When I tried to put Gina away


I wrote the following a year ago. I didn’t post it, because it felt like too much—too personal, despite how I have posted very personal stuff.

I am posting it now because many share my experiences. How we battle ourselves. How we strive to do the right thing for the sake of others. How deeply we hurt. How we often go about our lives with no one the wiser regarding the misery in our hearts.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I spent my entire life trying to put Gina away.

Typical of those like me, I consoled myself as best I could with a small box of women’s things. Every so many months, the guilt would wrack me: “You’re a man. You’re a father. You have to stop this.” I would then put my box of things into the wood stove or tuck it into the bottom of the outdoor garbage can.


It’s calling “purging.” I’ve read innumerable accounts from others like me who spent their lives doing exactly as I did.

Though I often could go for weeks without dressing, within days of disposing of my things I felt the loss. It took me until I was in my early thirties to notice the pattern, that in those days right after purging I always grew moody. Gloomy. Surly. A vital part of me was once again gone and unaccessible. I found myself longing to get her back.

And planning how I would.

And I would. With no Internet in those days, I had to drive out of town so that I could shop where no one knew me. I amazed myself by going into shoes stores, right to the section with the largest women’s shoes, and making my purchases. Dresses and other things seemed a bit easier; I could always imply that I was buying them for my wife. At the wig store, I simply walked up to the wall of hair, found my choice, and took it to the counter as casually as if I were buying some tool for making repairs at home.

When I got to my car, I would collapse in relief, and then rejoice all the way home.

Until the guilt got to me again, and I found myself burning the box.

Purchase. Prize. Purge.

Over and over and over.

All of my adult life.

I tried so hard to be Greg. A man. And everything that goes with it.

In 2013, when my gender dysphoria crushed me and I could only be consoled by the thought of transitioning, I still tried to be a man. When in the spring of the year I undertook therapy, I told my counselor that there was no way I could transition, that I needed him to teach me how to cope with myself.

But I also told him that if I had to completely get rid of Gina, it would be that I was murdering her. When I told him that, I cried. Hard.

Still, I tried to put her away. I had reached the end of my trying-to-cope rope, a man who played a woman on the side.

I was in a constant two-person struggle. Greg was trying to do away with Gina. Gina fought back, determined to get rid of Greg. They became bitter adversaries. For several months, I had to be my own referee—The Objective G, I called myself—trying to get Greg and Gina to reason with each other.

So exasperated was I that I came to say, “No one can live this way. I can’t be two people. I don’t care who I am, just let me be one person.”

Since it was for me an impossible notion that I might ever transition, I was suicidal.  My daily chant was, “You hate being a man.  You can’t be a woman.  Just kill yourself.”

Through these months, I came to recognize and finally admit to Julie and to my therapist, “When I’m Greg, I always want to be Gina, but when I’m Gina I never want to be Greg.”

That was a hard one for me to reckon with. I tested it, for months. I found it to be true, one hundred percent of the time. There never was a time when I allowed myself to be Gina that I wanted Greg to return. When I was Greg, I always wanted to be Gina.  Every time.

Still, I tried to be Greg.

Early in 2014, a year after I crashed, after I had announced that I would be retiring from the ministry, I made one last all-out effort to remain male AND remain in the parish. I was about to take a month’s sick leave. I was finding that I could no longer hold on the way I had been. Here’s how bad it got: I told Julie the Sunday was going to arrive when I would have to send her over to the church to inform the elders that I was unable to leave my bed.

I needed to get away for awhile and try to regroup.

I made myself a promise: I would put away all of my women’s things before I went away for the month. I had to do that, so that I would not run into them in the bedroom and have easy access at caving in. I needed them out of the bedroom for when I returned.

It was a Sunday afternoon. I went upstairs to our bedroom. In two closets and a cedar chest were all of my things. I surveyed it all, then I went to the basement to retrieve four storage containers.


I began the process. I removed wigs and shoes and dresses and everything a woman might own. Tears welled in my eyes.

Within moments, I sensed that I was experiencing what the husband does in finally putting away his deceased wife’s things. Thinking it’s time to move on. Needing to remove the constant sight of her for the pain it caused. Finally trying to begin again.

And finding it impossible.

Feeling like he’s killing his wife by putting away her things, though she’s been gone for months.

When I had in hand my favorite blue dress, I caressed it to my face.

I bawled.

The pain was intense times ten. Not only was Gina dying, Greg was the one killing her.

I finished the task. Four large tubs now filled with my things, safely stacked in the basement’s back room. Two days later, I left town.

The first week of my sick leave, I thought I might have a fighting chance. I dug into God’s Word and prayer. I played Dad and Papa to my host family. I thought positively about my future.

The second week, I cracked. I tried to get back the feeling of the first week. I wrote about what I was experiencing. I had my therapist session via the Internet.

The third week, I broke. I wrote an essay about the process of going insane. Here are the first two paragraphs:

Going insane is a long, slow, gradual process. After nearly fifty-seven years of life, I believe that I am almost there. I am on the brink of insanity.

I cannot control my mind. I know what I need to do, who I need to be, how I need to order my life, but I can’t do it. Because I can’t do it, I am being torn in half. The more I tear, the less of me there is left to tear. I’m almost torn all the way through.

Since January 2013, I vowed to myself that I would do everything conceivable to remain a man. I needed to do this for myself. Even more, I needed to do it for my family and church and friends, to be able to answer every “Did you try this?” and “Did you try that?” with an honest “Yes, I did.”

I put tremendous pressure on myself. Not only was I battling gender dysphoria, I was trying to deal with the rest of the world. You’ve heard of walking pneumonia? In those days, I thought of myself as having a walking nervous breakdown. My mind was never at rest. I was in constant turmoil.

After four weeks, I returned from my sick leave. I felt like I had gained nothing for my effort. Upon arriving home, I immediately went to the basement and put everything right back where it had been.

Later in 2014, after I had retired and we moved to Indy, I would do the same thing—pack it all away, doing so in tears and grieving—only retrieving some things when I finally had to tell Julie, “If I don’t go get some things to wear I am going to fall to the floor and never be able to get back up.”

My last gasp effort, last spring [April, 2015], when I went public with my situation, I did not remove the things to the tubs and the basement. I left them in place. I simply acted as if I had removed them. I could not bear, once again, to consider myself dead.

A person can only die so many times.

Sitting at my computer, I look to my right. There is my open closet door. My women’s clothes, waiting for me to choose my next outfit. I cannot imagine ever again trying to put Gina away.

And yet I continue to press myself, “If I could only . . .”

Last September, I wore the blue dress—the one I couldn’t bear to pack away—in public for the first time. I felt pretty and wonderful!

9 thoughts on “When I tried to put Gina away

  1. reading thru this, my heart gets so heavy. i can’t even imagine how it would go if i were dealing with anything like this. i am so happy you had support and help and that you are on the other side of it all. and i know each day there are always things to work thru, deal with. but that is just being human.

    i used to smoke. i loved smoking. yep i know totally gross habit, none the less, there was nothing like a cigarette with the car windows down listening to steve miller band driving to work. but i knew i had to stop. i would wake up in the morning and feel like i was peeling my chest off the sheets. so i would buy a pack, smoke a few and then shove the pack to the bottom of the garbage can. i did this a lot. i find it so interesting how we take something we love and shove it to the bottom. it is that part of shame i think. so when i read how you would do that with your clothes, something you loved and pushed them into the stove or trash. i really felt that upset for you.


  2. part two.
    my cousin gets married next weekend. there is a lot of family “feelings” around this. but i am going and i am going to sit there and remember how he had to work thru the shame society put on him and how he is such a great human. so kind, supportive and full of worth and knowledge. even when others say he isn’t deserving, because he isn’t like the others. yep. i will dance, and smile and celebrate all of our differences and the roads we each take in this life.

    gina joy. have an amazing weekend.


  3. Happy Friday, dear Kelly!

    What a lovely way to express your commiseration. Thank you. I’m glad you got over smoking, but I hope you didn’t get over Steve Miller. I love singing to Steve Miller Band songs.

    I had four trans friends write to me, saying that what I wrote felt exactly how their lives have gone. Our stories are always unique to us, but they sure do share so many similarities.

    Thankfully, the only time any clothes now go into the trash is if I find I would never wear them and would not curse a charitable organization by placing them into their receiving bin.


  4. I posted just as the email came in with your part two.

    “Because he isn’t like others.” My heart breaks reading this. What a world, where people are so ……… to others.

    Oh, to dance! I want to go to a wedding reception and dance! And, finally, dance as Gina! Dance away, dear Kelly!


  5. I met you several years ago while calling on someone I was having Bible discussions with. Since then I read about your struggle and want you to know that while I absolutely do not agree with your decision I keep going back to your childhood. If only you had received help at that time. For example, if you had read Deuteronomy 22:5 you would have learned what God’s view is of a man wearing women’s clothing.
    That knowledge of God’s viewpoint would not have erased your life-long struggle but it could have helped, could have been the specific verse you could take to him in prayer. There are many other scriptures that you could have read and meditated on that could have helped. For example, Matthew 19:4, the words of Jesus Christ quoting from Genesis that God created us male and female. Praying to God about this very serious matter would have his blessing. One last scripture: 1 Corinthians 6:9-11. Several types of serious types of conduct are listed, and we are told not to be misled. We can overcome these tendencies with the help of God’s Holy Spirit.
    Thank you for taking the time to read this comment and I hope you will prayerfully look up the verses mentioned.


    1. Hi, Suzanne~

      Thank you for writing and for your concerns. I sure wish I could recall when we met!

      I certainly know the Scriptures you cited. I know them well and completely agree with them. That you brought up things you did makes me wonder if you read more than this one post on my blog. I have addressed your thoughts numerous times, so I will not go over that ground here. I encourage you to scan the titles in my blog which would indicate their applying to your concerns. If you have more to write and ask, I hope you do.

      The Lord be with you.


  6. We met in the fall of 2007 as the Port Hope pastor was filling in as Harbor Beach was between pastors I could sense though my own life troubles that you were where hurting right down to your soul. I want you to know how much you where Truly appreciated and that as a family we will always remember you knew the difference between a butcher and a meat cutter I wanted to thank you in person and maybe that day will come. It has been awhile sense I had seen any of your writing I sincerely hope all is well please include me in your mailings


    1. Hi, Anne~

      Thank you for this. I sure wish I knew exactly who are, so that I could place a face with your note.

      The folks at Zion, Harbor Beach, treated me wonderfully. I loved my time serving them. I really appreciate your comment, that I knew the difference between a butcher and a meat cutter!

      If we ever get to meet in person, that would be dandy.



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