Old Hermy’s Never Die
A monthly blog about ‘stuff’ your grandmother could or would never tell you!
Do Hermaphrodites Care About Birth Certificates?
To be born into modern society’s monochromatic world of male and female, may be correct and acceptable for the majority of live births. But this is a tyranny of conformity imposed by man’s religion, policed by well meaning but deluded Doctors thinking themselves like unto God’s. Able to impose a sex upon those born with ambiguous or abnormal genitalia, without the child’s knowledge or consent, often shortly after birth.
A belief reinforced by the hypercritic oath and ‘medical model of disability’, when from the start of their training. Doctors are taught to believe that the patient is the problem, whose abnormality, or disability needs curing. While all patients are incapable of making decisions about their own lives and need qualified medical professionals to look after them. Because ultimately they can never be as equal socially and personally as a non-disabled person.
At least those born with the closed or hidden form of hermaphrodism, escape the social condemnation of difference and medical conformity at or shortly after birth. Only to be imprisoned by the sexual monochrome of male and female based upon assumed genital sex at birth, while often possessing undeveloped internal organs and the characteristics of a different sex.
In a world where nature is constantly more powerful than all the learnt consequences of nurture. Where sex is not bound by the laws of either/or, the monochromatic possibility of a species possessing only two sexes but a mix and match of genetic, hormonal and physical possibility. Beyond the limiting, consistent definitions of chromosomal, hormonal, psychological and physical sex used to define, to deny, to limit human potential and possibility from the very moment of birth as being either male or female.
For hermaphrodites born with either the open (easy to diagnose) or closed (more difficult to diagnose, especially sixty years ago) form. No matter what sex is assigned at birth it will not be true or accurate, because we are part male and part female, yet wholly neither sex.
Beyond the single sex potentials and possibilities society, in particular the medical profession, imposes upon those gifted or cursed (dependent upon your personal opinion) with being something more. A proto human, a hermaphrodite born to this world without the sins of sex.
Destined to live without sex drive (male) or libido (female) inside society’s inescapable prison, chained to the expectations, the conformity of being either male or female, while possessing the ability to be something more. Something greater than the various elements comprising male and female, something that transcends the human limitations of being born only one sex.
In a world were men and women, because of social patterning and expectations, might as well be completely different species, from different but parallel realties, in different universes of the ever-expanding multiverse.
Speaking personally, knowing that whatever it says upon my birth certificate will not be true. Just a medical imposition and social conformity to the limited, limiting two sex world of those not gifted, blessed with the diversity and difference of the human condition in all its potential forms and sexuality’s.
I do not care whether it says male or female because in totality I was born neither, yet both and ultimately something more than the either/or the Priests and medical profession continue to impose upon their parishioners and patients.
After decades of hiding this, the final taboo, I am proud to have been born different. Privileged to have lived the first third of my life being raised as male, when my perfectly formed genitalia failed to develop any larger than those of a five-year-old. Without the compulsions and confusions of sex drive or libido I became as nothing, the alone with the alone.
Lost to the contradictions and anomalies of becoming, I am eternally grateful to Derek Eastwood and his colleagues for giving me a libido, sex life, and the wonder, the possibility of love. Despite the social injustices, inequalities and inferiority’s, living the next two thirds of my life as a woman brought. Chained to Frauds penis envy by personal inadequacy for the rest of my life, just for wanting to have babies and be a mummy.
Though forever resentful and disappointed by the repeated misdiagnosis and treatment of Doctors, who literally put me through a medical nightmare seemingly without end. Having first missed a chance to diagnose my condition aged eight, when during an outpatient visit to the local children’s hospital, now recovering from an almost fatal bout of pneumonia and pleurisy.
My mother first voiced her concerns about my behaviour and penis to a Doctor, who having asked me to drop my trousers told her that everything was fine and there was nothing to worry about. Which I remember to this day because usually at an outpatient’s appointment they would tap my chest, listen to my lungs and ask me to breathe deeply. This was the first and only time one asked me to drop my trousers and examined my genitalia.
What her concerns about my penis were, I do not know to this day but that all-important first opportunity to diagnose correctly my condition, had been missed after a cursory examination by a chest specialist.
Well, it was not all right and there was actually lots to worry about, given the pathological secrecy of the medical profession regarding hermaphrodism and the inconsistency of its diagnosis and treatment around the country, especially with the closed or hidden form.
At least I was only forced to live twenty-four years as a sex I did not want to be, some people, especially those born with the open form, are compelled to live all their lives being a sex chosen for them by interfering, over enthusiastic Doctors. When they should have been allowed to develop and explore the possibilities. Deciding for themselves the sex they wished to spend their adult lives as, having explored all the options and spoken to others suffering from their particular form of hermaphrodism.
What is a birth certificate but a piece of paper and a whole world, a whole life of socio/sexual expectation? Limiting further the potential for human development, the evolutions of form because it is not being born a hermaphrodite that is sad, negative, a medical nightmare seemingly without end. But the way that the medical profession, religion and society limit through conformity and denial. Those born both partly male and partly female, those free from the sins of sex, filled with the wonder and possibility of human form and experience in all its variations and evolutions.
Doctors, leave those kids alone, if they can urinate and have functioning kidneys it is not a medial emergency. Let them, let us explore the possibility and decide for ourselves the sex we wish to be, if anyone is happy as an untreated hermaphrodite, that is fine to.
It is forced medical intervention and repeated misdiagnosis that makes us sad, depressed, resentful of the medical nightmare seemingly without end, into which misguided, well meaning but incompetent Doctors cast hermaphrodites.
Birth certificates! I used mine as toilet paper, what did you do with yours?
Why All The Medical Secrecy And Deception About Hermaphrodism?
What is it about the word hermaphrodite that makes the average Doctors brain short circuit and over-load? Leaving apparently sane, decent human beings to believe themselves like unto Gods. Able to chose a child’s sex shortly after birth, without consultation or consideration to the possible consequences in later life.
Eager to make perfect all physical imperfections and sexual anomalies in the image of a species comprised of only two sexes; an either/or tyranny and conformity, imposed, limiting from birth to death the human condition and possibility in all its possible forms and variations.
If your are a Doctor or medical student, try saying the word slowly, while breaking it down into its constituent parts – her-maph-rodite. There! The world has not changed, civilisation has not crumbled back into a primal chaos, and there is absolutely no reason to start panicking, or trying to justify the unjustifiable. Your patient’s heads have not exploded, nor have they become semi-divine psychotic, inhuman monsters.
So why all the secrecy and subterfuge when it comes to treating hermaphrodites, especially the open form. Who inevitably fall victim to over-enthusiastic, well meaning but misguided Doctors. Despite the fact that in the majority of cases this is not a medical emergency but should be a personal choice when the time is right.
At least those born with the closed or hidden form of hermaphrodism were spared this untimely imposition of sex by the followers of the medical model of disability. Only for our perfectly formed external genitalia not to develop as and when it should.
Like a slow motion multiple road smash, it just goes on getting worse and worse, a nightmare seemingly without end, especially sixty years ago during the ‘dark ages’ of treatment for intersex patients by the British National Health Service. When diagnosis of those with the closed or hidden form before puberty was non-existent and not that good afterwards.
My mother first mentioned her concerns that there was something wrong with me or my genitalia, to a Doctor at the local children’s hospital when I was eight years old. After a cursory examination the Doctor, a chest consultant, said everything was fine and that there was nothing to worry about. Wrong!
Personally it took me until the age of ten, before I knew what sex I felt happiest being. When I started wanting to have babies and be a mummy. Aged twelve or thirteen I heard through the more vicarious elements of the media, about men who had changed their sex. Being young and stupid I thought that if I could change my sex, I would be able to have babies but of course you can’t.
Let’s try saying that word one more time, shall we? That is it – her-maph-rodite. Because like it or not nature is not perfect, some people are born imperfect, some part male and part female. Though when it comes to determining the sex of those with the open form. They and they alone should discover for themselves, which sex they wish to become, if indeed any.
While for those with the closed or hidden form, constant misdiagnosis from an early age and not understanding what is happening or why, just compounds the medical nightmare seemingly without end of those born with perfectly formed genitalia that failed to develop as and how they should, especially decades ago. Because they to should be allowed to discover for themselves, which if any sex they may wish to live their adult lives as, while there may be those happy to
remain as untreated hermaphrodites, just so long as they make this choice for themselves.
If only the medical profession and its social expectation that sex is an either/or possibility of male and female, could acknowledge that in the real world that is not always true. Either physically in the case of hermaphrodites or psychologically as with transsexuals.
This is the most personal of all journeys and self-discovery, only the medical profession and social expectations of sex and sexuality, make what is a privileged, learning experience. Into a medical nightmare seemingly without end for those sad freaks, scared and traumatised because of unnecessary surgery or repeated misdiagnosis from an early age.
Once hermaphrodites were worshiped and revered, no one is asking for that. Just that the medical profession and society accept not all people are born wholly male or female. While allowing hermaphrodites to discover their chosen sex for themselves, having touched their own soul or spirit, because like it or not, none of us are ever going to be normal males or females, much as this may upset the God-like tendencies of Doctors.
Explore the infinite possibility of the human condition, become yourself, yourself. It is a privileged journey fate has cast us all on, learn, grow, become, explore, and above all, accept. Be proud to be different, to transcend the limitations of human possibility and experience, becoming all you possibly can in this short life.
Why is the average Doctor more than willing to tell a patient that they are a diagnosed schizophrenic, transvestite, and transsexual. But when it came to the top expert at the countries only gender identity unit in the country, refusing to treat me because he did not think that I was a transsexual. Though as for why and what he thought I was other than the Easter Bunny. Doctor Randell would never say, why?
Did he think I would rush out and throw myself under the first train to pull into Charring Cross tube station? I almost did that anyway, it was only the fact that I managed to convince myself it was part of a test they put everyone through, which actually stopped me.
Of course it was not a test and as this realisation slowly dawned, I resolved to become the perfect transsexual, because if I ever got a second chance at surgery, I was not going to blow it again. Six years I spent supporting people who, having done their year were going down to Charring Cross for surgery. When I was not a transsexual but a hermaphrodite, without even the balls for a successful sex change operation.
Being a hermaphrodite with either the open or closed form is personally traumatic enough, without Doctors turning it into a medical nightmare without end. They certainly know how to help people!
The National Health Service Complaints Procedure – Not Fit For Purpose!
Life for a hermaphrodite born with the hidden or closed form sixty years ago was to be condemned to a living hell. Death by degrees made into a medical nightmare seemingly without end, when aged eight I was first examined by a Doctor at the local children’s hospital.
That was the first chance the medical profession had to correctly diagnose and help with my condition. Because by the age of ten or eleven I was barking mad, wanting to have babies and become a mummy. Having heard about men changing sex I thought if I did that, I could be a mummy, not that aged twelve I knew what sex even was.
At least I thought I now knew what I was, a transsexual and wanted in life, a sex change operation. Only to discover from a psychiatrist aged fifteen that I was, according to him, a schizophrenic, who with the correct medication and support should be able to lead a full and productive life. Wrong!
Eight years of being treat as a schizophrenic before being incorrectly diagnosed by other psychiatrists as a manic-depressive, transvestite, and transsexual. Wrong! Which is what I thought I was aged around twelve – at least for the first time the medical profession started to encourage me to live as a woman. Even though at this point in time there were absolutely no treatment facilities on the British National Health Service.
I was in the process of transitioning from living as male to female, when Doctor Randell started the country’s first ‘gender identity unit’ at Charring Cross Hospital in London. How lucky was that? Having received an appointment to see him I thought completion, do my year and surgery at last. Only to be refused treatment from the country’s leading expert, because he did not think that I was a transsexual. Right!
Unfortunately, despite writing to him every year around the date of that first and only appointment, to say I had just lived another year as a women. He would never help, or even tell me why he thought I was not a transsexual. Six years I spent learning to become the perfect transsexual, thinking if I ever get a second chance at surgery, I am not going to blow it again. Wrong!
Having eventually found a surgeon at Saint James University hospital in Leeds who said he could help me, I then go into hospital only to learn that I do not have the balls for a successful sex change operation and am apparently, what they called a hermaphrodite. Right!
Assuming that the Hull National Health Service would have been informed by Doctor Randell, he would not treat me as in his professional opinion I was not a transsexual, or that the surgeons at Saint James. Would have written to someone in the local health authority, if only my GP, to explain what surgical procedures they had performed and why.
It came as a complete shock to learn that according to my medical records, I was a transsexual. All be it the only one I have encountered that did not have the balls for a sex change, did not need breast implants and had all the other anomalies and abnormalities I did.
Having finally recovered from the shock, confusion, and personal anger, especially after the hell, the medical nightmare seemingly without end, Doctors and the medical profession put me through from the age of eight with their incompetence and repeated misdiagnosis. I naturally complained to the local Health Authority, only to have my complaint blocked and dismissed in a most amateurish, shameful and insensitive manner, by bureaucrats and Doctors with pound signs in eyes and possible litigation in mind.
If only someone had examined my complaint, acknowledging me for what I was, providing consistency of treatment and said sorry for repeated misdiagnosis from the age of eight, that would have been fine, I would have been happy but oh no! They became defensive, confrontational and about as helpful and supportive as a squashed hedgehog in the middle of a motorway, middle of the summer bank holiday get away for the lemmings.
All I wanted was acknowledgement of what I actually was, along with some consistency of diagnosis and treatment. Instead and despite the support of the Independent Complaints and Conciliation Service (ICAS) who were excellent, very helpful. The local Health Authority came on like ostriches with heads firmly in buckets of sand, hoping that thanks to freshly polished bullshit and the usual medical flimflam, I would give up and go away.
Grateful and obedient to them for putting me through the personal hell of a medical nightmare, seemingly without end, of taking what chance of a life that I might have had due to incompetence, repeated misdiagnosis and systematic administrative failures, as forming their wagons into a circle. They continued to protect each other’s backs, in accordance with their Hippocratic oath and God-like professional infallibility.
Leaving me with two courses of action, either take my complaint to the Health Service Independent Ombudsman, or find a solicitor willing to take my case on a no win, no fee basis. Out of growing cynicism, especially after my recent experience of the Health Service ‘complaints procedure’, which if my personal experiences are anything to go by, is NOT FIT FOR PURPOSE!
Of having various Doctors compound the considerable personal hell of being born a hermaphrodite with the closed or hidden form, for the past sixty years. Giving Hatcher, Ratsinger, Bear, Clintin, Presscoat, Brush, O’Barmy, religious fundamentalists et al, the opportunity to persecute me for the past twenty-eight years for being something that I was, am not, a transsexual; based upon nothing but a pack of lies from beginning to end.
I have decided to go the solicitor route in the hope of getting justice against the medical Mafia’s repeated injustice and insensitivity. Not for the money but in the hope of getting an accurate, consistent diagnosis and treatment for the first time in my life from the Hull National Health Service, along with whatever legal rights I may have as a hermaphrodite.
Not that I expect to find a solicitor locally willing to take my case against the Health Authority, which is either cynicism or more than likely, a decade spent as an officer of the Humberside Law Centre. Knowing intimately how the profession operates locally and who pulls the almost invisible strings that bind professionally and personally. Within Labours fortress Hull and Baron Von Munchhousen (by proxy) syndrome’s own personal fiefdom, at the heart of the Kingdom of the Living Dead.
Hermaphrodism – Curse Or Blessing?
Having no personal experience of being born with the open form, when I refer to hermaphrodism – curse or blessing? I can only speak from the perspective of an individual born with the closed or hidden form of hermaphrodism. Which though essentially individual forms of the same condition, have radically different life experiences due to the ease, or difficulty of diagnosis, especially decades ago.
When you could still smell the smoke from the recent witch burnings and antibiotics were the new magic bullet, saving humanity from the ravages of infections in a hospital close to you.
At least those of us born with the closed or hidden form, escaped the over enthusiasm of well meaning but deluded Doctors pretending to be God. Only to go through our own particular medical nightmare, seemingly without end, when our genitalia failed to develop as and when they should.
By which point age ten or eleven, I knew for certain the sex I wanted to be for the rest of my life, though not the reasons I felt the way that I did. At least my own particular journey between the sexes had finally begun, even if it was to take decades of repeated misdiagnosis and treatment. Before I finally understood why my genitalia had not developed and what I actually was, a hermaphrodite without even the balls for a successful sex change operation.
Escaping the early attentions of the medical profession proved to be a blessing, in that I got the chance to discover for myself the sex I wanted to spend my adult life as. Only for the blessing to became the curse of repeated misdiagnosis and a medical nightmare, seemingly without end. Because if men were from Mar’s and women from Venus, then I was from Alpha Century – freaky!
I am assuming that most hermaphrodites that did not know what sex they wished to be, the sex of their spirit and soul regardless of genitalia and the hormonal trauma. Of being partly male and partly female but wholly neither, by the age of ten, having displayed strange or aberrant behaviour for most of their lives.
Would certainly know that something was radically wrong, other than always having a smaller penis than other's in their age group, when puberty like a car with a flat battery failed to start the motor. To turn the damaged cogs and gears that became either sex drive or libido.
While to be born different was to be born to be bullied, to be an outsider stood alone in the most distant corner of the playground. This was the curse that society and everyday social interaction made life into, for those born with the closed or hidden form of hermaphrodism. Those as yet denied knowledge or understanding of why they felt and thought as they did.
Puberty is a traumatic time, even for those fortunate enough to be born with the sexual characteristics of only one sex. But for an undiagnosed hermaphrodite it is a complete nightmare, a personal horror, a growing feeling of shame and awareness of the inherent inferiority and difference, which inevitable results in secrecy and personal denial.
It is not size that matters but what you do with it; well the truth is that the average hermaphrodite has not got a clue what to do with their undeveloped genitalia. Other than have it reconstructed because of being both blessed and cursed by not having either sex drive or libido. Sexually it is like being nothing and completely dead below the waist, with a perfectly formed penis that did not develop much larger than that of the average five-year-old.
Little wonder those with the closed or hidden form, especially while it remains undiagnosed; develop massive inferiority complexes, feelings of personal inadequacy over this, the final taboo. Along with a growing sense of personal responsibility and failure, of being forever an outsider, a creature that is neither fish nor fowl but life unworthy of life!
It is the limitations of a two sex species, which makes hermaphrodism into a curse for there are few crueller than children to difference. While the ‘peer group’ security of puberty and its unfolding expectations was denied to me, to most hermaphrodites when like a car with a flat battery, the motor failed to start as it should and when everyone else’s did.
Making me into a bemused spectator to the collective though immature madness of their sexual awakening, all I saw were the increasingly complex interactions and consequences of something, something strange and alien beyond my personal understanding, or experience.
A secret world that I could not find a way into, inhabited by aliens and monsters whose secrets, those of all born with the biological sins of sex, I could not even begin to understand or share. Even before the Doctors cast me into a medical nightmare seemingly without end. Along with all the other damaged or unwanted individuals, thrown onto the steaming rubbish heaps bounding decent, God fearing societies and the shared hopes, the dreams of the button pushers and lever pullers. Whose two sex reality imprisoned the possibility, the evolution of humanity.
Cast out onto lives scrape-heap before it had even begun for me, by the first of many misdiagnoses. Schizophrenic! In reality it meant that my chances of getting a job, let alone have a career were no better than zero. Little wonder that I increasingly turned to drink and drugs, especially LSD, as a form of personal escape from in effect being dead, paralysed from the waist down; blessed as one of God’s holy innocents, free from the sins of sex at birth and until my mid-twenties.
Blessed with the opportunity to explore, to search for understanding and knowledge, to discover the infinite complexities of personal possibility, far from the familiar, secure shores of normal sexuality. Where are washed the driftwood, the flotsam and jetsam of sexual need, want, lust but above all, the familiarity. The security of sexual experience and expectations of those born only one of two possible sexes, those fortunate to have been born normal.
Because like all born a hermaphrodite, despite the best efforts of the surgeons I was never going to be normal and the sooner I accepted that, the better. Though it may have taken decades, I did finally learn to be proud to be born different, rather than feeling constantly inferior and personally ashamed. Grateful for the blessings of hermaphrodism that allowed me to remain innocent and beyond sexual sin, until my mid-twenty’s.
Privileged to have explored the spaces between the sexes, the unmapped worlds of possibility and personal potential, to transcend the physical limitations of sex and become something more than the sum total of its parts. A proto human in which the forces of nature are ever stronger than those of nurture, where imitation, incorporation and compliance are the invisible prisons holding the human spirit.
Limiting through expectation and anticipation the transcendent aspect of being, the possibility of form and function beyond the invisible walls all are imprisoned by from birth. When wrapped in pink or blue blanket, the possibilities of life are mapped, the expectations set forever like concrete by birth sex and the economic worth of male and female in contemporary society. Leaving only the fossilised footsteps of those travelling the path least travelled, as witness to their passing.
On a good day it is a blessing and I feel privileged to have been born forever different, without even the balls for a successful sex change operation. What a ride! Blessed to have been treat by brilliant surgeons, thanks to whom I not only developed a libido and knew for the first time in my life the destructive power of love and personal corruption’s of lust.
Blessed to finally experience the joys of orgasm thanks to the thousands of pounds spend on treating me by Saint James University Hospital and Leeds (NHS), thank you for the exceptional treatment. Blessed to have lived a third of my life as a boy, though in all honesty I do not to this day have a single clue what all that boy stuff was about. And two thirds of my life as a woman, paid less for doing the same job as a man and with less worth than a healthy camel, or donkey in some societies.
A thing in a world of things created for man’s pleasure according to their command and inherent social superiority. Blessed that I got to burn my bra and received a good feminist education. Blessed to become a ‘Female Eunuch’ whose life is forever blighted by penis envy and a love of big cocks.
Blessed to live in a society and time when hermaphrodites with the closed or hidden form, despite repeated misdiagnosis, can be freed from the sexual nothingness of being and know the comforts of libido and sexual intercourse. Blessed not to have suffered the indignity of extensive skin grafts, previously the only treatment for intersex patients with insufficient penile tissue for successful reassignment as women.
Blessed to be the first to have a Sigmoid colon in the UK, this at the time was being publicised as a new, effective treatment for intersex patients. Blessed that it worked for me as I hope it worked for you without to many long-term complications. Blessed that someone had my best interest at heart and were willing to treat me for what I was, a rebel without a cause and hermaphrodite without the balls for successful surgery.
Blessed that I lived long enough to finally feel pride about being a hermaphrodite, a ‘thing’, and an ‘it’ with life long penis envy and constant vaginal discharge. Blessed to have found personal contentment and happiness, despite exiting stage left in my thirty’s mumbling ‘vanity, vanity, all is vanity’ and going east in search of something more satisfying than the overt materialism of the west.
Blessed to have found myself, amidst the personal confusions of being born partly male and partly female – as it said above the entrance to the temple at Delphi – know they self. Blessed to have been born to be bullied because what does not destroy me only makes me stronger.
Every journey begins with a single step, every life a single cell. Become all you are capable of becoming and forget the bad days, when it feels like a curse, a medical nightmare seemingly without end. Be proud to have been born different, you are blessed with experiencing sexual transcendence and the possibility of becoming something more, a proto human and the first of your kind to be seen upon the earth.
The Final Taboo – The Final Word
Admittedly, after all the surgery I was at first a little promiscuous but hey, I was making up for lost time and is that not what all second year students did, have lots of sex and party? Especially after the final occasion when I had gone to bed with a man before surgery, who the second I took my clothes off, had an asthma attack and I mean a bad attack. So bad we slept with the lights on so I could wake up every hour just to make sure he was still breathing, needless to say, nothing remotely sexual happened.
While for obvious reasons I did not relish the idea of having to explain to the police what a person of mixed gender such as myself, was doing with a dead man in their bed. At the time he completely freaked me out and I hope I did not scare him for life. We should have kept to the bird watching because he was never the same with me again; at least I can laugh about it all now.
Life goes on. Eventually I became more selective, while trying to repay my debt to society and the Health Service in particular, for literally saving my life – what a ride! Only to become caught up in the First Gulf War, having by this point converted to Islam, become a Sufi, a follower of Ibn Arabia and learnt classical Arabic. What can I say that has not already been said better? Other than I came out of the six-week air campaign well ‘wobbly’, feeling like a criminal and mass murderer.
Though the full consequences of this death and destruction upon an industrial scale, would not wake from the silences of memory for years, where they lay suppressed, forgotten and festering under thickening layers of relative normality. If you can call spending twenty years involved in the forensic profiling of child murderers, serial killings, and terrorist attacks normal.
Because eventually it made me sexually frigid and was to drive me mad on the afternoon that a double murderer was found guilty of crimes I, as a small part of the many teams within a team that is a modern criminal investigation, helped to profile eighteen months earlier. When I burst into tears and subsequently cried my heart out for thirty or forty minutes, before I could begin to compose myself, every time it was mentioned.
So bad did this become, I was no use to myself let alone another investigation. I took a year out to deal with all the post traumatic stress, only to never go back to profiling with the exception of one final case. While the best I was ever to become, having built a growing reputation locally, then nationally and internationally.
Nazi lying Labour was already involved in a long-term act of targeting and revenge against the only gazelle in a lion’s enclosure. When as part of my responsibilities as an officer of a law centre, I informed a ‘local government audit officer’ about allegations, along with reports of criminal activities and abuse of office. That would result in the local Labour Council being put on special measures and having to lose the next local election, or be taken to court on mass.
The only other person, who knew what I was about to say, the centre’s co-ordinator would receive the customary pieces of Judas silver and a job with the local council for life. Upon that fateful day when I learnt that he already knew and given the questions he asked me, when I went into our conference room and asked: "Do you know, really know what is going on in this city?" I was already a dead thing walking shaky and hesitant from the moment of impact.
He already knew so there was no need for me to sacrifice my professional and personal reputation and eventually, the Law Centre out of a misguided sense of civic duty and personal morality. The rest as they say, is history with the Vatican and a mad, bad collection of those talking in tongues the language of Christian fundamentalism. Going on to persecute and harass me for thirty years for being something I was not, a transsexual, shame on you all!
But most of what Margaret Hatcher and Cardinal Ratsinger (soon to become Pope Adolph The Persecutor), Brush, Clintin, Brush, Bear, Presscoat, Brawn and O’Barmy et al peddled as truth, was nothing but a complete pack of lies from beginning to end. In that they could make me work or not work, without even knowing how I worked, or the fact I was what the medical profession call an hermaphrodite and not a transsexual.
Not that I would expect any different from Bear and Presscoat, they were just being their usual incompetent, lying, demented selves as laughing insanely, they turned their cardboard kaleidoscopes and made it up as they went along.
Frigid, mad and suffering from the effects of multiple post traumatic shock it would take seven years of personal Hell and the writing of four books. Before the various marsh gasses eventually bubbled and blopped through memories brackish, stagnant water. Seven long and lonely years before I could regain my trust in men, enough to even think about having sexual intercourse again.
Seven years of existential nausea, when I withdrew from the world and even myself, not trusting nor daring to open myself to another living being, least of all a man. When all I ever profiled was the sadist and sickest that men could do. Mostly but not always to women and children, non of the many forensic profiles that I helped to work, involved a woman and the phenomena of the female suicide bomber was something I had yet to encounter. But get through the swirling vapours and poisonous gases I eventually did.
Seven years before I got my libido back and sex became a potential for pleasure, only to discover that my own body had again become traitor to my hopes and desires, at the very moment I emerged from the caves darkness. Blinking, confused, dazed into the clear light of a new day. It was impossible to get a penis beyond the point where all those years ago, they had joined together two pieces of my Heath Robinson insides and I was again proper fucked. Or would have been, had it not been for the join, which became traitor to my sexual needs and desires.
Baron Von Munchhousen (by proxy syndrome) of Presscoat & Son’s Poisoners Paradise and his ageing criminal conspiracy of silence, must have thought all their Christmases had come at once. Because to date I have been trying for almost two years to get what is relatively minor surgery, a ‘z’ plaste that would make such a difference to my life. So far without any success or progress, while the initial frustration has given way to depression.
With the Christian hordes and followers of the anti-Christ, the enduring fantasy God of men more intent upon saving wealth and power than souls. Sensing blood, have gone for the kill – sod not being able to have a television because some pratt keeps cutting the aerial cable - sod not being able to grow anything in my garden without it being pulled up or poisoned – sod the fact that most of my post goes missing - sod the demented and dangerous rodents in the rats palace who are about as useful as a bag of melted ice cubes – sod the white noise, drugging, poisoning, harassment, physical assaults and criminal damage – sod the giant ‘bung beetles’ pushing another lying sleazeball politician around Westminster’s gold paved streets – sod the neighbours from hell, the harpy constantly screeching: ‘Give me, give me, give me – sod Nazi lying Labours gangs of feral children and compliant Council Officials – sod the lot of you, because all it takes for evil to prosper is for good men and women to remain silent
Now it is personal and would get even more personal once the local Heath Authority, one of the nineteen worse performing and from my experience the most homophobic, transphobic, hermaphobic in the country. Finally got my medical records from Saint James, I would be immediately ‘outed’ for being even stranger than a transsexual, because when it came to gender reassignment, I did not even have the balls for successful, routine, sex change surgery.
Not that life in Brawns ‘broken Britain’ under those ConDem (ed) by convenience and connivance, was to be any better for me than under Nazi lying New Labour. In many respects it is worse, especially the sleep depravation and white noise, because it is like going instantly back in time to the worse days of Margaret Hatcher. With breeze-block in handbag, her attentive Chingford Suede Heads and Cardinal Ratsinger on hand, as they started this aspect of what is called ‘targeting’.
When Hatcher asked the Chancellor of a local university. If they could find some way to stop me working without having to resort to murder, a way that had the added advantage of being used to discredit me, if I made the fundamental mistake of telling anyone else about what was happening and why.
Which I did not for over two decades, at least until just before the start of the Second Gulf War, when having refused to go to war based upon nothing but lies and deception. In that Iraq had weapons and stockpiles of weapons of mass destruction, ready to launch against British bases upon the Island of Cyprus within thirty minutes of the order being given.
Because after my experiences of the First Gulf War, I knew what I was talking about and this was nothing more than Saddam Hussun being hoisted by his own patard. During the military and industrial complexes next profitable ‘pretext’ war against oil rich country’s and the CIA’s old friend and puppet, the Sunnis champion against the spread of Shi dominance.
Having worked with a colleague for over ten years, I finally made the fundamental mistake of telling them about the ‘targeting’ and how bad it had been, since I refused to support or take part in a Second Gulf War. With person or persons unknown coming into my home and smashing things when I was out, the neighbours from Hell blocking off taxi’s and standing outside my home shouting threats and abuse, the constant drugging and white noise. By the end of the next day, it was all around the charity sector that I had gone mad and did not know what I was doing – bing, bang, bung, bonus.
The years of persistent ‘targeting’ had finally paid off when I eventually discredited myself – detain, discredit and destroy being the long term game plan for the Catholics, Christian fundamentalists, Jews and certain Arabs. All that now remained was to destroy me, having firstly ‘outed’ me as being a hermaphrodite, a thing neither fish nor fowl, both partly male and partly female but wholly neither.
Following which, the level of ‘targeting’ went into the party foam politics of those demented, desperate and determined to spin again lies into truth, lead into gold and enduring freedom and democracy into elected despotism. All spin without substance, from mad men and maniacs with one eye larger then the other. Who believed they heard the voice of God talking to them inside their heads, saying invade Iraq and destroy the homosexuals, transsexuals and hermaphrodites, all damned to the flames of Hell whose fuel are stones and men.
Not until I had been raped, subjected to domestic violence and the insidious way male bullies destroy your self-confidence and create an imaginary dependence, based upon the fact that it would never ever happen again. Treat with considerably less respect and with fewer rights than a camel, subjected to the sexual controls, exploitation, and expectation men have put upon women from the dawn of history. Not until I lived with the inequality and patronising garbage that came from having more balls than brains. Did I fully understand for the first time the liberation theology of ‘The Female Eunuch’?
Because for me, normality was just a dream that I would never know in this world. Little wonder at the time I used to think that if there was indeed a God, he (sic) must really have had it in for me and was just a bastard, a complete bastard who was probably nothing but a frustrated Freudian empiricists. As for penis envy, I admit to that, which is why I probably like the ‘silver backs’ and men with big ones, the real throat ticklers.
While thanks to Nazi lying Labour and its concentration camp Doctors, I have just waited over three months for a decision on whether the Trust will give me the funding to see a surgeon, with experience of the procedure I need. Over three months when I was told it would take a month for them to consider my application for funding and I am no closer to getting treatment on the health service than when I started, now almost two years ago – bing, bang, bung, bonus.
Life is not getting better for me, under Cameraroom101 it is getting worse and worse. But all it ever takes for evil to thrive and prosper is that good men and women remain silent. A silence that over the past thirty years has been deafening, especially from the demented and dangerous rodents in the rats palace (Westminster), where there are clearly no good men or women, just steaming sleazeballs and those living off the fat of a system firmly rooted in the seventeenth century.
Though started all those years ago by Hatcher and Ratsinger, nothing could have prepared me for the malevolence, hatred, criminality, and pack of lies from beginning to end. That came from Nazi lying Labour, in particular Tony Bear (evil incarnate) and John Presscoat (playground bully), lies they are still selling to the stupid and gullible, crimes they and their friends are still committing in the name of national security. Lies that allowed them to persecute me for thirty years for being something I am not, a transsexual. Because had I been, then I would not be having the problems I now have.
Having kept this secret for decades because of a misguided sense of shame, inferiority, shock, confusion and embarrassment, at least I can now hold my head high and say with pride, I did not even have the balls for a sex change operation. So sod the lot of you, there is not one good man or woman amongst you who will tell the truth, not one. For something very rotten in the woodpile hides.
To read further extracts from a profiler’s casebook, ‘The Distressing Case Of The Missing Girls’
click on the following link: https://ser101@wordpress.com/
They Simply Smile That Way ……
Do Hermaphrodites Care About Birth Certificates?
To be born into modern society’s monochromatic world of male and female, may be correct and acceptable for the majority of live births. But this is a tyranny of conformity imposed by man’s religion, policed by well meaning but deluded Doctors thinking themselves like unto God’s. Able to impose a sex upon those born with ambiguous or abnormal genitalia, without the child’s knowledge or consent, often shortly after birth.
A belief reinforced by the hypercritic oath and ‘medical model of disability’, when from the start of their training. Doctors are taught to believe that the patient is the problem, whose abnormality, or disability needs curing. While all patients are incapable of making decisions about their own lives and need qualified medical professionals to look after them. Because ultimately they can never be as equal socially and personally as a non-disabled person.
At least those born with the closed or hidden form of hermaphrodism, escape the social condemnation of difference and medical conformity at or shortly after birth. Only to be imprisoned by the sexual monochrome of male and female based upon assumed genital sex at birth, while often possessing undeveloped internal organs and the characteristics of a different sex.
In a world where nature is constantly more powerful than all the learnt consequences of nurture. Where sex is not bound by the laws of either/or, the monochromatic possibility of a species possessing only two sexes but a mix and match of genetic, hormonal and physical possibility. Beyond the limiting, consistent definitions of chromosomal, hormonal, psychological and physical sex used to define, to deny, to limit human potential and possibility from the very moment of birth as being either male or female.
For hermaphrodites born with either the open (easy to diagnose) or closed (more difficult to diagnose, especially sixty years ago) form. No matter what sex is assigned at birth it will not be true or accurate, because we are part male and part female, yet wholly neither sex.
Beyond the single sex potentials and possibilities society, in particular the medical profession, imposes upon those gifted or cursed (dependent upon your personal opinion) with being something more. A proto human, a hermaphrodite born to this world without the sins of sex.
Destined to live without sex drive (male) or libido (female) inside society’s inescapable prison, chained to the expectations, the conformity of being either male or female, while possessing the ability to be something more. Something greater than the various elements comprising male and female, something that transcends the human limitations of being born only one sex.
In a world were men and women, because of social patterning and expectations, might as well be completely different species, from different but parallel realties, in different universes of the ever-expanding multiverse.
Speaking personally, knowing that whatever it says upon my birth certificate will not be true. Just a medical imposition and social conformity to the limited, limiting two sex world of those not gifted, blessed with the diversity and difference of the human condition in all its potential forms and sexuality’s.
I do not care whether it says male or female because in totality I was born neither, yet both and ultimately something more than the either/or the Priests and medical profession continue to impose upon their parishioners and patients.
After decades of hiding this, the final taboo, I am proud to have been born different. Privileged to have lived the first third of my life being raised as male, when my perfectly formed genitalia failed to develop any larger than those of a five-year-old. Without the compulsions and confusions of sex drive or libido I became as nothing, the alone with the alone.
Lost to the contradictions and anomalies of becoming, I am eternally grateful to Derek Eastwood and his colleagues for giving me a libido, sex life, and the wonder, the possibility of love. Despite the social injustices, inequalities and inferiority’s, living the next two thirds of my life as a woman brought. Chained to Frauds penis envy by personal inadequacy for the rest of my life, just for wanting to have babies and be a mummy.
Though forever resentful and disappointed by the repeated misdiagnosis and treatment of Doctors, who literally put me through a medical nightmare seemingly without end. Having first missed a chance to diagnose my condition aged eight, when during an outpatient visit to the local children’s hospital, now recovering from an almost fatal bout of pneumonia and pleurisy.
My mother first voiced her concerns about my behaviour and penis to a Doctor, who having asked me to drop my trousers told her that everything was fine and there was nothing to worry about. Which I remember to this day because usually at an outpatient’s appointment they would tap my chest, listen to my lungs and ask me to breathe deeply. This was the first and only time one asked me to drop my trousers and examined my genitalia.
What her concerns about my penis were, I do not know to this day but that all-important first opportunity to diagnose correctly my condition, had been missed after a cursory examination by a chest specialist.
Well, it was not all right and there was actually lots to worry about, given the pathological secrecy of the medical profession regarding hermaphrodism and the inconsistency of its diagnosis and treatment around the country, especially with the closed or hidden form.
At least I was only forced to live twenty-four years as a sex I did not want to be, some people, especially those born with the open form, are compelled to live all their lives being a sex chosen for them by interfering, over enthusiastic Doctors. When they should have been allowed to develop and explore the possibilities. Deciding for themselves the sex they wished to spend their adult lives as, having explored all the options and spoken to others suffering from their particular form of hermaphrodism.
What is a birth certificate but a piece of paper and a whole world, a whole life of socio/sexual expectation? Limiting further the potential for human development, the evolutions of form because it is not being born a hermaphrodite that is sad, negative, a medical nightmare seemingly without end. But the way that the medical profession, religion and society limit through conformity and denial. Those born both partly male and partly female, those free from the sins of sex, filled with the wonder and possibility of human form and experience in all its variations and evolutions.
Doctors, leave those kids alone, if they can urinate and have functioning kidneys it is not a medial emergency. Let them, let us explore the possibility and decide for ourselves the sex we wish to be, if anyone is happy as an untreated hermaphrodite, that is fine to.
It is forced medical intervention and repeated misdiagnosis that makes us sad, depressed, resentful of the medical nightmare seemingly without end, into which misguided, well meaning but incompetent Doctors cast hermaphrodites.
Birth certificates! I used mine as toilet paper, what did you do with yours?
Why All The Medical Secrecy And Deception About Hermaphrodism?
What is it about the word hermaphrodite that makes the average Doctors brain short circuit and over-load? Leaving apparently sane, decent human beings to believe themselves like unto Gods. Able to chose a child’s sex shortly after birth, without consultation or consideration to the possible consequences in later life.
Eager to make perfect all physical imperfections and sexual anomalies in the image of a species comprised of only two sexes; an either/or tyranny and conformity, imposed, limiting from birth to death the human condition and possibility in all its possible forms and variations.
If your are a Doctor or medical student, try saying the word slowly, while breaking it down into its constituent parts – her-maph-rodite. There! The world has not changed, civilisation has not crumbled back into a primal chaos, and there is absolutely no reason to start panicking, or trying to justify the unjustifiable. Your patient’s heads have not exploded, nor have they become semi-divine psychotic, inhuman monsters.
So why all the secrecy and subterfuge when it comes to treating hermaphrodites, especially the open form. Who inevitably fall victim to over-enthusiastic, well meaning but misguided Doctors. Despite the fact that in the majority of cases this is not a medical emergency but should be a personal choice when the time is right.
At least those born with the closed or hidden form of hermaphrodism were spared this untimely imposition of sex by the followers of the medical model of disability. Only for our perfectly formed external genitalia not to develop as and when it should.
Like a slow motion multiple road smash, it just goes on getting worse and worse, a nightmare seemingly without end, especially sixty years ago during the ‘dark ages’ of treatment for intersex patients by the British National Health Service. When diagnosis of those with the closed or hidden form before puberty was non-existent and not that good afterwards.
My mother first mentioned her concerns that there was something wrong with me or my genitalia, to a Doctor at the local children’s hospital when I was eight years old. After a cursory examination the Doctor, a chest consultant, said everything was fine and that there was nothing to worry about. Wrong!
Personally it took me until the age of ten, before I knew what sex I felt happiest being. When I started wanting to have babies and be a mummy. Aged twelve or thirteen I heard through the more vicarious elements of the media, about men who had changed their sex. Being young and stupid I thought that if I could change my sex, I would be able to have babies but of course you can’t.
Let’s try saying that word one more time, shall we? That is it – her-maph-rodite. Because like it or not nature is not perfect, some people are born imperfect, some part male and part female. Though when it comes to determining the sex of those with the open form. They and they alone should discover for themselves, which sex they wish to become, if indeed any.
While for those with the closed or hidden form, constant misdiagnosis from an early age and not understanding what is happening or why, just compounds the medical nightmare seemingly without end of those born with perfectly formed genitalia that failed to develop as and how they should, especially decades ago. Because they to should be allowed to discover for themselves, which if any sex they may wish to live their adult lives as, while there may be those happy to
remain as untreated hermaphrodites, just so long as they make this choice for themselves.
If only the medical profession and its social expectation that sex is an either/or possibility of male and female, could acknowledge that in the real world that is not always true. Either physically in the case of hermaphrodites or psychologically as with transsexuals.
This is the most personal of all journeys and self-discovery, only the medical profession and social expectations of sex and sexuality, make what is a privileged, learning experience. Into a medical nightmare seemingly without end for those sad freaks, scared and traumatised because of unnecessary surgery or repeated misdiagnosis from an early age.
Once hermaphrodites were worshiped and revered, no one is asking for that. Just that the medical profession and society accept not all people are born wholly male or female. While allowing hermaphrodites to discover their chosen sex for themselves, having touched their own soul or spirit, because like it or not, none of us are ever going to be normal males or females, much as this may upset the God-like tendencies of Doctors.
Explore the infinite possibility of the human condition, become yourself, yourself. It is a privileged journey fate has cast us all on, learn, grow, become, explore, and above all, accept. Be proud to be different, to transcend the limitations of human possibility and experience, becoming all you possibly can in this short life.
Why is the average Doctor more than willing to tell a patient that they are a diagnosed schizophrenic, transvestite, and transsexual. But when it came to the top expert at the countries only gender identity unit in the country, refusing to treat me because he did not think that I was a transsexual. Though as for why and what he thought I was other than the Easter Bunny. Doctor Randell would never say, why?
Did he think I would rush out and throw myself under the first train to pull into Charring Cross tube station? I almost did that anyway, it was only the fact that I managed to convince myself it was part of a test they put everyone through, which actually stopped me.
Of course it was not a test and as this realisation slowly dawned, I resolved to become the perfect transsexual, because if I ever got a second chance at surgery, I was not going to blow it again. Six years I spent supporting people who, having done their year were going down to Charring Cross for surgery. When I was not a transsexual but a hermaphrodite, without even the balls for a successful sex change operation.
Being a hermaphrodite with either the open or closed form is personally traumatic enough, without Doctors turning it into a medical nightmare without end. They certainly know how to help people!
The National Health Service Complaints Procedure – Not Fit For Purpose!
Life for a hermaphrodite born with the hidden or closed form sixty years ago was to be condemned to a living hell. Death by degrees made into a medical nightmare seemingly without end, when aged eight I was first examined by a Doctor at the local children’s hospital.
That was the first chance the medical profession had to correctly diagnose and help with my condition. Because by the age of ten or eleven I was barking mad, wanting to have babies and become a mummy. Having heard about men changing sex I thought if I did that, I could be a mummy, not that aged twelve I knew what sex even was.
At least I thought I now knew what I was, a transsexual and wanted in life, a sex change operation. Only to discover from a psychiatrist aged fifteen that I was, according to him, a schizophrenic, who with the correct medication and support should be able to lead a full and productive life. Wrong!
Eight years of being treat as a schizophrenic before being incorrectly diagnosed by other psychiatrists as a manic-depressive, transvestite, and transsexual. Wrong! Which is what I thought I was aged around twelve – at least for the first time the medical profession started to encourage me to live as a woman. Even though at this point in time there were absolutely no treatment facilities on the British National Health Service.
I was in the process of transitioning from living as male to female, when Doctor Randell started the country’s first ‘gender identity unit’ at Charring Cross Hospital in London. How lucky was that? Having received an appointment to see him I thought completion, do my year and surgery at last. Only to be refused treatment from the country’s leading expert, because he did not think that I was a transsexual. Right!
Unfortunately, despite writing to him every year around the date of that first and only appointment, to say I had just lived another year as a women. He would never help, or even tell me why he thought I was not a transsexual. Six years I spent learning to become the perfect transsexual, thinking if I ever get a second chance at surgery, I am not going to blow it again. Wrong!
Having eventually found a surgeon at Saint James University hospital in Leeds who said he could help me, I then go into hospital only to learn that I do not have the balls for a successful sex change operation and am apparently, what they called a hermaphrodite. Right!
Assuming that the Hull National Health Service would have been informed by Doctor Randell, he would not treat me as in his professional opinion I was not a transsexual, or that the surgeons at Saint James. Would have written to someone in the local health authority, if only my GP, to explain what surgical procedures they had performed and why.
It came as a complete shock to learn that according to my medical records, I was a transsexual. All be it the only one I have encountered that did not have the balls for a sex change, did not need breast implants and had all the other anomalies and abnormalities I did.
Having finally recovered from the shock, confusion, and personal anger, especially after the hell, the medical nightmare seemingly without end, Doctors and the medical profession put me through from the age of eight with their incompetence and repeated misdiagnosis. I naturally complained to the local Health Authority, only to have my complaint blocked and dismissed in a most amateurish, shameful and insensitive manner, by bureaucrats and Doctors with pound signs in eyes and possible litigation in mind.
If only someone had examined my complaint, acknowledging me for what I was, providing consistency of treatment and said sorry for repeated misdiagnosis from the age of eight, that would have been fine, I would have been happy but oh no! They became defensive, confrontational and about as helpful and supportive as a squashed hedgehog in the middle of a motorway, middle of the summer bank holiday get away for the lemmings.
All I wanted was acknowledgement of what I actually was, along with some consistency of diagnosis and treatment. Instead and despite the support of the Independent Complaints and Conciliation Service (ICAS) who were excellent, very helpful. The local Health Authority came on like ostriches with heads firmly in buckets of sand, hoping that thanks to freshly polished bullshit and the usual medical flimflam, I would give up and go away.
Grateful and obedient to them for putting me through the personal hell of a medical nightmare, seemingly without end, of taking what chance of a life that I might have had due to incompetence, repeated misdiagnosis and systematic administrative failures, as forming their wagons into a circle. They continued to protect each other’s backs, in accordance with their Hippocratic oath and God-like professional infallibility.
Leaving me with two courses of action, either take my complaint to the Health Service Independent Ombudsman, or find a solicitor willing to take my case on a no win, no fee basis. Out of growing cynicism, especially after my recent experience of the Health Service ‘complaints procedure’, which if my personal experiences are anything to go by, is NOT FIT FOR PURPOSE!
Of having various Doctors compound the considerable personal hell of being born a hermaphrodite with the closed or hidden form, for the past sixty years. Giving Hatcher, Ratsinger, Bear, Clintin, Presscoat, Brush, O’Barmy, religious fundamentalists et al, the opportunity to persecute me for the past twenty-eight years for being something that I was, am not, a transsexual; based upon nothing but a pack of lies from beginning to end.
I have decided to go the solicitor route in the hope of getting justice against the medical Mafia’s repeated injustice and insensitivity. Not for the money but in the hope of getting an accurate, consistent diagnosis and treatment for the first time in my life from the Hull National Health Service, along with whatever legal rights I may have as a hermaphrodite.
Not that I expect to find a solicitor locally willing to take my case against the Health Authority, which is either cynicism or more than likely, a decade spent as an officer of the Humberside Law Centre. Knowing intimately how the profession operates locally and who pulls the almost invisible strings that bind professionally and personally. Within Labours fortress Hull and Baron Von Munchhousen (by proxy) syndrome’s own personal fiefdom, at the heart of the Kingdom of the Living Dead.
Hermaphrodism – Curse Or Blessing?
Having no personal experience of being born with the open form, when I refer to hermaphrodism – curse or blessing? I can only speak from the perspective of an individual born with the closed or hidden form of hermaphrodism. Which though essentially individual forms of the same condition, have radically different life experiences due to the ease, or difficulty of diagnosis, especially decades ago.
When you could still smell the smoke from the recent witch burnings and antibiotics were the new magic bullet, saving humanity from the ravages of infections in a hospital close to you.
At least those of us born with the closed or hidden form, escaped the over enthusiasm of well meaning but deluded Doctors pretending to be God. Only to go through our own particular medical nightmare, seemingly without end, when our genitalia failed to develop as and when they should.
By which point age ten or eleven, I knew for certain the sex I wanted to be for the rest of my life, though not the reasons I felt the way that I did. At least my own particular journey between the sexes had finally begun, even if it was to take decades of repeated misdiagnosis and treatment. Before I finally understood why my genitalia had not developed and what I actually was, a hermaphrodite without even the balls for a successful sex change operation.
Escaping the early attentions of the medical profession proved to be a blessing, in that I got the chance to discover for myself the sex I wanted to spend my adult life as. Only for the blessing to became the curse of repeated misdiagnosis and a medical nightmare, seemingly without end. Because if men were from Mar’s and women from Venus, then I was from Alpha Century – freaky!
I am assuming that most hermaphrodites that did not know what sex they wished to be, the sex of their spirit and soul regardless of genitalia and the hormonal trauma. Of being partly male and partly female but wholly neither, by the age of ten, having displayed strange or aberrant behaviour for most of their lives.
Would certainly know that something was radically wrong, other than always having a smaller penis than other's in their age group, when puberty like a car with a flat battery failed to start the motor. To turn the damaged cogs and gears that became either sex drive or libido.
While to be born different was to be born to be bullied, to be an outsider stood alone in the most distant corner of the playground. This was the curse that society and everyday social interaction made life into, for those born with the closed or hidden form of hermaphrodism. Those as yet denied knowledge or understanding of why they felt and thought as they did.
Puberty is a traumatic time, even for those fortunate enough to be born with the sexual characteristics of only one sex. But for an undiagnosed hermaphrodite it is a complete nightmare, a personal horror, a growing feeling of shame and awareness of the inherent inferiority and difference, which inevitable results in secrecy and personal denial.
It is not size that matters but what you do with it; well the truth is that the average hermaphrodite has not got a clue what to do with their undeveloped genitalia. Other than have it reconstructed because of being both blessed and cursed by not having either sex drive or libido. Sexually it is like being nothing and completely dead below the waist, with a perfectly formed penis that did not develop much larger than that of the average five-year-old.
Little wonder those with the closed or hidden form, especially while it remains undiagnosed; develop massive inferiority complexes, feelings of personal inadequacy over this, the final taboo. Along with a growing sense of personal responsibility and failure, of being forever an outsider, a creature that is neither fish nor fowl but life unworthy of life!
It is the limitations of a two sex species, which makes hermaphrodism into a curse for there are few crueller than children to difference. While the ‘peer group’ security of puberty and its unfolding expectations was denied to me, to most hermaphrodites when like a car with a flat battery, the motor failed to start as it should and when everyone else’s did.
Making me into a bemused spectator to the collective though immature madness of their sexual awakening, all I saw were the increasingly complex interactions and consequences of something, something strange and alien beyond my personal understanding, or experience.
A secret world that I could not find a way into, inhabited by aliens and monsters whose secrets, those of all born with the biological sins of sex, I could not even begin to understand or share. Even before the Doctors cast me into a medical nightmare seemingly without end. Along with all the other damaged or unwanted individuals, thrown onto the steaming rubbish heaps bounding decent, God fearing societies and the shared hopes, the dreams of the button pushers and lever pullers. Whose two sex reality imprisoned the possibility, the evolution of humanity.
Cast out onto lives scrape-heap before it had even begun for me, by the first of many misdiagnoses. Schizophrenic! In reality it meant that my chances of getting a job, let alone have a career were no better than zero. Little wonder that I increasingly turned to drink and drugs, especially LSD, as a form of personal escape from in effect being dead, paralysed from the waist down; blessed as one of God’s holy innocents, free from the sins of sex at birth and until my mid-twenties.
Blessed with the opportunity to explore, to search for understanding and knowledge, to discover the infinite complexities of personal possibility, far from the familiar, secure shores of normal sexuality. Where are washed the driftwood, the flotsam and jetsam of sexual need, want, lust but above all, the familiarity. The security of sexual experience and expectations of those born only one of two possible sexes, those fortunate to have been born normal.
Because like all born a hermaphrodite, despite the best efforts of the surgeons I was never going to be normal and the sooner I accepted that, the better. Though it may have taken decades, I did finally learn to be proud to be born different, rather than feeling constantly inferior and personally ashamed. Grateful for the blessings of hermaphrodism that allowed me to remain innocent and beyond sexual sin, until my mid-twenty’s.
Privileged to have explored the spaces between the sexes, the unmapped worlds of possibility and personal potential, to transcend the physical limitations of sex and become something more than the sum total of its parts. A proto human in which the forces of nature are ever stronger than those of nurture, where imitation, incorporation and compliance are the invisible prisons holding the human spirit.
Limiting through expectation and anticipation the transcendent aspect of being, the possibility of form and function beyond the invisible walls all are imprisoned by from birth. When wrapped in pink or blue blanket, the possibilities of life are mapped, the expectations set forever like concrete by birth sex and the economic worth of male and female in contemporary society. Leaving only the fossilised footsteps of those travelling the path least travelled, as witness to their passing.
On a good day it is a blessing and I feel privileged to have been born forever different, without even the balls for a successful sex change operation. What a ride! Blessed to have been treat by brilliant surgeons, thanks to whom I not only developed a libido and knew for the first time in my life the destructive power of love and personal corruption’s of lust.
Blessed to finally experience the joys of orgasm thanks to the thousands of pounds spend on treating me by Saint James University Hospital and Leeds (NHS), thank you for the exceptional treatment. Blessed to have lived a third of my life as a boy, though in all honesty I do not to this day have a single clue what all that boy stuff was about. And two thirds of my life as a woman, paid less for doing the same job as a man and with less worth than a healthy camel, or donkey in some societies.
A thing in a world of things created for man’s pleasure according to their command and inherent social superiority. Blessed that I got to burn my bra and received a good feminist education. Blessed to become a ‘Female Eunuch’ whose life is forever blighted by penis envy and a love of big cocks.
Blessed to live in a society and time when hermaphrodites with the closed or hidden form, despite repeated misdiagnosis, can be freed from the sexual nothingness of being and know the comforts of libido and sexual intercourse. Blessed not to have suffered the indignity of extensive skin grafts, previously the only treatment for intersex patients with insufficient penile tissue for successful reassignment as women.
Blessed to be the first to have a Sigmoid colon in the UK, this at the time was being publicised as a new, effective treatment for intersex patients. Blessed that it worked for me as I hope it worked for you without to many long-term complications. Blessed that someone had my best interest at heart and were willing to treat me for what I was, a rebel without a cause and hermaphrodite without the balls for successful surgery.
Blessed that I lived long enough to finally feel pride about being a hermaphrodite, a ‘thing’, and an ‘it’ with life long penis envy and constant vaginal discharge. Blessed to have found personal contentment and happiness, despite exiting stage left in my thirty’s mumbling ‘vanity, vanity, all is vanity’ and going east in search of something more satisfying than the overt materialism of the west.
Blessed to have found myself, amidst the personal confusions of being born partly male and partly female – as it said above the entrance to the temple at Delphi – know they self. Blessed to have been born to be bullied because what does not destroy me only makes me stronger.
Every journey begins with a single step, every life a single cell. Become all you are capable of becoming and forget the bad days, when it feels like a curse, a medical nightmare seemingly without end. Be proud to have been born different, you are blessed with experiencing sexual transcendence and the possibility of becoming something more, a proto human and the first of your kind to be seen upon the earth.
The Final Taboo – The Final Word
Admittedly, after all the surgery I was at first a little promiscuous but hey, I was making up for lost time and is that not what all second year students did, have lots of sex and party? Especially after the final occasion when I had gone to bed with a man before surgery, who the second I took my clothes off, had an asthma attack and I mean a bad attack. So bad we slept with the lights on so I could wake up every hour just to make sure he was still breathing, needless to say, nothing remotely sexual happened.
While for obvious reasons I did not relish the idea of having to explain to the police what a person of mixed gender such as myself, was doing with a dead man in their bed. At the time he completely freaked me out and I hope I did not scare him for life. We should have kept to the bird watching because he was never the same with me again; at least I can laugh about it all now.
Life goes on. Eventually I became more selective, while trying to repay my debt to society and the Health Service in particular, for literally saving my life – what a ride! Only to become caught up in the First Gulf War, having by this point converted to Islam, become a Sufi, a follower of Ibn Arabia and learnt classical Arabic. What can I say that has not already been said better? Other than I came out of the six-week air campaign well ‘wobbly’, feeling like a criminal and mass murderer.
Though the full consequences of this death and destruction upon an industrial scale, would not wake from the silences of memory for years, where they lay suppressed, forgotten and festering under thickening layers of relative normality. If you can call spending twenty years involved in the forensic profiling of child murderers, serial killings, and terrorist attacks normal.
Because eventually it made me sexually frigid and was to drive me mad on the afternoon that a double murderer was found guilty of crimes I, as a small part of the many teams within a team that is a modern criminal investigation, helped to profile eighteen months earlier. When I burst into tears and subsequently cried my heart out for thirty or forty minutes, before I could begin to compose myself, every time it was mentioned.
So bad did this become, I was no use to myself let alone another investigation. I took a year out to deal with all the post traumatic stress, only to never go back to profiling with the exception of one final case. While the best I was ever to become, having built a growing reputation locally, then nationally and internationally.
Nazi lying Labour was already involved in a long-term act of targeting and revenge against the only gazelle in a lion’s enclosure. When as part of my responsibilities as an officer of a law centre, I informed a ‘local government audit officer’ about allegations, along with reports of criminal activities and abuse of office. That would result in the local Labour Council being put on special measures and having to lose the next local election, or be taken to court on mass.
The only other person, who knew what I was about to say, the centre’s co-ordinator would receive the customary pieces of Judas silver and a job with the local council for life. Upon that fateful day when I learnt that he already knew and given the questions he asked me, when I went into our conference room and asked: "Do you know, really know what is going on in this city?" I was already a dead thing walking shaky and hesitant from the moment of impact.
He already knew so there was no need for me to sacrifice my professional and personal reputation and eventually, the Law Centre out of a misguided sense of civic duty and personal morality. The rest as they say, is history with the Vatican and a mad, bad collection of those talking in tongues the language of Christian fundamentalism. Going on to persecute and harass me for thirty years for being something I was not, a transsexual, shame on you all!
But most of what Margaret Hatcher and Cardinal Ratsinger (soon to become Pope Adolph The Persecutor), Brush, Clintin, Brush, Bear, Presscoat, Brawn and O’Barmy et al peddled as truth, was nothing but a complete pack of lies from beginning to end. In that they could make me work or not work, without even knowing how I worked, or the fact I was what the medical profession call an hermaphrodite and not a transsexual.
Not that I would expect any different from Bear and Presscoat, they were just being their usual incompetent, lying, demented selves as laughing insanely, they turned their cardboard kaleidoscopes and made it up as they went along.
Frigid, mad and suffering from the effects of multiple post traumatic shock it would take seven years of personal Hell and the writing of four books. Before the various marsh gasses eventually bubbled and blopped through memories brackish, stagnant water. Seven long and lonely years before I could regain my trust in men, enough to even think about having sexual intercourse again.
Seven years of existential nausea, when I withdrew from the world and even myself, not trusting nor daring to open myself to another living being, least of all a man. When all I ever profiled was the sadist and sickest that men could do. Mostly but not always to women and children, non of the many forensic profiles that I helped to work, involved a woman and the phenomena of the female suicide bomber was something I had yet to encounter. But get through the swirling vapours and poisonous gases I eventually did.
Seven years before I got my libido back and sex became a potential for pleasure, only to discover that my own body had again become traitor to my hopes and desires, at the very moment I emerged from the caves darkness. Blinking, confused, dazed into the clear light of a new day. It was impossible to get a penis beyond the point where all those years ago, they had joined together two pieces of my Heath Robinson insides and I was again proper fucked. Or would have been, had it not been for the join, which became traitor to my sexual needs and desires.
Baron Von Munchhousen (by proxy syndrome) of Presscoat & Son’s Poisoners Paradise and his ageing criminal conspiracy of silence, must have thought all their Christmases had come at once. Because to date I have been trying for almost two years to get what is relatively minor surgery, a ‘z’ plaste that would make such a difference to my life. So far without any success or progress, while the initial frustration has given way to depression.
With the Christian hordes and followers of the anti-Christ, the enduring fantasy God of men more intent upon saving wealth and power than souls. Sensing blood, have gone for the kill – sod not being able to have a television because some pratt keeps cutting the aerial cable - sod not being able to grow anything in my garden without it being pulled up or poisoned – sod the fact that most of my post goes missing - sod the demented and dangerous rodents in the rats palace who are about as useful as a bag of melted ice cubes – sod the white noise, drugging, poisoning, harassment, physical assaults and criminal damage – sod the giant ‘bung beetles’ pushing another lying sleazeball politician around Westminster’s gold paved streets – sod the neighbours from hell, the harpy constantly screeching: ‘Give me, give me, give me – sod Nazi lying Labours gangs of feral children and compliant Council Officials – sod the lot of you, because all it takes for evil to prosper is for good men and women to remain silent
Now it is personal and would get even more personal once the local Heath Authority, one of the nineteen worse performing and from my experience the most homophobic, transphobic, hermaphobic in the country. Finally got my medical records from Saint James, I would be immediately ‘outed’ for being even stranger than a transsexual, because when it came to gender reassignment, I did not even have the balls for successful, routine, sex change surgery.
Not that life in Brawns ‘broken Britain’ under those ConDem (ed) by convenience and connivance, was to be any better for me than under Nazi lying New Labour. In many respects it is worse, especially the sleep depravation and white noise, because it is like going instantly back in time to the worse days of Margaret Hatcher. With breeze-block in handbag, her attentive Chingford Suede Heads and Cardinal Ratsinger on hand, as they started this aspect of what is called ‘targeting’.
When Hatcher asked the Chancellor of a local university. If they could find some way to stop me working without having to resort to murder, a way that had the added advantage of being used to discredit me, if I made the fundamental mistake of telling anyone else about what was happening and why.
Which I did not for over two decades, at least until just before the start of the Second Gulf War, when having refused to go to war based upon nothing but lies and deception. In that Iraq had weapons and stockpiles of weapons of mass destruction, ready to launch against British bases upon the Island of Cyprus within thirty minutes of the order being given.
Because after my experiences of the First Gulf War, I knew what I was talking about and this was nothing more than Saddam Hussun being hoisted by his own patard. During the military and industrial complexes next profitable ‘pretext’ war against oil rich country’s and the CIA’s old friend and puppet, the Sunnis champion against the spread of Shi dominance.
Having worked with a colleague for over ten years, I finally made the fundamental mistake of telling them about the ‘targeting’ and how bad it had been, since I refused to support or take part in a Second Gulf War. With person or persons unknown coming into my home and smashing things when I was out, the neighbours from Hell blocking off taxi’s and standing outside my home shouting threats and abuse, the constant drugging and white noise. By the end of the next day, it was all around the charity sector that I had gone mad and did not know what I was doing – bing, bang, bung, bonus.
The years of persistent ‘targeting’ had finally paid off when I eventually discredited myself – detain, discredit and destroy being the long term game plan for the Catholics, Christian fundamentalists, Jews and certain Arabs. All that now remained was to destroy me, having firstly ‘outed’ me as being a hermaphrodite, a thing neither fish nor fowl, both partly male and partly female but wholly neither.
Following which, the level of ‘targeting’ went into the party foam politics of those demented, desperate and determined to spin again lies into truth, lead into gold and enduring freedom and democracy into elected despotism. All spin without substance, from mad men and maniacs with one eye larger then the other. Who believed they heard the voice of God talking to them inside their heads, saying invade Iraq and destroy the homosexuals, transsexuals and hermaphrodites, all damned to the flames of Hell whose fuel are stones and men.
Not until I had been raped, subjected to domestic violence and the insidious way male bullies destroy your self-confidence and create an imaginary dependence, based upon the fact that it would never ever happen again. Treat with considerably less respect and with fewer rights than a camel, subjected to the sexual controls, exploitation, and expectation men have put upon women from the dawn of history. Not until I lived with the inequality and patronising garbage that came from having more balls than brains. Did I fully understand for the first time the liberation theology of ‘The Female Eunuch’?
Because for me, normality was just a dream that I would never know in this world. Little wonder at the time I used to think that if there was indeed a God, he (sic) must really have had it in for me and was just a bastard, a complete bastard who was probably nothing but a frustrated Freudian empiricists. As for penis envy, I admit to that, which is why I probably like the ‘silver backs’ and men with big ones, the real throat ticklers.
While thanks to Nazi lying Labour and its concentration camp Doctors, I have just waited over three months for a decision on whether the Trust will give me the funding to see a surgeon, with experience of the procedure I need. Over three months when I was told it would take a month for them to consider my application for funding and I am no closer to getting treatment on the health service than when I started, now almost two years ago – bing, bang, bung, bonus.
Life is not getting better for me, under Cameraroom101 it is getting worse and worse. But all it ever takes for evil to thrive and prosper is that good men and women remain silent. A silence that over the past thirty years has been deafening, especially from the demented and dangerous rodents in the rats palace (Westminster), where there are clearly no good men or women, just steaming sleazeballs and those living off the fat of a system firmly rooted in the seventeenth century.
Though started all those years ago by Hatcher and Ratsinger, nothing could have prepared me for the malevolence, hatred, criminality, and pack of lies from beginning to end. That came from Nazi lying Labour, in particular Tony Bear (evil incarnate) and John Presscoat (playground bully), lies they are still selling to the stupid and gullible, crimes they and their friends are still committing in the name of national security. Lies that allowed them to persecute me for thirty years for being something I am not, a transsexual. Because had I been, then I would not be having the problems I now have.
Having kept this secret for decades because of a misguided sense of shame, inferiority, shock, confusion and embarrassment, at least I can now hold my head high and say with pride, I did not even have the balls for a sex change operation. So sod the lot of you, there is not one good man or woman amongst you who will tell the truth, not one. For something very rotten in the woodpile hides.
To read further extracts from a profiler’s casebook, ‘The Distressing Case Of The Missing Girls’
click on the following link: https://ser101@wordpress.com/
