THAT'S SUCCESS!
                          *author unknown* 

I am 59 years old, pre-operative  male-to-female transsexual. What makes me transsexual, is because I was born in a male body, with a female soul. I have always done things the way girls do things, my whole life, and I always will. My journey into womanhood physically, was interrupted by one thing or another. My mother would always make sure, that the clothes my friends gave to me, were thrown out, but I would always be able to get more.

When I was 12½ years old, my mother put me in a residential treatment center, called the Wisconsin Child Center, in Sparta, Wisconsin, because of my wanting to have my body to be female, and wearing my friends dresses and other outfits. I was there until shortly after my 15th birthday, when Sparta transferred me to the Winnebago State Hospital (Now the Winnebago Mental Health Institute), because at Saprta, they felt if you wanted to be a girl, you were mentally ill. The year is 1963. I was finally released on my 18th birthday, in 1966 and since then, there was one thing or another, where I couldn't get my SRS (sex reassignment surgery) even started.

Either the doctors all said no, or they said get out of my office. Now, finally, I am on the road to my final goal, which should have been when I was 18, and started when I was 10. My poems and my stories reflect my life, both in fiction and non-fiction stories, as well as poetry. To have my body altered to female, is a need, not a want, because I am female and always have been.

My Major Influences

My major influences have been Christine Jorgensen, my mother and my sisters (without whom many of my works could not be written), and Mr. Harold Knuth, my 5th & 6th grade teacher.

A Little Medical Information

In November of 2001, I suffered a major, non-crippling stroke that has left me very weak on my right side. In May, 2004, I had a heart attack, and three mini strokes (TVAs). I am very lucky that by the grace of God the Father, I am alive today. Maybe that is because I need to finish my journey into womanhood, before being taken home to rest. That is why I say, at the end of each review, "May the Lord Jesus bless you, and those whom you love, and be with you always, and at your side constantly. With much love in my heart, joy to the world, peace on earth, & ((((((((((MANY WONDERFUL SISTERLY HUGGGGSSSS)))))))))), your little sister,  Barbie.

Hey everyone...I'm back. I just got out of the hospital 01-04-06, after being there for 10 days...9½ days actually.

On Christmas day, 2005, I suffered 4 episodes of VT (ventricular tachycardia), which simply put, my heart was beating faster than it should have been. My heartrate was 212 beats per minute. When we called for the ambulance, and explained what the problem was, they sent a private ambulance first. The paramedics on the first ambulance did not like what they saw in my blod pressure, my respiration or my temperature, so they called the city to send the med unit.

When the fire truck got to the house, a paramedic took out his poratable ECG machine, and did a 4 lead test. What the readout showed, was enough to get me to the hospital, with the sirens blaring. When I got to the hospital, they got it down to 208, 206 and 202 bpm, and then finally at midnight got my heartrate down to an acceptable "safe" level.

When I arrived at the ER at Aurora-Sinai Hospital here in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a team of doctors were already there. They waited while I was gotten into a hospital gown, and stabalized. Then they began to do their "thing" with very rapid speed. One hour later I was admitted as an inpatient, and taken to  ICU, and after two days in ICU, they took me to the cardiac floor, where I stayed until about 2:30 pm US Central time on 01-04-06. If I go by the time, I was there 9½ days.

On Thursday, December 29, 2005, they operated on me, in the hopes that they could shock the bad arrhythmias out in a procedure called an ablasion. During this ablasion procedure, my heartrate started becoming faster and faster, to where the doctor had to revive me. This happened 2 or 3 more times, and each time I had to be revived, because I was literally dead. But because of the marvels of modern medicine I can sit here now, and tell it to you. That is why I never leave home without telling my children, all grown now, that I love them, or make sure that I end a phone call to them with the same I love you in it. By the wonderful grace of God, I am alive today and I really believe that He is not finished with me yet, or He would have let me go.

To make sure that if my heartrate ever became fast like that again, the doctor who operated, placed an ICD (Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator) in my upper left chest, with lead wires placed into the right ventricle of my heart.

The chest pains I have been complaining about since my Heart attack in May, 2004, are gone, and what a relief that is. It was very uncomfortable having to live with that pain, for as long as I did. It is only too bad, that they had to wait for something like this to happen, before they would even listen to me. The ICD that is in me, also has a pacemaker in it too. So whether my heart beats slow or fast, at least it will be taken care of. Of course tho, this device does not prevent me from having another heart attack.

Thnx a whole bunch everyone, for being here for me, and being my friends, sisters and brothers.

May the Lord Jesus bless you, and those whom you love, and be with you always, and at your side constantly. With much love in my heart, maybe too stubborn for my own good, joy to the world, peace on earth, & ((((((((((MANY WONDERFUL SISTERLY HUGGGGSSSS)))))))))), your little sister, Barbie.

"If I have to be this girl in me, Then I have the right to be."

MY CIRCUMSTANCES:

My circumstances, I suppose can be stated very celarly, but I will try and detail a little bit more here.

I was born a male on August 14, 1948, in Des Moines, Iowa at Still Osteopathic Hospital. Before my delivery into the world, my mother, while she was pregnant with me, was given doses of a synthetic female hormone called diethylstilbestrol (DES). This hormone it was believed at the time, was to prevent miscarriages, and still births. This hormone was created in 1938. While I was in the womb, this female hormone invaded not only my body, but my mind as well as the brain was just developing.

By the time I was 4 years old, I was already thinking like a girl, and cried everytime I couldn't go outside and play jump rope, jacks, or even hopscotch with the girls across the street. When my mother would ask me what was wrong I would tell her that I wanted to go across the street and play with the girls. She looked out of the window and saw they were jumping rope. She looked back at me and said, "but honey those are girls, playing a girl's game. You're a boy and boys don't play jump rope."

The year was 1952, the year Christine Jorgensen became famous by being the first publicized transsexual. Down the street a little ways from our house was my baby sitter. When my mother would drop me off, she would take me in the play room, and tell me I could play with any of the toys. One day she saw me playing with my favorite doll, and asked if she could play too. My baby sitter never told me it was wrong for a male bodied child to play with a doll.

One day at her house, I saw her daughter's dress hanging up on the hook on the door leading to her daughter's bedroom. She was going to go to a birthday party that evening after my mother had picked me up. But before then, she saw me looking at something, and came into the living room to see what I was looking at. When she couldn't see anything that I might be interested in, she said "OH! Are you looking at this dress honey?" I nodded my head yes. When she asked me why, I told her "because I want one just like that." She never told me that a male bodied child didn't wear dresses, or that dresses were only for girls. She went into her daughter's bedroom, and brought out a nice looking dress, and asked me if I wanted to wear that one instead. I nodded my head yes.

 She took off my shirt, and after getting a slip, and under pants, she put the slip and dress over my head, and then told me to go in the bathroom, and take off my pants, and under shorts, and put her daughter's under pants on. I did just that. When I came out of the bathroom, looking every inch a girl with short hair, she snapped a picture, I smiled. We never told my mother, and I don't think she ever knew. My baby sitter never abused me in any way. She just thought that if  I wanted to dress like a girl, I had that right.

Then, a couple of months later I was being taken on a train ride to upper Michigan to visit with my baby sitters that sat for me in Des Moines. They were a nice family, Italian by descent. Their last name was Rostello. There was John, Sr. and Dorothy, whom we affectionately called Jack and Dolly. They had two grown children in their mid twenties, John, Jr., and Caroline. John, Jr., we called Johnny. Caroline worked at the drugstore, and everytime I would go in there, she would buy me something, like a banana split (small), a small cherry coke, or something to occupy my time.

This was in Calumet, Michigan on the Keweenaw peninsula, in Keweenaw county. I had many a nice summer up there, and sometimes I stayed for school, most of the time I stayed for school. But while I was there, the girls and I would play the games I wasn't allowed to play when I was with my mother. In Calumet, if you played nice, you were allowed to play. After I went back and forth from Milwaukee, Wisconsin to Calumet, Michigan, for about  six years, I was told by my mother I couldn't go up to Jack and Dolly's anymore, that I had to stay home with her.

My first sister, Angela was born on March 11, 1959, when I was 10 years, 7 months old. I was the proudest big sister in the whole wide world at that time. But I wasn't allowed to look after my baby sister, except for one time, when my mother had no real choice. Everything went fine, and the first thing my mother did when she got in from work, was march right into the nursery and look to make sure everything was all right. With a glare at me, she took off her coat and sat down and lit a cigarette and poured herself a cup of coffee. then she said in an attitudy way, "well, I suppose you did all right."

Then my mother started finding the clothes that my girl friends were giving to me, that they didn't wear any more. When she found them, she threw them away. When I became 11, my mother had me see a child psychiatrist, named Dr. Johnston, at what was then Milwaukee county Hospital (Froedert Hospital today). I am not sure if it was the third or fourth visit to this doctor, but the conversation was like this verbatim; "When are we going to talk about your problem?" "What problem is that, doctor?" "Oh you know, your dressing like a girl." "I don't consider that a problem." "Get out of my office right now, I never want to see you again!" He yelled that at the top of his lungs, so loud my mother heard him in the waiting room. I ran out of his office crying. When my mother came out into the hallway by the elevator, she saw me sitting with my legs under me, and crying. She helped me get up (she was always stronger than me), and asked me what happened in there. So I told her, and she said, "well, don't worry, I'll take care of it. He doesn't want to see you again anyway." I thought that everything was going to be okay, so I didn't give it another thought. A year later I found myself on my way to a state institution in Monroe County, Wisconsin, called the Wisconsin Child Center, located in the town of Sparta. I was 12½ years old.

I would be there until just shortly after school started in the fall of 1963, after I had turned 15. But while I was there, I would get to know one girl, who would sneak me clothes to wear, when those clothes were found, they were given back to her, but she was never disciplined and neither was I, or so I thought. I wore various different female items to bed; like full slips, nightgowns, teddys. I would put them on under my covers, and go to sleep. One morning, not too long after my 15th birthday, I was awakened by the cottage head, and I heard him excalim in a very loud voice; "What the hell is this, are you some kind of a faggot or something?" I jumped out of that bed, still wearing the teddy from the night before, and let him have a tongue lashing I bet he never forgot. "Listen here Harely Kunes, just because you are bigger and stronger doesn't mean you can go around picking on girls for your enjoyment and belittling us for everyone else to hear." My voice was as loud as it would get at that point which was in the alto range, and somewhat squeaky at times.

About a week later I was being driven to Winnebago State Hospital, just north of Oshkosh, Wisconsin. I would be there until I was 18 years old. And since I had a male body, I was forced to live with the boys (YUCK!). All they could do was call me nasty names, and use every excuse they could to beat me up in places where the staff couldn't see them, plus sexually abuse me in anyway they thought possible. And I didn't dare tell on them, or I would have gotten it worse. These are my circumstances that have interrupted my transition which should have started with hormones and anti-androgens when I was 10, so I could develop like a natural girl. I was crushed when I was sent to Sparta, though, because my mother told me, only bad people get taken away and put in institutions. That was another lie she told me.

 My heart sank, the day I knew I was being taken from my mother, at her request. I cried all the way to Sparta, and the two deputy sheriff's that came to the house to get me, for the trip, couldn't figure out what was wrong. We stopped at a small restaurant in the middle of the Wisconsin Dells, just off of Highway 16, because the interstate wasn't completed yet.

When they asked me if I wanted somthing to eat, I said "no thank you, I'm not hungry." They got a to go something or other, just in case, but when I got to Sparta, and was taken to the cottage after the rules were explained to me, I was still crying. The boys in the cottage thought that was funny, and started right away with their name calling. I was just so crushed in my spirit, knowing that I had been so abandoned.

But, about two weeks before my final childrens court hearing on my 18th birthday, Dr. Darold A. Terffert, MD, PHD, the superintendent of the Winnebago state hospital, told me right out that he was going with me to court, and that I should have everything packed, because I was not coming back. He drove me down in his personal car here to Milwaukee, for that hearing. The social worker who signed the original order, stating as a cause "in the best interest of the child," was there, my mother was there, the assistant DA for the childrens court was there, and of course me and Dr. Treffert.

When the judge was reading from the record, and he said, "...and it appears the mother has signed away her parental rights..." I shot my mother such a look and started crying again, and just said through my tears, "why mom, why? What did I do so bad that you hate me so much? What?" The judge was going to recess until I had calmed down, but I told him we could continue. When he asked the social worker why she had signed the original order, she said that she believed, on "what the mother had said, that it would be in the best interest of the child." Then, he asked Dr. Treffert, "What is the institution's position on this matter?" Dr. Treffert said right away, "We're ready to discharge your honor, we don't even know why this young person was in in our institution." But that is not the truth, actually, because Dr. Treffert did know.

 But, he also told me when I saw him the first day I got to the hospital and l would see him on liberty on the grounds, that I did not belong there, that I belonged with my mother. He was my ace in the hole. And I will never forget him for the wonderful thing he did for me. Then the judge discharged me from custody, and said I was free to go. When my mother and I got outside the door of the childrens court center, she looked at me and said with an attitude, "well, you might as well come home with me, you can't live on the streets."

My devotion to my mother was always that I loved her, and if she needed me for anything, and I could help, I was right there. I showed her the meaning of parent/child love. I never rubbed it in her face, and I never asked for a dollar back, except one time, when I was really short. But other than that, no. I love my sisters, with all of my heart, and if I see anyone trying to harm them, I will get even the best way I know how, against the other person. My sisters may not love me, but I love them. But the final thing is, that my mother, even though I would do things for her, because I loved her, she never loved me. And that hurts so bad, even today, because "In the best interest of the child", is a rotten excuse to deprive a 12 year old child of her right to grow up, like everyone else, especially when that 12 year old child had never done anything wrong.

I guess I am ready now to share with everyone, what I couldn't share before. For me to be free of the bonds that still hold me tight, I have to share this or forever hide in my corner unseen.

When I was in the Wisconsin Child Center in Sparta, Wisconsin, I was housed with boys, simply because I had a male body. When they found out that I acted like a girl, and was weak like a girl, I was to be beaten, forced to take my clothes off, and lie down and be brutally raped. When the rape was finished, I was threatened that if I told anyone, I would get it worse, and then I would get kicked in my side, while I was still on the cold basement floor. The staff never kept a close eye on us, because we were supposed to be in home setting, with house parents, and treated as children. Yeah, Right!!!!! NOT!!!!! I was brutally beaten one day, and as I went back in the cottage, I was asked who beat me up, by the house mother on the afternoon shift. I told her nobody, but my eyes darted to a boy that was at the pool table in the living room. He was watched, and when he tried to beat me up again, outside behind the cottage, he was caught.

Thes beatings and sexual assaults would go on for the time I was at Sparta. Then, just shortly after I was 15, I was transferred to the Winnebago State Hospital, because in 1963, if you dressed as a girl, acted as a girl and wanted to be a girl, you were considered mentally ill. Winnebago today is known as the Winnebago Mental Health Institute, and is located 3 miles north of Oshkosh, Wisconsin. uh huh, you guessed it. Because some of the boys at Winnebago were from Sparta, I got sexually abused and beaten some more. My mother didn't care no matter how many letters Dr. Darold A. Treffert, M.D. PhD sent her telling her I did not belong there. When I was 18, I still did not have the strength to fight a boy as a boy would fight. I'm a girl, and I should act like a girl no matter what happens or happened to me. This is something I couldn't share until just now. This is something I hid in my shame file, hopefully never to come out. But I just had to share this, or I would never be able to be totally free. This is the ultimate disgrace that can happen to any woman no matter what body she has. It should never happen to anyone, but it does. I hope that this will totally set me free from the demons I have fought for many years on this alone. The other demons have fled, now I hope these will flee too. Thnx for letting me share this horrible part of my past.

On March 23, 2007, I married a very nice, understanding, and accepting young woman from Australia who is a lesbian. I do hope that I haven't let my friends here down by choosing her lifestyle after my surgeries are completed, and I do hope that my friends here will understand that this not only makes me safe in her arms, but gives me confidence to just be myself without any fear of rejection, or abuse.

My Profund Thanks

My thanks goes to another author here, who origianlly invited me to come to AD. My special Thanks goes to Robert Fullerton, for inviting me to become a member of AD. His invitation has let me make many friends here, who without more, have given me advice, words of encouragement, and reviews of my work. Thank You Bob.