(7) Stealth

And that's when I wake up.  Heart-racing.

Today in a salon with a Dead Sea mud-pack on my face.  

The same dream again.

I must have dozed off. Possibly due to the sound of the blue whale honking in the background.

Pampering is a wonderful thing.

I definitely didn't do enough of it in my old life.

For five years I kept up that subterfuge. Whizzing back and forth from one body to another.

Wiping away the make-up on the way home was tough. 

Some things were really hard. 

Dressing as a man. Hideous.

Acting blokey. Stressful.

Pretending I didn't want to watch Strictly Come Dancing on a Saturday night. Virtually impossible.

Thank God I don't have to do that any more. 

There's a term for the sort of life I have been leading.

Stealth.

Which makes it sound as if I wear a balaclava.

I don't.

Avert your gaze for a moment while the therapist wipes off my mask and I'll take you on a Jacob Marley style flight across the rooftops of the city.

Look around you. The pedestrians on the street, the passengers on the bus, the crowds in the shopping centre.

Can you see me?

Maybe I’m the woman you just held the door open for? Or the man who offered you his seat? I'm an androgynous shape-shifting alien.

The truth is there are quite a few people in my situation out there. Maybe not with my elaborate set-up, but blending in unnoticed.

I know what you are thinking. Complete and utter fruitcake. Which isn’t surprising given the way transgender characters have been depicted over the years.

Our most famous representative on the silver screen so far has been Norman Bates in Psycho.

The only thing I could ever murder would be a chocolate bar.

Yes. That’s me. I'm back again. The brunette in the cafe and a trickle of red in the corner of her lips. Boo.

Come on over while I finish putting jam on my scone and I’ll tell you a bit more.

Instead of digging dirt like I used to as a journalist, I now cover it up. Promoting and protecting reputations in the media, usually by making someone appear to be something they are not.

Oh, the irony.

Slipping under the radar and assimilating into normal life usually means moving away to a new town or city, removing the risk of stumbling across someone from your past.

It’s a bit like being in a gender witness protection programme. You have to sever ties with people who are close.

Kill them off.

Not like Norman Bates would with a kitchen knife in the shower. Just metaphorically.

I couldn't do that. So I juggled.

Looks-wise as a guy  I suppose I was ok. Good bone structure and a lean figure.

More pretty boy than beefcake admittedly. There's no way I would ever be cast in Expendables 5.

As a girl, it's hard to tell. I know I pass and get chatted up on nights out. Beauty is very subjective though. Hopefully I'm not a minger. I'll leave it for others to decide.

Meeting someone in that sense has never been a priority. Possibly because my brain has been so pre-occupied about how to escape from my body.

The last time I got hot and sweaty with someone was when my neighbour helped me put up a flat-pack wardrobe.

"Screw?" he said, holding up the rivert I'd been looking for.

Trans isn't frilly and pink. It’s jagged and black.

Most people like me try and kill themselves. One in three in fact.

Dreadful.

Soon I will float over to the bright white light shining in the operating theatre and vanish.

Some people will miss him. Others will be breathing a sigh of relief.

Five years. 

Vanishing and reappearing in front of everyone. 

I can't believe I did it for so long without anyone knowing.

Actually, that's not quite strictly true.

Part way through my masquerade I took a deep breath and shared my secret.

With someone I had known for almost twenty years, but who was about to meet me for the first time.