can get rid of it and make it... what? Does it look right?"

Ginger laughed. It was a small, feminine laugh that, despite myself, seemed out of place to me, coming from such a large woman. "Oh, honey, they can do pretty much anything, these days. Boys can become girls, girls can become boys... it's all a matter of finding the right doctor and having the right amount of money."

I made a mental note to start saving money right away. I had a goal in life, now. A dream that I knew I must fulfill.

A week later, I took on a second job at a convenience store. I worked graveyard shift and was usually quite afraid. Robberies weren't exactly unusual. I would come into work after my days off and find out, sometimes, that we had been robbed over the weekend. Every time it happened, I thanked God and the stars above that I hadn't been there. I was lucky enough that it never did happen to me, but there was always that constant fear, nagging at the back of my neck, making me tense and shaky.

I was eighteen when the bar closed down. The cops had finally raided it for serving minors. I never saw Ginger, after that night. I later heard that she had been found dead in an alley, stabbed repeatedly. It was harder to drag myself out of bed in the mornings, after that. But one day I realized that Ginger had never attained her dream, our dream. I would accomplish it, no matter what. I had to.

Linda made sure to keep the fridge stocked with alcohol. It wasn't so much the alcohol that I needed, really, so much as the people. I needed those who would talk to me and understand me. I was alone again. I began to hate the world again. I cried a lot.

It was three weeks before my nineteenth birthday when I got a nagging cough that wouldn't go away. Linda finally convinced me to see a doctor. I was reluctant, but Linda told me about one she knew. She was understanding, Linda had told me. She worked with a lot of the working girls, stitching up small wounds and not reporting anything to the police. Her office was small and inconspicuous.

She gave me simple antibiotics for the cough. While I was in there, I nervously asked her about estrogen. Linda trusted this doctor, and I felt that I could, too. I told her my story. She nodded in understanding, and did some blood tests. Three days later, I got a call from her. I went to her office for the news. It turned out that my liver was steadily being damaged from the pills I'd been taking for so many years. She asked where I had gotten them, and how high of a dosage they were. She told me my dose was too high and simply wrote me a prescription for a lower dose, no questions asked.

I left the office in shock.

I began to take my pills in a safer manner, and that simple fact made me feel better about myself. Healthier in a way, both mentally and physically. The price was a bit higher, of course, because it was coming from a real pharmacy. I still had two jobs, so I didn't have trouble affording them, but saving money now was a slow process.

Slowly, the need to get the surgery almost faded. I realized that having it was simply something to complete the process of becoming who I was supposed to be. It was something that was going to happen 'somewhere down the road.' I had no idea when. I realized I had to focus on the present.

I was nineteen. Walking home from work in the early light of dawn, I caught site of the flyer stapled to the wooden lamppost. Four rainbow letters stood out against white paper: GLBT. Gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender. I stared at it for a long moment before realizing. Remembering, maybe. Who knows?

Something caught in my throat. Things came together in my mind, like the puzzle that was my life was finally forming a coherent picture. This was me. I was transgender. I pulled the flyer off of the lamppost and shoved it into my purse. When I got home, I took it out, flattened it on the table, smoothing out the creases, and stared at it. It talked about a support group for people like me.

I knew I didn't want to go, however. I was who I was. I didn't need to go spend time with other people like me simply because they were like me. The simple fact that there were others out there in the world who were going through what I was going through was enough comfort. Support? I didn't need support. Maybe if I had to deal with someone harassing me or threatening me because of what I was... maybe then I'd have a reason to need support.

Maybe I was bitter. I'd lived my life on my own for long enough to have independence. I kept the flyer. I tacked it to my bedroom wall. It was a welcome greeting, every day, constantly reminding me of one certain fact: You are not alone.

I saved up a lot of money working two jobs. Eventually, I bought a car. It was a worn-down, rusted out piece of metal that had a tendency to backfire and blow out a plume of black smoke. I loved it. I would drive to work listening to loud music, banging my hand in time on the steering wheel. Ashes would fly around in the car as wind whipped in through the window. After a few weeks of having the car, I got a driver's license. Without question, an inconspicuous "F" was put under the sex category.

I realized that there never would be an end to the constant question: "are you a boy or a girl?" Whether implied or bluntly stated, people wanted to know. People wanted to put others into a category. I got useless car insurance, too. Why did I bother to insure such a crappy car or a crappy life?

Would I care if I died? Would anyone?

I was twenty when Linda died. She simply didn't come home in the morning. I read in the paper that she had been found in an alley, much like Ginger, though she had overdosed. Everyone I knew was dying.

That was a turning point in my life. I knew I had to get out. I got a newspaper and searched for a job. A real job. After two weeks of searching, I landed a nice position in an office as a secretary. I only had to lie about my entire life to get it. According to my resume, I'd graduated high school and been born female.

After a month, I decided to find a place closer to my job. It was also closer to my old neighborhood. I found one in a large apartment complex on the fourth floor. It had a fire escape where I put potted plants and would sit to smoke and stare at the moon. Another month later, I quite smoking. I quit drinking. I'd never really had a problem with drugs, so it wasn't hard to quit those.

I'd been living there for almost six months when I decided to call my parents. I left a message on their machine.

"Mom... dad... it's Duo. I've got a new place nearby. I'm... doing good. I'd like to see you if I could." I tried not to cry. I swore I wouldn't cry, but I could feel the tears coming. I quickly left my phone number and hung up. I never got a call back.

I realized, eventually, that I'd saved up a lot of money. It was then that the search began. I checked the phone book for surgeons in the area. I called their offices, explained my situation, and asked if they did female-to-male surgeries. Each call was a soul-bearing, painful process. Each call was a let-down.

Eventually, I made my way to the library again. I used the internet to search for a doctor. I found one that very day. It was a four-hour drive to the hospital, but I called and set up an appointment for a consultation and, if things went well, the surgery.

I was incredibly amazed that I had enough money to afford it. How had I managed to save that much?

I took a week off from work-vacation time, with pay-and went to the hospital. It was early on a Friday morning. By Friday afternoon, I was being prepped for surgery. It all seemed surreal to me. Was it really happening? Was I really going through with this?

I awoke later that night feeling sick and in pain. I called the nurse for some pain medication. It only made me feel more ill. It wasn't long before I turned onto my side and threw up all over the floor. There was nothing in my stomach, but I somehow managed to vomit up stomach acid. It left a burning feeling in my mouth. I called the nurse, yet again, to show her the mess I'd made.

A few days later, it was time for the bandages to come off. The doctor came in to do the honors. He proudly examined his work. For the first time, I was able to look at my new body. I cried.

My new female parts were swollen and stitched up. I had a dilater and catheter sticking out of my newly made vagina. It was horrific and beautiful at the same time.

I went back to work after a week, still feeling pain when I walked. I felt overjoyed. I wanted to tell everyone, but there was no one I could confide in. I had no friends, no family, and no boyfriend. I realized then just how alone I really was. For the first time, I felt it deep in my heart.