What’s up, you beautiful motherfuckers?! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Natalya Lovelace. An unapologetic transgender woman of colour. 
Let’s start with the basics, here is my story.

The night was cold and humid and my face was wet with tears. Standing there on the edge of a four floor parking garage I was seized with fear. How did I get here? Standing here on this edge in the twilight hours at Hobby airport making much ado about dying. 

I had recently been discharged from a rehabilitation program because I relapsed into drinking alcohol making me volatile with avarice. Needless to say trying to sneak chicken from the grocer deli isn’t the best idea and it landed me in Harris County jail. My jail experience is interesting. 

Since coming out as trans I was pretty much unhireable. My food box was empty, so empty that I could feel my stomach going into ketosis. When the officers arrested me I was happy. I finally had shelter and steady food. I was put in the transgender tank. My cell mates were very lively but most were in their for being sex workers. I had plenty of time to think about how did I get here from being a young college student. It went a bit like this:

My psychology studies suffered as I suffered from my own psyche. See, I am from a conservative Louisiana Cajun Creole family who views me and people like me as “other.” I am an “it” to my mother. I am committing a sin by dressing the way I want. I automatically now like men and I am a pervert. I’m an outcast and the alcohol and cocaine numbed the pain. 

My heart was frosted over in listlessness because I couldn’t be a missus. I would see other transgender girls in the porn mags I read, but I always thought the huge breasts matched with an equally eye-catching phallus was all photoshopped. I didn’t know what a tranny was. I didn’t what a person like me was. 

I’ve always wanted to be a girl. My mother and I would fight over what toys I could and couldn’t have and I was forced to be a boy. I was forced to play baseball, basketball, track, and be active outdoors. I felt so awkward around other boys because I was not like other boys. Nope, I was a beautiful girl. 

But that beautiful girl went through hell. Hearing whispers behind closed doors of my mother struggling to cope with my femininity. I struggled to understand why I didn’t have a vagina. My brain screams that I have a vagina so I can actually feel my phantom vagina.  

While they were discussing how to best turn me into a boy behind closed doors, I was mentally finger fucking the brakes off of my vag. These thoughts aroused me and like an amab I would get erections. I had no idea what they were for and most times thought it meant I just needed to pee.  

I say this because it wasn’t until I was 16 that I learned the illustrious art of penile style masturbation, that good old’ up and down hand stroke. It felt good to blow my load but I was still not feeling quite right. Something was still missing. I loved women but I also wanted to be a woman. 

My conditioning had me thinking I was a problem. That I was causing chaos because I wanted to express my gender in goth cloth. My mother thought goth people worshipped satan and were occult. I was raging to be free on the inside but I was trapped. 

Looking into my washroom mirror my face bled red from self-inflicted wounds. I would punch myself for hours for being a boy. I hated myself. All I wanted was to be a girl or die. This feeling had me reeling towards hanging myself. So I grabbed two belts, intertwined them, wrapped them around my neck and kicked away the chair. 
To be continued 


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