Jennifer or Jerry? Jennifer or Jerry?
By Jerry Leach
Dressing as a woman gave me excitement, sexual pleasure, and atemporary escape from my hated existence as a man.
I could see my reflection in the window pane of the doctor’soffice. Somehow I had managed to bite off my lipstick, due to mynervousness. A moment later, with a fresh application of lipstick anda touch of perfume, I was ready for my appointment.
I gazed out the window and could see the trees turning from greento flaming shades of red. This is also my change of seasons, I toldmyself. At last! The receptionist interrupted my thoughts. “Jennifer,the doctor is ready to see you now.” She led me down the hall to anoffice with a large over-stuffed chair.
Minutes later, I began recounting my story to the psychiatrist.She listened, probed, questioned. “I love your dress,” she commented,telling me that I made a very attractive woman. “I wish I could lookhalf as nice,” she sighed, then paused. “Jennifer, when did you firstbegin cross-dressing?”
I thought back to the age of four when I had contracted polio.Cross-dressing was already a part of my life by then. My “sexualassignment” was somehow messed up in the womb, at least that’s how Ireasoned.
As we talked, I dug into my purse for a Kleenexr tissue. I didn’twant my mascara to run, and I hadn’t planned on crying so much. “I’mmaking a fool of myself, aren’t I?”
The doctor took my hand. “You poor dear. I don’t understand whyyou have gone through all of this torment, but soon you’ll be feelingmuch better.” Then she began writing a prescription. “This medicationmust be taken just as directed,” she said firmly. “You will begin tonotice some physical changes in a few months’ time. Be patient!”
Later, when the pharmacist handed me the bag containing my”dream-come-true” pills, my hands shook with excitement. At last mybody would take on female characteristics!
Taking hormones of the opposite sex, consulting with a sex-changetherapist, all of it seemed so bizarre. I was a married man, thefather of two children, and an active church member. I wondered howmy wife, Charlene, would react to my physical changes. Would it meandivorce? Or could we continue to live together as two women? No, thatwill never work, I thought in disgust.
Since my earliest memories, my closest friends had been female,and they had accepted me as one of their own. There had also been thehaunting realization that having a boy had not been my parents’ firstchoice.
“I wish you were a girl to take over my beauty shop,” my motherwould remark. When as a six-year-old I played dress-up with littlegirls in the neighborhood, my father would say teasingly, “You’re alot better looking as a girl.” His careless remarks left a deepimpression on me. I seldom felt loved or affirmed as a boy by myfather.
My relationship with him deteriorated further when I was a youngteen. I had been sick with the flu, and late one night Dad came intomy bedroom to check on me. He discovered me wearing make-up and anightgown. He yanked me out of bed, beat me up and yelled over andover, “You’re just a d___ homosexual!” I was so angry I wanted tokill him, and yet another side of me desperately wanted his love andaffirmation. My feelings of ambivalence intensified from that day on.(Contrary to what my father thought, I was never sexually attractedto men. In fact I hated men and anything to do with manhood, but Iloved being around women.)
While attending college, I met Charlene and we fell in love. Earlyin our relationship, I told her about my struggles with transvestism.
“You don’t look like a woman,” she said. “I’m surprised you’d havethat type of problem.” I was 5’11”, over 200 pounds, with broadshoulders and a masculine appearance. Both of us naively thought thatmarriage would solve the problem. After all, we were both Christians,so God would somehow take care of it. But even after marriage, mysecret obsession continued. I progressed into transsexualism,convinced that I had been born the wrong sex. “I am really a woman,but I’m trapped in a man’s body.” I began to seriously consider thepossibility of sex-reassignment surgery.
Cross-dressing was my escape from stress and self-hatred. Perhapsa conflict would arise at work, and I’d feel like I had failed again.You’re sure stupid, I’d think. You’ll never amount to anything. Onthe drive home I would notice a woman in a pretty dress, and I’dbegin wondering how her dress would look on me. Soon I’d be headedfor a nearby mall to purchase some women’s clothing, along withmascara, lipstick and perfume. Then I’d rush home or stop by a motel,and go through the process of “becoming” a woman.
Many times, dressed as a woman, I would go out for a walk ordrive, perhaps even going into another mall to do some shopping as”Jennifer Elaine”, my female name. I would feel a rush of excitementwhen clerks would call me “ma’am”, and other female customers wouldaccept me as just another woman.
Once at home or in the motel, my fantasies would peak as Istimulated myself sexually to orgasm. Eventually the whole experiencewould have to end, and I would be forced to resume my hated existenceas a man. Feelings of shame and guilt, frustration and anger wouldoverwhelm me. Often the new clothes would be discarded in a SalvationArmy deposit box as I promised myself I would never againcross-dress.
A few days later I’d do it all over again.
Finally in an attempt to resolve my inner turmoil, I began seeinga clinical psychiatrist in order to obtain female hormones. I dreamedof having transsexual surgery and becoming a woman once and for all.I even forged a phony divorce certificate to hide the fact that I wasstill married.
But during my third visit I tearfully told the doctor how scared Iwas about actually going through with sex reassignment. “I’ve noticeda few physical changes,” I told her, “but I’m so afraid of therejection I’ll face. And I know I’ll lose my family if I go throughwith it. I can’t bear the thought of that!”
She stood up and crossed the room toward me. “Jennifer, I can’tsupply you with more hormones if you have no intention of followingthrough with the procedure.”
The drive home was a nightmare. Raging with anger, I cursed myexistence. I tore at my dress, agonizing over my fate. For the restof my life I would be forced to go through the motions of being aman, always fantasizing about what it would have been like…ifonly…
Back home I stepped into the shower, weeping and crying out to Godfor some relief. I had been a Christian for almost 30 years. I knewthat my secret life was painful not only to me, but to my Lord. As Istood there letting the water wash away my tears, a tiny ray of hopetook hold in my heart. Thoughts of suicide subsided as I began tobelieve that God might provide a way out of my secret agony.
Later that week I made an appointment to see a Christianpsychologist. While talking to him, I could sense the warmth ofChrist’s love and acceptance embracing me. I was determined to find asolution. If I don’t get help, I had vowed inside, I will have noother choice but suicide.
That visit marked the turning point in my life. “We are only assick as our secrets,” the psychologist told me. I knew his words weretrue. The four decades of living a secret double life were coming toan end.
As I progressed in counseling, I came to see that I had believedmany lies. God had not made a “mistake” in creating me with a malebody. He had planned every aspect of my being from the beginning. “Myframe was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place;when I was woven together…your eyes saw my unformed body” (Psa.139:15-16).
God had planned for me to become a man before I had ever beencreated! There was not a woman inside my body, longing to beexpressed. I had become addicted to certain forms of behavior inorder to nurture that fantasy. I had chosen to abandon my manhood,one of God’s good gifts to me.
Now I had to learn how to control my thinking and, with God’shelp, “take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ” (2Cor. 10:5). Satan had created a stronghold of deception in my mind.With God’s spiritual weapons, I had to take deliberate steps to teardown the lies and replace them with His truth.
I had to train my mind to meditate on things that were pure,admirable and true (see Phil. 4:8). I had to embrace the reality thatGod had made me an intelligent man. I was not dumb or stupid. I couldachieve His call on my life. Through Him my weaknesses could beturned into strength (see 2 Cor. 12:9).
None of these changes came easily. Day by day, week by week, I hadto submit to God and fight my way forward into new areas of healing.I began the painful process of exposing my secret to trustworthyleaders of my church. I fully expected their rejection; instead, theyreached out to me with overwhelming love, acceptance and compassion.This simple act of exposing myself defused much of the inner anguishand mental confusion.
I began implementing the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous,slightly adapting the principles to fit my situation. I began towrite in a personal journal, opening up my “dark side” to myself andmy counselor. He was never shocked by my confessions, but rathershowed me how my thoughts were irrational and self-destructive. Thenhe helped me replace the old, sinful thoughts with new, constructivebeliefs.
God also used other Christians to encourage me. For example, mywife and I were part of a prayer group. One night a woman I didn’tknow began to pray over me with specific insights that could onlyhave come from God. “The enemy has assigned a task force to hammeraway continually,” she said, “bringing self-condemnation to you inorder to spiritually castrate you and prevent you from beingfruitful. But God is giving you the strength and courage to stand upin your manhood in Him.”
Discarding my secret identity was painful. At first I didn’t knowif I could emotionally survive without cross-dressing. Eventually Icould see that abandoning that behavior was best for my life. Daily Icontinued to yield my life’s choices to Christ in the pursuit ofpersonal wholeness.
Today, almost ten years later, I gaze out the window of my officeand see the season once again changing its color. The trees are againbrilliant red. My own reflection in the window pane is different now.It’s no longer a stylish woman, waiting for the receptionist’sannouncement. Now I see the man God created me to be. No longer mustI be seen as Jennifer. My real identity is contained in the name Iproudly answer to: Jerry.
Jerry Leach is Director of CrossOver, a ministry to thesexually broken. PO Box 23744, Lexington, Kentucky 40523;606/277-4941. Copyright c 1993 by Jerry Leach.
Distributed by Love In Action, PO Box 753307, Memphis, TN 38175-3307;901/542-0250