A Paean to Dreams
We all have dreams. This is a site about dreams. Many of us come here to have our dreams when they are unattainable. This is a short paean to dreams.
A dream is a precious thing. It is not something that should be taken lightly. Once lost, many times you can’t get it back.
I have dreams. You have dreams. Think for a moment about the dreams you have had in the past. All those times when you were little and said “I want to be a Firefighter” or “I want to be just like Mommy” or something similar.
How many of those dreams came through for you?
But childhood dreams are one thing, they are created and vanish like nothing. They have the substance of soap bubbles and about the same lifespan.
Adult dreams, however, are different.
Oh, they don’t CALL them dreams. They call them “Goals” or “Life Plans” or “Five Year Path” or some such nonsense. See, a Dream for an adult is a bad thing, it’s something that reality kills quickly, thoroughly and completely.
Adulthood seems to take great joy in seeking out and destroying things labeled as a “dream”.
What’s so terrible about it is that it seems that you don’t even notice the “Dream Genocide” going on.
At ten, a dream comes and goes. But at 13 you are expected to start planning on what to do with your life. “Grow up and be mature” they tell you. And at this age, when you should be digging up worms and playing with dolls, you are expected to make choices for your life which will affect the next 60 years.
But even then, those dreams you start with, they don’t hurt that much to lose them. When life turns in the blink of an eye as it always does, you don’t notice that dream’s death. It just goes “pop” like some sort of fairy bubble, ephemeral and full of nothing.
Never mind that you have spent the last 8 years in pursuit of that dream. That you have taken classes, stayed up late, spent money and literally the sweat of your brow to attain it, it just goes Pfffffffftttt like a fast spinning, backwards moving balloon that was only half inflated.
And most people don’t acknowledge that dream’s death or even take the time to notice it.
When did Dream Mass Murder become commonplace? Why does society take great joy in branding a Dream and then hunting it down?
They don’t you might say. But I say they do. “Grow up”, “face facts”, “Get Real”, “be logical” and many other words like it are used to slowly kill the dream with the death of 10,000 pin pricks.
And gods above it hurts when they die. If you notice.
You may bet the impression from this item that I watched a dream die. And I did.
All my life I have been different. As different as many of you reading this. I have felt an alien in my own body. The plumbing was mine, and I wasn’t allowed to be me. I was forced into masculine pursuits and told that the suit and briefcase I was issued was made just for me, and that I would grow into it.
For a long time I believed it. I bought the whole thing of “be a man” and “take care of the women and provide for them” because I had a cock. And I did, and I enjoyed it. But I loved babies. And babies loved me. I enjoyed staying at home and raising my daughter, and I loved it when she came running to ME when she hurt herself.
About two years ago, I decided that I would do what I could to be the woman I knew I could be. I bought clothes, wig (singular), makeup, shoes, and I relearned all the girlly skills I had known but forgotten while I was a “man”. I seriously started thinking about how I could work myself into being a woman full time.
I talked to my spouse, my child. I came clean with all the dreams I had and the goals I had hoped for. I told them the desires and the needs. Not the sexual parts, that was not even a factor, but all the day to day alienness of my own body.
My wife knew. She had known since the beginning. My daughter didn’t know, even though she had seen me in drag.
I started going to a Psychologist and a Therapist to make sure that this was not just a passing fancy. While I wasn’t ready to move on to the next stage, namely hormones, I knew this was something I needed in my life.
I had, after all, known about this since I was 4 or 5.
So what prompted this article?
Tonight, I gave that up.
Over the last several months, I have watched my wife mourn my loss. I haven’t gone anyplace. But the husband she married would most assuredly die when Joy came to be. Ironic that a name filled with happiness caused so much pain.
I have seen her get ever so slightly more and more distant from the husband she loves and get a bit more and more melancholy when Joy is around. Oh, it’s not obvious, it’s really subtle in fact. But it is still there and she is withdrawing from me/us.
I’ve noticed my daughter getting spooked when she thinks of me with breasts. She helps with the laundry and she won’t fold my bras even though I’m folding her bras and panties.
I’ve given them time, and I know that if I went through with the whole ballgame, namely SRS, which is something I had dreamed about, that they would adjust and love me all the same. But I noticed how much pain I was causing them now, and I realized how much pain I would cause them in the future.
I thought about it a long time. Here I am at 40, well past middle age. I could expect another 40 years if I’m really lucky, but the last 30 or so wouldn’t be that fun. Increasing medical problems, canes, walkers, possibly wheelchairs, mind going, body going, face going and so on. I would look forward to being a Blue-Haired lady who I used to scream at while delivering pizzas. Mumus and mules don’t look good on me (if they look good on anyone at all).
So I killed my own dream.
Oh, I’ll still dress up. I’ll keep my “Fuck me” pumps. But all the things I want to do I waited too long for. Too old to have children, even if I could get pregnant, too old to go clubbing, too old to make all the boys step on their tongues. I couldn’t do cheerleading now if my life depended on it. All of the things I want from a sex change I lost years ago and never even noticed.
Since I lost my wants and want to’s, and since I was actively hurting my wife and daughter, I’ve decided not to do it. I can’t put them through it, impoverish our family and so on to sit in a rocker when I’m 59 and not get what I want out of the deal.
I’ll live. I’ll dream through stories. I’ll keep living.
But those dreams, the ones that are part of your soul, not just your goal in life, THOSE dreams dying really REALLY fucking hurt. You feel a loss of self and while it may be better, it won’t ever heal.
I just had to get this down somehow and a blog post didn’t seem appropriate.
Mini-Biography: Joy is a transvestite who has been using her stories as a form of therapy. At this point she has no desire to undergo the full transition, but that might change some day. Read more about her story at My Story on this site. 
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