My House of Pain: Becoming Wendy For Real

By the beginning of the second year, Theresa's eyes had stopped finding mine across rooms. Her body, once drawn to mine like a compass finding north, now carefully avoided contact, skirting around me as if proximity itself might be contagious. The apartment wasn't large enough for this elaborate avoidance dance, and yet somehow, she managed it with the same precision she brought to her card games.

One evening, as rain lashed against the windows and thunder growled in the distance, she placed her cards on the table with deliberate care and said, "I'm moving to Savannah."

The words hung in the air between us, heavy with finality. Not "we're moving" or "would you consider moving with me?" Just "I'm moving," a declaration of independence, a severing of whatever tenuous threads still connected us.

"When?" I asked, my voice sounding far away, like it belonged to someone else.

"End of the month. I've found a place." She was looking at her hands, not at me. "I need my own space."

The irony wasn't lost on me. We'd been living separate lives under the same roof for months, occupying parallel universes that occasionally intersected for coffee or mundane household discussions. What more space could she possibly need?

But I nodded, because that's what you do when someone is already halfway out the door. You stand aside. You let them go. "I understand," I said, though I didn't, not really.

"It's not you," she offered, the platitude falling flat between us. Then, after a pause: "Well, it is, but not in the way you think. I meant what I said before. I don't want to be with a woman."

And there it was, the truth we'd been tiptoeing around for months. As my body changed, as Wendy emerged from the shadows, Theresa was retreating, repulsed not by me specifically but by what I was becoming. She had signed up for one version of me and was being delivered another, a bait-and-switch neither of us had planned.

"I know," I said, because what else was there to say?

That night, I stood under the shower until the hot water ran out, letting the icy needles prick my skin until numbness set in. Steam fogged the mirror, mercifully obscuring my reflection as I toweled off. But as the condensation slowly cleared, Wendy's eyes found mine through the mist, accusing, demanding, unrelenting.

Everyone leaves in the end, Wendy seemed to say. Everyone but me. I'll always be here.

When Theresa left, taking her cards and her coffee press and her careful silence with her, the apartment echoed with emptiness. I stood in her vacant room, the indentations from her furniture still visible in the carpet, and felt nothing but a dull ache where sharper emotions should have been.

Time to move on. Again.

Ansley Park was a world away from Hickory Grove—all manicured lawns and rainbow flags fluttering proudly from renovated bungalows. My new apartment was smaller but brighter, with hardwood floors that creaked beneath my feet and windows that actually opened all the way. For the first time in my adult life, I lived completely alone. No roommates, no partners, no supervision. Just me and Wendy, locked in our ongoing battle for control

The neighborhood pulsed with life while I shuffled through, head down, trying to blend into the background. Then there was Chelsea – this queer jewelry seller who'd claimed the concrete steps outside their apartment as a personal throne. Every goddamn day, rain or shine, they'd be there with a cigarette dancing between their fingers, smoke curling up like ghost-fingers reaching for the sky.

"Hey stranger," they'd call out, voice raspy from years of those same cigarettes, eyes crinkling at the corners. Chelsea had this way of looking at you – like they could see right through your bullshit, but they'd keep your secrets anyway.

“Hey, Chelsea,” I’d say with a positive tone. “Any bad ones today?”.

"Nah. Nothing crazy, just the usual. How's life treating you?" Chelsea would ask, not as some empty pleasantry but like they actually gave a shit about the answer. The world around us would keep moving – traffic growling past, sirens wailing in the distance, the rhythmic thud of bass from someone's open window – but for those few minutes, time seemed to slow down.

“Day by day, Chel, that is all I can do, right?,” I’d quip back. A strange smile on my face.

And there I'd stand, shifting my weight from foot to foot, sweat prickling at the back of my neck, fumbling through small talk while Chelsea watched the world go by, comfortable in their own skin in a way that made my chest ache with longing.

The neighborhood hummed with an energy I both craved and feared. Same-sex couples walked hand-in-hand along tree-lined streets. Trans women with confident gaits and impeccable makeup strolled past my windows while I watched from behind curtains, equal parts envious and terrified. These were my people, supposedly. So why did I feel like such an impostor?

In daylight hours, I could almost convince myself I was adjusting, adapting, finding my way. I'd started doing the Saturday brunch every weekend in my two-floor townhouse apartment, making food for people who were experiencing the same fucking nightmare I was. The scent of caramelized onions and coffee would mask the stench of my desperation, at least for a few hours.

"And what about you, Wim?" they'd eventually ask, the name sticking in their throats like it stuck in mine, scraping like broken glass with each syllable. "How’s it with you? "

And I'd offer some sanitized version of the truth, words tasting like ash in my mouth, leaving out the night terrors that left me sweating through sheets, the vicious arguments with my own reflection where I'd scream until my throat was raw, the crippling self-doubt that followed me like a shadow, its cold fingers always gripping the back of my neck. They'd nod sympathetically, these strangers who were supposed to be my sisters, their forks scraping against ceramic plates in the silence that followed. And I'd see in their eyes what I feared most: recognition. They knew I was faking it. Fake it , till you make it, as Shay would always tell me. They fucking knew I was drowning, watching me gasp for air while they pretended not to notice.

But night—the nights were another beast entirely. Alone in my new space, with no distractions, no Theresa shuffling cards in the next room, no external noise to drown out the internal cacophony, Wendy's voice grew louder, more insistent.

Look at what you've lost, she'd whisper as I paced the floors at midnight, my bare feet slapping against the cold hardwood like a metronome counting down to something terrible. Your daughter, your home, your relationship. All because you're too scared to fully embrace who you are.

"Shut the fuck up," I'd hiss back, the sound of my voice in the empty apartment startling me with its vulnerability, the words hanging in the air like fog. "You don't know anything."

I know everything, she'd reply, her voice eerily similar to my grandmother Helen's—the woman who had unknowingly taught me to be a housewife through years of baking together, of learning to fold fitted sheets just so, of watching her apply lipstick with precision in her vanity mirror. I've always been here. In the way you mothered Gizmo. In the way you cared for Mel when you were children. In the way you want to guide Violet now. These aren't coincidences. They're me, trying to emerge.

"You're not real," I'd spit back, throat tight, the taste of copper on my tongue like I'd been chewing pennies. "You're just a fucking symptom. A projection. You're what happens when I don't take my meds."

Then why do you feel most alive when you're me? The question would slice through my defenses like a hot blade. Why does everything make sense when you stop fighting?

"Because you're the easy way out," I'd argue, knuckles white as I gripped the kitchen counter. "You're what I'd be if I gave up. If I just let myself disintegrate."

No, she'd whisper, her voice now sounding like my own but somehow warmer, more assured. I'm what you are when you stop lying to yourself. When you stop pretending the life you built wasn't suffocating you from the inside out.

I'd press my palms against my temples, as if I could physically suppress her voice, my fingernails digging half-moons into my scalp. The panic attacks came like clockwork, stealing my breath, making my heart race like I'd run a marathon. On the worst nights, I'd end up on the bathroom floor, curled around the toilet, dry heaving as sweat soaked through my clothes, the smell of fear and sickness filling the small space.

"I built that life," I'd mutter between gasps, the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl pressed against my cheek. "I made those choices. Not you."

We made those choices, she'd correct, her voice somehow audible even over the ringing in my ears. And now we're unmaking them. Or are you going to tell me you were happy? That you didn't feel like you were slowly drowning every goddamn day?

During one particularly brutal attack, I fumbled for my phone and called Mary, desperate for any voice that wasn't the one in my head.

"It's two in the morning," she answered, her voice sharp with concern rather than sleep.

"I can't breathe," I gasped, the words scraping my throat raw. "I think I'm dying."

A pause, then: "No, you're not dying. It's a panic attack. I've seen you have them before." Her voice softened slightly. "Count with me. One, two, three..."

I followed her lead, the simple act of counting forcing my breathing to slow, my mind to focus on something other than the screaming fear. Slowly, the vice around my chest loosened. The room stopped spinning.

"Better?" she asked after several minutes of this shared counting.

"Yeah," I admitted, shame flooding in to replace the panic, hot and thick like tar. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be honest." The words cut through the static in my brain. "What are you so afraid of?"

The question hung between us, unanswerable in its simplicity.

"I don't know who I am anymore," I finally whispered, the admission tearing something open inside me.

"None of us do," Mary replied, a rare moment of vulnerability from a woman who prided herself on certainty..

After we hung up, I sat on my bathroom floor until dawn broke, casting long shadows across the tile. For the first time in months, Wendy was quiet, as if she too was contemplating Mary's words.

But as the first weak rays of sunlight crept across the floor, I heard her once more, softer now.

You know the truth, she said, her voice almost gentle. You're not losing yourself. You're finding me. And I've been waiting so fucking long.

In my apartment, I began the slow, terrifying process of embracing rather than fighting. I bought clothes that reflected who I was becoming rather than who I'd been. I practiced makeup in the privacy of my bathroom, cursing as I stabbed myself in the eye with mascara wands, as lipstick smeared beyond the borders of my lips. I watched YouTube tutorials late into the night, absorbing the secret language of femininity I'd been denied growing up.

"Goddamn it!" I hissed, wiping away another failed attempt at eyeliner, my hand shaking like a fucking leaf. The harsh bathroom light spotlighted every pore, every shadow of stubble I couldn't quite hide.

You're being too hard on yourself, Wendy whispered in my head. Nobody gets this shit right the first time. Even those cis women in the tutorials practiced for years before they got that perfect wing. We're just starting out, remember?

"Easy for you to say," I muttered, throat tight and raw. "You've had a lifetime to imagine this. I'm just... fumbling in the dark."

The smell of foundation hung heavy in the air, chemical and foreign. My skin felt tight under the layer of product, like wearing someone else's face. I gripped the edge of the sink until my knuckles turned white.

We're learning together, she reminded me. This is new for both of us - being seen. We've spent decades hiding in shadows, watching from behind glass. Of course it feels fucking terrifying to finally step into the light.

I looked down at my hands – still too large, veins too prominent – and felt that familiar wave of nausea. "What if I'm just fooling myself? What if I can never be you?"

You already are me, she said. I'm not some perfect woman waiting at the finish line. I'm just... us without the bullshit. I'm what emerges when you stop trying to force yourself into a shape that was never meant to fit. I'm the truth you've been running from, and I'm messy and imperfect too

.The mirror reflected back a face caught between worlds – masculine jawline, feminine eyes. A contradiction. A fucking work in progress.

That night, I curled up on my bed, scrolling through trans forums on my phone until my eyes burned. Stories of triumph, of heartbreak. People who'd walked this path before me.

We're not alone in this, Wendy whispered as I finally drifted toward sleep. That counts for something.

The panic attacks came like violent storms – sudden, devastating. I'd be fine one moment, then drowning the next, lungs refusing to fill, heart pounding like it might burst through my ribs.

During one particularly brutal episode, I found myself on the kitchen floor, back pressed against the cold refrigerator, gasping for air that wouldn't come.

"I can't do this," I wheezed. "I can't fucking do this."

Breathe with me, Wendy said, her voice an anchor in the chaos. In through the nose... out through the mouth. We've survived every bad day so far. That's a perfect record. Feel the floor beneath us? The cold against our back? We're real. We're here. The panic lies but our body doesn't - it knows who we really are.

"What if—" My voice cracked. "What if my parents never speak to me again? What if everyone at work looks at me like I'm a goddamn freak?"

Then we'll find new family. Build something better. Her voice was steel beneath silk. We deserve to exist without apology. Every breath we take as our authentic self is an act of rebellion. Every moment we spend being true instead of convenient for others is a fucking victory. People who truly love us will adapt. The rest can go to hell.

Tears burned hot trails down my cheeks, tasting of salt and surrender. "I'm so fucking tired of fighting."

Then stop fighting me, she said softly. Start fighting FOR us instead.

The first time I tried on a dress – really tried, not just held it against me – I locked the apartment door, closed all the blinds, and turned off my phone. My hands trembled as I slipped the fabric over my head, the soft material whispering against my skin.

"I look ridiculous," I muttered, refusing to turn toward the mirror. "A man in a dress. A fucking joke."

Look up, Wendy urged. Actually LOOK at us.

When I finally raised my eyes, the breath caught in my throat. The dress wasn't perfect – too tight across the shoulders, too loose at the waist – but something in my stance had changed. A tension I'd carried for decades had eased, just slightly.

See? There was a smile in her voice. There I am. There WE are.

"People will stare," I whispered, running my hands over the unfamiliar silhouette. "They'll laugh."

Some will, she acknowledged. And it'll hurt like a bitch. But some will see us – really see us – for the first time.

I took a tentative step, then another, feeling the fabric move with me. Not natural yet, but not as foreign as I'd feared.

We don't have to go outside in this tomorrow, Wendy said. Or next week. Or even next month. Baby steps are still steps.

That night, I slept in the dress, curled around a pillow, dreaming of a day when my outside would match my inside.

"You're using up all the hot water again," my roommate complained, banging on the bathroom door.

Inside, I was frantically scrubbing away the last traces of nail polish, my heart hammering against my ribs.

One day we won't have to hide, Wendy promised as I watched the pink swirl down the drain. One day we'll paint our nails and leave them that way. We'll walk through the world with our head held high, color on our fingertips catching the light. One day we'll stop washing away parts of ourselves just to make other people comfortable.

"When?" I demanded, voice cracking. "When does this get easier?"

When we stop giving a fuck what people who don't matter think of us, she replied. When we find our people. We should keep going to group, Wendy suggested every time my eyes fell on it.

"What if I don't belong there either?" The fear tasted bitter on my tongue. "What if I'm not trans enough? Not committed enough?"

There's no such thing as 'trans enough,' she insisted. There's just us, trying to find our way home to ourselves. We don't need anyone's permission or approval to exist. Our journey doesn't have to look like anyone else's to be legitimate. We're not an imposter – we're just a fucking late bloomer.

And slowly, like dawn breaking after the longest night, Wendy and I began to integrate. The arguments in my head became conversations. The panic attacks, while not disappearing entirely, became less frequent, less debilitating. I began to see her not as an invader but as a part of me that had always been there, waiting for acknowledgment, for acceptance.

The day I finally bought my own hormones was terrifying and exhilarating. The tiny pills looked so innocent in my palm.

"This changes everything," I whispered, feeling the weight of the decision.

This REVEALS everything, Wendy corrected. We've always been there, underneath it all. These pills aren't magic – they just allow what's been suffocating inside to finally breathe. They're just unlocking the door we've been pounding on from the inside for decades.

With each passing week, subtle changes appeared – skin softening, emotions intensifying. I cried at commercials and laughed until my sides hurt at stupid jokes. The world became sharper, more vivid, like someone had finally wiped clean a dusty lens.

"Is this what it feels like?" I asked one morning, watching the sunrise paint my bedroom walls gold. "To be whole?"

It's what it feels like to start becoming whole, she answered. We've got a long fucking road ahead. But for the first time, we're walking it as ourselves, not dragging the dead weight of someone else's expectations. Each step might hurt, but at least it's taking us where we actually want to go.

But for once, the length of the journey didn't terrify me.

One Sunday morning, as I prepared for the trans brunch, I stood before my mirror and said the words aloud for the first time:

"My name is Wendy."

Not Wim. Not some half-measure designed to appease everyone while satisfying no one. Wendy.

The name felt right in my mouth, solid and real. I repeated it, letting the sound fill the room, fill the spaces inside me that had been hollow for so long.

"My name is Wendy," I said again, stronger this time.

And in the mirror, she smiled back at me, not in triumph or accusation, but in recognition. We had miles yet to travel, she and I. Surgeries to consider, relationships to rebuild, a life to remake piece by painful piece. But in that moment, in the soft morning light of my Ansley Park apartment, we were, at last, moving in the same direction.

When I opened my door for brunch that day, I took a deep breath.

"Hey, everyone," I said, my voice steadier than I'd expected. "I'm Wendy."

And for the first time in longer than I could remember, the voice in my head was silent, at peace. Not because she'd won, not because I'd surrendered, but because, finally, we were speaking with one voice.