Peter
By Samantha Jay
© February 2002
Part 1: In the beginning.
"Samaritans, I'm Sam. How can I help you?"
"You can't, nobody can," a voice said.
"I'm willing to try, if you'll let me. What can I call you?"
"Peter," the voice replied.
"Hello, Peter, I'm Sam," I said.
"I'm going to kill myself," Peter said.
I pressed a button which lit a lamp on the supervisor's desk.
"Why do you want to kill yourself?" I asked, hearing the sound of sobbing
from the other end of the phone line.
"I want to die, I want the pain to go away," Peter sobbed. " I mean what I
say, I've got a knife."
"Shit, this was really serious," I thought, in my experience, using a knife
was not a cry for help. It was terminal.
"How old are you, Peter?" I asked, trying to keep him talking.
"Fourteen."
I pressed the button again and waved frantically at John, the supervisor.
"Peter, I'd like to meet you, can you tell me where you are phoning from?"
I gave John a sheet of paper. The colour drained from his face as he read
the note.
'Fourteen-year-old boy threatening to kill himself with a knife. I think
he's serious and I've got to get to him, be prepared to take over.'
John nodded his head in agreement.
"I'm not going to tell you. You'll only make me stop," Peter said.
"Peter, I only want to meet you, talk with you, face to face. Maybe buy you
a coffee or even a coke," I answered.
"You won't try and stop me?"
"Peter, I only want to have a talk with you. See if we can't work this thing
out," I answered.
He gave me the location of the phone box, it agreed with the information I
had. I could see the phone box's telephone number on my display and I had
checked this against the list supplied by British Telecom. But I wanted
Peter to trust me and this was the start of that trust the gaining, of
which, was vital.
"Peter, I'll be there in ten minutes. I'd like you to talk to a friend of
mine. He's called John. Promise me you'll talk to him?"
"Okay... I promise."
I passed the phone to John and ran to my car. John was good, but I had to
get there in time.
I drove like a bat out of hell, fortunately it was three in the morning and
there was no traffic around. The blue lights in my rear view mirror
surprised me.
"Damn!" I swore.
I stopped, got out and dashed to the police car.
Showing my ID to the police officer I said, "Sorry, officer. I've got a
fourteen-year-old boy who's threatening to kill himself. I'm trying to reach
him before he does."
Before the officer could answer my mobile rang.
"Excuse me. Sam here...yes, John... shit, okay... keep him on the line."
"I'm sorry about that, it looks like we are close to losing him, I've got to
get to him. Look, can I report to a police station later today and complete
any paperwork?" I handed the officer one of my cards.
Luck was with Peter that morning.
"That won't be necessary, sir. Be careful how you drive and... please save
him." The officer was thinking of his own fourteen-year-old child.
"I'll try and thanks," I said and sped off into the night.
A few minutes later, I arrived at the phone box and saw it still occupied. I
phoned the office.
"Chris, Sam. Tell John I've arrived and ask him to warn Peter of my
approach." I didn't want to scare Peter anymore than he was.
I waited thirty seconds and approached the phone box. As I neared, I could
see Peter's problem. As soon as I was near enough I called his name, softly.
"Peter?"
The boy turned and I open my arms in, what I hoped would be, a friendly
manner. Sobbing, he dropped the phone, ran to me and cried on my chest.
I let him cry, before going to the phone box and picking up the phone.
"We're coming in, he'll need a doctor," I said and hung up
I picked up the knife and led Peter back to my car. As he got in the front,
I put the knife out of harms way, in the boot.
Once back at the office, Chris and I took Peter to a private room and he sat
in a comfy chair.
"Tea, coffee or coke?" Chris asked.
"Tea, please," Peter answered and then thought, "I need warming up, this
dress is more suited for warm days than chilly nights."
Chris went to make the tea, but left the door open; she knew I wouldn't
leave Peter alone.
Peter was surprised. These people, the one's with him now, were the first
ones not to ridicule him, or laugh at him or even hit him.
Chris brought the tea and some biscuits and then sat quietly in a corner. We
had to protect each other, Peter from me and me from Peter. This way, no one
could say that I had molested Peter.
"Peter, do you want to tell me about it?" I asked gently.
"About what?" Peter asked.
"About why you want to kill yourself?"
"My parents came back early and caught me. Mom, walked out of the room
saying I wasn't her son anymore and dad..." Peter paused, started crying and
continued, "Dad just kept hitting me. Why did mom say that? I can put up
with dad hitting me, but why did she say that?"
Chris went over to Peter and he put his head on her chest and bawled his
eyes out.
"You poor child," she said softly, almost motheringly. "You have a good cry,
it'll will feel better after."
We let Peter have a real good cry; Chris mouthed 'I hate his parents' to me.
I knew what she was saying; I just could not understand how someone could
say that to a vulnerable and impressionable child. But we were professionals
and we wouldn't let our feelings cloud the issue... we couldn't afford to.
Peter's life was at stake.
We may have stopped this attempt, but unless we could help him find a
solution, there could be other attempts and it only needs one to succeed. It
didn't bear thinking about. That's why I volunteered to be a Samaritan; I
couldn't bear the thought of someone needlessly throwing his or her life
away. I had to help, needed to help and Peter needed that help more than
most.
There was a knock on the door, I opened it and John told me the doctor was
here. I wanted to be sure there was no obvious injuries, without X-rays and
tests we wouldn't be sure, but...
"Peter, I'd like our doctor to have a quick look at you, don't worry, she's
very nice. Would that be okay? Chris will be with you," I asked.
Peter nodded and, after I let the doctor in, I went to find John.
"I think we are going to have to get the NSPCC and Social Services involved,
John," I said. "He's told us that his dad hit him several times."
"I'll contact them now and get someone over right away."
"Thanks, let's hope we get a sympathetic social worker, I don't want to lose
him," I said.
It's not that social workers were unsympathetic, but they did have a very
big caseload and this one was awkward. Not everyone, like Peter's parents
demonstrated, handled the fact that he was wearing girl's clothes well.
There were a lot of prejudiced people about.
How did I know? From first hand experience. You see, I'm a transvestite and
it happened to me. Okay not as young as Peter, I was too scared to tell
anyone until I was over twenty and had left home. But the turmoil inside of
me, the constant pressure to appear 'normal', my parents and friends'
rejection of me, the pain of not being able to be dress how I wanted, all
these factors drove me to the brink of suicide.
I knew what Peter was going through, what I didn't know was whether he would
survive. It had been touch and go with me. If it hadn't been for my wife,
Chris...
Part 2: Sam's story.
What do you mean, you want to know about my attempt. Look, this is about
Peter, not me. Oh all right then, we have a little time while the doctor
examines Peter.
I was twenty-three, had a well-paid job with a well-known retailer and had
loads of friends. I had also been dressing since I was ten. My sister was a
year older than me and I had access to her cast offs. Not that she or mom
knew of course.
Over the years I had managed to keep my little stock of girls clothes hidden
and I had gotten very accomplished at girl things. I knew how to apply make
up and what styles and colours suited me. It wasn't easy, but I had my
sister as a role model. I took note of what she was doing, read her
magazines, when everyone was out, and just copied everything she did,
surreptitiously of course.
I did well at school and got a job as a trainee manager. I still lived at
home, but wasn't dating anyone. I completed my training and became a manager
at a city centre shop. Things were going well and I had lots of friends, at
least I thought I did.
Then came that fateful night. Mom and dad were out and sis had already left
home. I was alone and decided to get dressed. I hadn't had the opportunity
for a while and I was getting tetchy.
I got out my meagre stock of female things and had a shower. After drying, I
put on my one, and only, bra and knickers, filling the bra cups with foam
inserts. Black tights, white blouse and black skirt and I was ready for my
make up.
I hadn't, couldn't afford, a wig, but I did have some flat heel court shoes.
Looking in the mirror only confirmed what I knew I would see, a shorthaired
young woman.
I spent the evening watching television and I must have fallen asleep,
because the next thing I knew was hearing a loud shriek.
"Sam, what do you think you are doing?" mom yelled at me.
"Are you some sort of faggot?" my father said disgustedly.
"We never raised you to be like this, where did we go wrong?" mom said.
"Pervert," dad said.
I saw the loathing in dad's eyes coupled with a look of horror on his face.
Mom eyes had that sad look about them, the look that mothers who have lost
their sons in road accidents have. They were dead and lifeless eyes. I ran
out of the living room in tears.
I'd cried all night and, by morning, had packed my things into my car and
drove to work. I looked terrible. I found a small guesthouse to stay in and
tried to carry on with my life.
One by one, my friends drifted away, found reasons not to be seen with me.
The atmosphere at work became increasingly tense and strained. Eventually
they told me they had to let me go. No reason was given, but I knew. I knew
the reason why. Why I wasn't welcome at home, why I was about as inviting as
a four day old corpse. Why I was avoided like the plague, why I had to take
to living in my car.
Then late one night, I walked to an isolated beauty spot. I had to walk, as
I couldn't afford petrol for my car. I had made up my mind; I knew what I
was going to do. I noticed the phone box...
*****
"Samaritans, I'm Chris. How can I help you?"
"You can't, nobody can," a voice said.
"I'm willing to try, if you'll let me. What can I call you?"
"Sam," the voice replied.
"Hello, Sam, I'm Chris," she said.
"I'm going to kill myself," I said.
"Can we talk about it, Sam?" she asked.
"So that you can call me a weirdo before you hang up."
"I won't do that. Why do you want to kill yourself?"
"I have nothing to live for, I've no family, no friends, no job, no life.
All I've got is pain, misery and heartache," I replied.
"You've got me," she replied.
"And what can you do?"
"I can be your friend," she said.
"Why?"
"Because I'd like to," she replied.
"You are only saying that to stop me from killing myself," I said.
"No I'm not, I can never have enough friends," she said.
"You won't want to be my friend," I sobbed.
"Why not?"
"Because no one does," I answered.
"Can I meet you?" she asked.
"Why do you want to do that?"
"Because I want to be your friend and I can do that better by meeting you."
She sounded sincere and really interested in me, so I told her where I was.
"See you in fifteen minutes, now I want you to talk with Fred. That okay
with you?" she asked.
I must have said yes because I was soon talking with Fred about nothing in
particular.
Less than fifteen minutes had elapsed when Fred told me that Chris would be
approaching me.
"Hello, Sam," a soft voice said.
I turned and saw a beautiful young woman walking towards me.
"Chris?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "Can we go somewhere warmer? Do you mind if I talk with
Fred?"
She motioned me to her car and I handed her the phone.
"We're on our way in. Thanks, Fred," she said.
She drove back to their office and I was shown into a private room. I
dropped wearily into an armchair.
"Tea?" she asked.
I nodded and relished the comfort; I hadn't sat in anything like this for
months. I must have looked a right mess. I hadn't had a proper wash for
weeks; hell I hadn't done anything proper for ages. My hair was long and
greasy and my clothes, I couldn't remember the last time I'd changed them,
could stand up on their own. I wouldn't have recognised me.
"I'm sorry I look and smell like this," I said, when Chris came back in. "I
live in my car and there is no room for niceties."
"Why do you live in your car?" she asked.
"It's a long story."
"I've got all night," she said.
I sighed, took a sip of hot tea, savoured the taste and began my story.
"... After I'd lost my job, I couldn't afford anywhere to stay and without
an address you can't sign on for unemployment benefit and things just went
downhill from there. For the last few months I've been eating what I can
find, wherever I could find it, even dustbins," I said, finishing my tale,
having left nothing out.
"You poor thing," Chris said, tears running down her face. "Look, come back
to my place and get cleaned up, then I'll see about finding you somewhere to
stay and you can start rebuilding your life."
"But you don't know me," I said.
"I know you are a human being and that you have the right to a wash and
clean clothes. Look, I'm only offering you a bath."
"Thank you," I said with real humility.
Chris went to check with her supervisor and, after a few minutes, she came
back in, carrying her coat.
"Okay, Sam. Let's go and get you cleaned up."
She lived in a nice part of town and her flat smelled nice, at least it did
until I entered. She went into the bathroom and began filling the bath. She
then fetched a black bin liner and told me to follow her into the bathroom.
Take off all your clothes and put them in the bin liner. Then have a long
soak, don't worry about your hair, we'll deal with that later," she said.
She left the bathroom and I got undressed, following her suggestion. I
climbed into the bath, the warm water felt good. I lay back and relaxed.
Chris made me have two baths and I noticed that the water got progressively
cleaner as my body gave up its ingrained dirt. Even my hands looked cleaner.
After my second bath, I wrapped a towel around my waist and called for
Chris. It was time to get my hair washed. This would also be a long process.
It took two or three applications of shampoo and a lot of combing before all
of the tangles had been removed, with the worse knots being cut out.
"Sam, do you want to become a woman?" she asked.
I had told Chris about my dressing. I'd had to; it was the reason I was in
this mess.
"Chris, I'm not a woman trapped in a man's body, I'm a man trapped in men's
clothing," I answered. "At least I think that's what I am."
"Very deep," she said. "You know, you really have nice hair, when it's
clean."
"Thank you," I said.
"Did you shave regularly?" she asked.
"When?" I said.
"When you were living in your car."
"No," I said.
"So how come you haven't got a beard? Hey you've haven't got any chest hair
either."
"I never thought about it," I replied.
She led me to the guest bedroom. On the bed was a pile of clothes, all
women's.
"Haven't you got anything else?" I asked.
"Sam," she laughed, "I thought you liked wearing our clothes and anyway, in
your emaciated state I am bigger than you."
"Okay Chris, thanks. Look, do you think I could have a sleep, I don't know
when I last slept on a bed?"
"Yes, why not. Promise you won't do anything silly," she said.
"I promise."
"There's some jim-jams on the bed," Chris said, as she left the room.
I picked up the cotton top and shorts and put them on. I lay back on the bed
and was sound asleep in no time.
*****
I slowly woke up; I had no idea how long I had been out. I ventured in the
living room.
"Glad to see you are awake, you must be Sam?" a woman said.
"I am, but..."
"June," she said. "One of Chris's friends. She's asleep at the moment, but I
was asked to keep an eye on you."
June saw my puzzled look.
"You won't be left alone until we are happy that you have gotten over last
night," she added. "Hungry?"
"I've been hungry for months," I answered.
"You'll have to be careful of how much you eat, at least for a while. Your
stomach won't be used to eating large meals," she said.
June went into the kitchen.
"Tea or coffee?" she called.
"Tea, please?" I replied.
"Can you make one for me as well?" Chris said, emerging from her bedroom.
"Sleep well, Sam?"
"Yes I did, thanks," I answered. "And Chris..."
"Yes?" Chris said.
"I want to thank you for saving my life last night. I had literally reached
the end of the road; at least I'd thought so. Then you showed me such
kindness. Did you mean what you said last night, about being my friend?" I
started to cry.
"Yes I did, Sam. I wish I'd known you earlier. Maybe you wouldn't have had
to..."
Chris didn't finish, she also burst into tears and we hugged each other.
June came back into the living room with the tea.
"Good, I always feel better after a good cry. Now you are awake, Chris, I'll
go and let you two have a good talk. Girl to girl," June said.
After June had left I asked, "What did she mean, girl to girl?"
"Well Sam, with your long hair, slim body and longish fingernails, you do
look like a girl. Even more so wearing my jim-jams."
"But I'm a man," I said.
"Are you? Why did you want to kill yourself?" she asked.
"I told you why."
"Tell me again."
"Because my family has rejected me, because I've no friends, no job," I
said.
"That's not the whole reason is it?"
"Yes it is."
"Sam, if I gave you a choice, now, between wearing male or female clothes,
which would you choose?"
"I... I'm... er," I stammered.
"Sam, I know the answer. You told me last night that you copied your sister,
read her magazines. You said you learnt girl things," Chris paused.
"So," I said.
"Sam, that's the real problem, you don't know who you really are. Your body
says male, and even that's confused. Your mind, well I think your mind is
unsure. Part of it wants to be female, another part wants to be male and the
rest is undecided."
"I'm not sure where you are going, Chris."
"You need to resolve that conflict, one way or another. If you don't, it
will tear you apart and, who knows, the next time you try to kill yourself,
you may succeed. And there will be a next time," Chris replied.
"How do I do that?" I asked.
"Let me make a phone call. You go and get dressed."
I went to the guest room and took my top off. Something was nagging me,
something I'd forgotten.
"Shit, must have a wash," I thought.
You forget these simple things when you haven't been able to do them for so
long.
I went to the bathroom and had a wash. I looked round for a deodorant and,
finding a new one, used it.
Back in the guest room I started to get dressed. Cotton knickers, pop socks,
jeans and a t-shirt, they were a bit loose, but were okay. The shoes, flat
heel court shoes, were a little tight, but wearable.
"Chris," I said after walking into the living room, "any chance of a bra?"
"You want one?" Chris asked, smiling.
"Yes. I'd feel happier wearing one."
"Do you want padding?"
"No, I don't think so," I replied.
Chris fetched me one and then went to get dressed. I removed my t-shirt and
put the bra on, then put the t-shirt back on. I sat and waited for Chris to
emerge from her bedroom.
"Just got to brush my hair," Chris said, after finally coming into the
living room. "Yours could do with brushing as well."
She brushed her hair and then tossed the brush to me.
"I used your new deodorant, I hope you don't mind?" I said while I brushed.
"Not at all, we girls always share things."
I finished brushing and turned to look at Chris.
"You look really cute, I could go for you," Chris said.
"Yeah, right."
"I mean it. You really are cute."
"You are embarrassing me," I said.
"Come on, we've got to go."
"Where?" I asked.
"I've arranged for some tests to be done. I want to know if your enforced
diet has caused any damage," she answered.
She dragged me out of her flat and into the car.
We drove to a large private hospital and we reported to the reception desk.
Chris spoke to the receptionist and we sat down. We waited for about thirty
minutes and Chris's name was called. Following the nurse to a consulting
room, where we met a female doctor.
The next hour was full of x-rays, blood tests, sight tests and physical
exams. We went for lunch while the results were tabulated. Two hours later,
we were back in the consulting room.
"First of all, there is no physical damage, at least none that a well
balanced diet won't fix, but we found something unusual in the blood tests,"
the doctor told us. "It seems that there is a total lack of testosterone in
Sam's blood, there is a small amount of oestrogen, but nothing out of the
ordinary."
"What does that mean, doctor?" I asked.
"We are not sure why you have no testosterone, but your body has not
developed any of the secondary characteristics. To correct this, and to
start puberty, you will have to take hormones," the doctor said.
"Female hormones?" I asked.
"If that is what you want. At the moment, your body is a blank canvas. You
can go either way. The problem is, we don't know what effect hormones will
have on your condition."
"Sorry, doctor. I don't understand." I said.
"If you start on hormones, any hormones, will that kick your testosterone
production in, or are you incapable of producing testosterone?"
"Chris, what do you think I should do?" I asked.
"Well, you have been unhappy as a male and you almost lost your life," she
said.
"True," I said, "But will it be any better as a female?"
"A good question, but ask yourself this, which sex do you prefer to dress
as?" Chris said.
"But if I go down the female route, who would go out with me?"
"I would for a start, and I know a couple of other girls who would as well,"
she said.
"You'd go out with me, knowing what you know?" I asked.
"Clothes do not make the person, they are just body coverings. It's what's
inside the person that counts. There is an old saying 'Do not judge a book
by its cover' and it's just as valid today. You are the same person whether
you are wearing a skirt, trousers, trunks or nothing at all," Chris said.
"It's a pity that not all people are like you, Chris. Then maybe this world
would be a little better off," the doctor added.
"Thanks, Tracey, but most people are blinded by convention and anything out
of the ordinary, anything that defies that convention, is labelled as a
freak, or gay or both," Chris said. "Sam is outside of that convention and
almost killed himself, thanks to humanities' desire for everyone to conform
to the 'norm'. But there is no such thing as 'normal' when we are dealing
human beings. Everyone is different, everyone is special and everyone
deserves to be able to live their life how they want to live it."
"Wow, Chris. Where did that come from?" I asked.
"Sam, as a Samaritan, I have to deal with people who feel they have nothing
to live for, just like you did. It is a waste of a precious life, but in the
main they feel hounded, or persecuted or unloved and alone. Some want to die
because they have brought shame or dishonour on their family. Their problems
just get too much for them," Chris paused. "I haven't got a magic wand, I
can't make their problems disappear, but I can help them see that it's not
the end of the world they think it is. We win some, we lose some, but we, in
the Samaritans, never give up listening and trying to help."
"Well, Sam. What is your decision?" Tracey asked.
"I've made two, no make that three. First, I'd like to have female hormones,
second, I'd like to join the Samaritans, if they'll have me and three, I'd
like to take you out, Chris," I said.
"In that case, I'd like to monitor your hormone levels over the next year or
so, just in case your testosterone production starts," Tracey said.
"And I would be happy for you to take me out," Chris said.
*****
Well I started hormones and puberty (girl was that painful); my body never
did produce testosterone. The Samaritans accepted me, Chris had something to
do with that, and Chris and I did go out. We married a year later. I thank
whoever looks over me everyday for my meeting with Chris. I can honestly say
that the worst day of my life was, in actual fact, the best day of my life.
Part 3: Back to Peter.
The doctor came out of the room, leaving the door open, and spoke to us. Oh,
I didn't mention that the doctor was Tracey, the doctor I'd seen.
"A few bruises, but otherwise he seems to be okay," Tracey said.
"Thanks, Trace," I said and left her with John.
"How are you feeling, Peter," I asked.
"A bit better," he said.