Synopsis: Mark attempts to deal with the woman within. WARNING: This Is A Dark Ride!!!

The Woman Within

by, Darla Raspberry

He sat at the dressing table and stared into the mirror. It had been Helen’s. She told him that he needed it more than she did and gave it to him as part of the divorce proceedings. He stared numbly into the mirror at the sea of mascara that had been unleashed upon his cheeks and wondered how it had all come to this.

He stared down at the small leather case in front of him. It contained a revolver that had been his father’s. The weapon had come to him as part of his inheritance. He carefully opened the case and picked up the gun as he’d done so many times before. It was heavy, cold, and black. Laughter escaped as he realized he’d never fired a weapon before. Would he have the guts to do it this time?

He slowly raised it to his mouth and wrapped his lips around the barrel. The cold steel almost felt comforting in his mouth. Gazing into the mirror with wonder, he almost couldn’t believe that it was himself that he was seeing. Though this wasn’t the first time he’d performed this task, it hadn’t as yet achieved ritual status.

Three years ago he was a relatively happily married man. His downward spiral appeared at a glance to be about his inability to give up his obsession with female attire. The shock was still there. The first time that Helen had come home early and caught him being himself. He could almost taste the bile that had arisen in his throat that day.

The begging, the pleading, for both understanding and forgiveness. Helen was a wonderful woman. She tried her best to accept, understand,, and even help for awhile, but his need was too strong and ran too deep. For a time they went for counseling. He with hopes that she’d learn to accept and she with hopes that he’d leave his compulsion behind.

It broke his heart as he sat there on the therapist’s couch and she cried out to the Doctor that apparently he wanted to be the woman in the relationship. Her tears and confusion gave way to anger as she finally arrived at the conclusion that she hadn’t signed on for this, till death do us part notwithstanding.

He felt so guilty about his needs that he agreed to do anything, to try anything to save what had once been a very loving relationship. And so, everything was bundled up and put out for the Goodwill collection. Gone were his modest collection of female attire. Things that he had collected since childhood and stored in a trunk in the attic of their modest home. A few tears escaped as he gently caressed his earliest possession.

A bra that had belonged to his mother and purloined from the laundry basket in the bathroom of his childhood home years before. He’d only meant to try it on, but when the strap ripped, he knew that he’d have to make the garment disappear and hope that his mother never noticed its absence.

If she knew just where her bra had gone, mom never mentioned it to him. As an only child there would be no place else to deflect the blame. He smiled as he considered the only possible cover story. The washer ate your brassiere, mom. It was his first successful attempt at sewing. Though it was clear that the garment had been mended, he did a respectable job and wore it often. Usually, tucked under a tee shirt and covered with a long sleeved sweatshirt. It just felt right to him somehow.

The therapist actually told him that he was making progress. He smiled good-naturedly at the doctor though his insides were crumbling. It didn’t take long for him to figure out how to play the game. Finally, the therapist pronounced him cured of his demented behavior and Helen accepted him back with loving arms. It felt so good to embrace her warmth again that for a time he began to think that perhaps he was cured.

Slowly the months ticked by. He’d glance longingly on occasion at the very dressing table he was now sitting at and recalled fighting the urges to open one of the many tubes of lipstick neatly arranged in a cabinet on top --- just to see what it would look like. On those occasions, he knew that he wasn’t cured. To rationalize that, he convinced himself that knowing he wasn’t cured and accepting that he never would be would make it easier to fight off the temptation. Nothing in the world was more important to him than Helen and his three year old son, Danny.

When she came home from a shopping trip, he was careful not to go too far overboard with praise at the sight of one of her new outfits. Generally wives appreciated the fact that their husbands noticed and cared. It seemed that the exact opposite was the case here.
Days would go by and his self-loathing grew. The urge to simply touch those soft delicate garments sometimes drove him close to the edge of despair. The sadness grew like a cancer unchecked. He knew that there was no hope, no cure. Another trip to the therapist would simply leave him frustrated, depressed, and no better off in any way.

He’d bury himself in his work. Hours at the real estate office were flexible and there wasn’t any set schedule as long as you produced. Mark forced himself to become the most productive member of the staff. Although he was a very private person, he had this uncanny ability to recognize need in his customers. People came to him because his knack of determining just what it was they were looking for was beyond compare.

There was little joy to be taken from his success in the business world. What joy he did find, he found with Helen. She seemed to be accepting and understanding but he could sense a certain distance, a wall if you will, had been erected protecting herself from his inner woman.

He treated her royally and maintained his posture as the man of the house. To admit any weakness was simply taken as a sign of failure. "I thought I married a man, not a woman," she had said to him more than a few times before the therapy sessions had begun. Mark hated himself for his urges and desires.

At 6’2" and just a little over 200 pounds, there was nothing feminine about his appearance. It was all in his head. It finally got to a point where he thought he’d go mad. On a wintry Sunday afternoon, he came home to find a note from Helen telling him that she’d taken Danny and gone out for the afternoon and would be home sometime around six.

He’d been hoping that they’d be able to spend the afternoon together. Still, it had been a rough week and the thought of taking a nap soon over rode any sense of sadness at her absence. He stripped in the bedroom and slowly made his way to his side of the bed. The dressing table was on the other side of the room,. just opposite Helen’s side of the bed.

It seemed at times that she’d fall out of bed and simply sit at the table for a few minutes attempting to wake up before heading for the shower. As he lay there in bed, thoughts of trying on her latest acquisition assaulted him. "Ruby Red" was the color announced on the bottom of the tube. It was almost the draw of an addiction that soon had him out of bed and sitting at her table with the tube in his hand.

He stared deep into the mirror while removing the cap. Almost as in a trance, he puckered his lips and expertly applied the color. It complimented his tanned complexion perfectly. He smiled and closed his eyes in satisfaction. He slid lip over lip and reveled in the greasy feel of the lipstick. He then curved his lip upward toward his nose to bathe in its fragrance. He kept his eyes closed and just for a few moments, felt a sense of peace.

Moments later Helen walked into the room, Danny in one arm and a large shopping bag in the other. Home early from her trip to the mall. The gasp that came out of her mouth alerted him too late. He looked up at her and saw only loathing and disgust in her eyes. He knew in his heart that it was over.

There’d be no reconciliation this time. Mark felt a huge sense of loss overtake him and a river of tears began flowing down his cheeks. The sight of his weeping only disgusted her further. He’d failed her in every way that mattered. It was all over but for getting the lawyers involved.

There was no sense of relief or release. Just overwhelming sadness, shame, and despair for the loss of the only woman he’d ever loved. The fact that it was far more than love added to the pain. Helen was also his best friend in the world. While his best friend could be accepting to a certain extent, his lover simply couldn’t handle it any longer. She smiled at him sadly, turned around and walked away. Mark never saw her again.

All arrangements were made via the attorneys. Neither one of them made a mad grab for the assets which were on the substantial side. The proposed property settlement arrived in the mail. Helen insisted on leaving him her dressing table. Mark couldn’t be sure whether it was a slap in the face or some perverted form of consolation. He no longer cared about anything.

He remembered how she’d threatened him with exposure if he contested her desire for sole-custody. It was the hardest decision he’d ever made and in the end felt that he’d failed both himself and his son for giving in to her desires. He didn’t blame Helen though. She claimed she had Danny’s best interests in mind and only his best interests. Yes, she knew that he loved his son very much, but… but she didn’t want him to turn into a pervert like his father had. She’d actually suggested things might have been different if their child had been a daughter instead.

She backed up her threats by citing case law. Helen was an attorney, but her personal expertise was in the field of personal injury. When anyone asked her what kind of law she practiced she’d simply smile and say "tort law," and most people let it go at that. . She sent him a printed synopsis of several decisions with the pertinent parts highlighted. It was a battle he couldn’t win.

On the few occasions when he’d been allowed to see Danny, it had always been under the watchful eye of a third party. Nothing official had been done in that area, it was merely a threat hanging over his head. Refuse to go along and you’ll never see your son again.

He began to wonder if that might not be for the best. The visits with Danny had become so painful. The boy, now six, was growing into an amazing young man. It had taken over a year before he’d stopped crying when his grandmother told him it was time to go. Now, he simply accepted it robotically. The distance between father and son was growing.

Mark removed the gun from his mouth with a sense of relief and failure. A sense of foreboding overwhelmed him. Was he simply postponing the inevitable? His makeup completely ruined, he fought hard to gain control over his body and made his way to the shower to scrub himself clean. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t wash away the pain.

Upon returning to the bedroom of his tiny apartment, he’d given Helen the house as part of the settlement agreement, he threw himself on his bed and cried. Every reason he’d had for living had been taken away. Stolen by the woman within. With a renewed sense of urgency he went and selected his favorite dress from the closet.

He put it on and felt a certain peace within himself. Nothing beats a great pair of legs, he almost giggled as he slid the hosiery up each leg which was totally devoid of hair. With a calmness he’d never felt before he began applying his makeup. When his face finally achieved a passable level, he actually smiled at his appearance. Next it was time for the wig. The long, dark red one loaded with curls called to him and he gently slid the cap over his head.

Finally, it was time for the shoes. Although he now owned more than a few pair, there was only one that would fit the bill this afternoon. He gently stepped into the black stiletto heels and a sense of peace washed over him.

He spent more than a few minutes staring into the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. When the urge to cry yet again became too powerful, he turned away with a start. He walked expertly in the three inch heels back to the dressing table and sat down.

Unable to handle looking at himself, he stared down at his hands instead. Moments later he was busily painting his nails a dark red to match his lips. He concentrated with all that he had on his task in an effort to keep from breaking down. He waved his hands about in the air furiously, in an effort to get the polish to dry more quickly, He smiled down at his hands as the polish finally took on that hard glossy shine. It was a very rare occasion indeed when he let himself go and painted his nails. The removal process was simply too nerve wracking and strenuous.

A tentative glimpse into the mirror had him reaching for his jewelry box. The large hoop, clip on earrings were all that was needed to complete the look. He couldn’t keep the sadness at bay. He’d never even be able to pass as a drag queen. The clothes don’t make the woman, he thought and laughed sardonically.

He shook his head violently and considered heading out into the "real world." Screw them all. This is who I am, accept me or not. Minutes passed as he stood there contemplating his actions. Although he’d never been outside as Marcia, he was more than certain as to what the reaction would be. In an odd sort of way, he agreed with those who would pass judgment. There was no room in this world for a person with his needs, wants, and desires.

Picking up the small black leather case he slowly made his way back to bed. He made it as neatly as possible. Hospital corners all around. The beautiful floral bedspread and the lace edged pillows were arranged just so. He carefully climbed atop with all his finery intact. With his head firmly propped up by the pillows he opened the case for the last time…

***

Afterword: suicide is never the answer. There is plenty of help available. A simple google search of "transgender suicide prevention" will yield many avenues worthy of exploration.

I wrote this story because I felt that it needed to be told. Far too many parts of it are auto-biographical (sighs), though, I’d never take that particular way out. If you’ve read this far, I’d just like to say: Thank You…

peace be with you…

always,
darla…