Andrea's recent blog post has prompted me to describe some of my own early life. It's become apparent to me that many here suffer from, or have suffered from, terrible past experiences, and this has shaped who they have become. I am no different; however, my problem is that I can't remember.

My intent is to show that we all share common ground even though we may be as different as - a rail of dresses in a charity shop.

Unlike 'Drea, my problems likely stem from neglect and ignorance, although I wouldn't rule out a genetic or pre-natal development component. My parents met not long after the war. He was in the Royal Navy, she was recently arrived here from the colonies. Not the Windrush, although at the same time and for similar purposes. A month after they were married, he was posted off to Korea. I was born 9 months later. I didn't see him until I was three, by which time my future life had been decided for me.

She was young, alone in a strange country with a new child, and if I admit it to myself, probably not what we would call these days street-wise. It's possible I was not a model baby. Suffice it to say, by the time of my first memories at the age of three or so, I had been treated with what these days would probably been called abuse.

I vaguely remember that a wedding my mother and I attended caused extreme embarrassment, although I remember nothing about the day itself. It probably involved lots of white satin. Subsequently I do remember standing in my cot, screaming uncontrollably, as she approached me with a coil of rope. The terror of the memory leads me to suspect that she used to secure me in my cot, but the details are well gone or thoroughly suppressed. There are other things I have been told in passing which lead me to suspect that some of my father's "shipmates" called on her hoping to get a "favour" while he was away, and that may have included me. I don't know; she has put it out of her mind, and it's not in mine.

I do know that subsequently I hated, hated, being dressed up in any kind of special clothes. We're not talking girl's clothing here, more fancy dress and suchlike, even a shirt and tie. I used to scream and thrash about and protest, without it making any difference. It's made wearing any kind of uniform in later life very difficult.

School was a problem, both because of my growing health problems and because my mother was obviously foreign. I didn't have much interest in sports and still don't have a strong interest in anything particular. My mother made some serious faux pas which didn't further my cause. Because my father was away, we had little money and she decided to make me a winter coat from a spare blanket - something that would be unremarkable where she came from. Unfortunately, she made it with the buttons on the girl's side, and I became a nine-days wonder at school because of it. For some reason, it was assumed I wore the thing because I had some choice in the matter.

I had become aware, even at that age, that there were feelings I shouldn't let anyone become aware of. After my father returned, there were occasions when I was threatened with petticoating. Merely threatened, since he probably couldn't have carried it out, but the threat was enough. I certainly didn't want him to try, since it might reveal that I wanted to be. The mere threat was enough to make sure I never crept out of line, but probably not for the reasons he thought of. When we finally got a TV I could never watch any film that involved cross-dressing, the sole exception being "Some like it hot", since I would be worried what expressions would be visible on my face.

At around the age of ten, I became a little more self-aware and realised that I could explore the intense feelings I was getting from time to time. This was triggered off by contact with lining material offcuts - my mother was a good seamstress. I determined that I would learn to sew for myself, and I began caching materials and making them into various garments.

Later on, in secondary school (high school), I was forced to wear women's boots to school in winter since my feet were of a size that men's weren't available in what she considered to be a suitable style. Things got very tough, but as I was at the bright end of the IQ range in the school I learned (very quickly) to ride it out. I was lucky that my school uniform had a grey shirt, since I refused to wear anything white for ten years (underwear excepted). This might be down to the previously mentioned wedding incident.

I was sufficiently good at sewing that I made three of my school blazers myself, which at least ensured that they fitted. I never bothered with trousers, but made other items for myself, my mother and my sister. Naturally, I still sew all kinds of things for my family.

Like many, I started accumulating women's clothing items, which were secreted about my room. The first time some of these were found I was questioned and told some plausible story. I was never questioned after that. If anything was subsequently found, it was just confiscated and destroyed, not a word would be said. Needless to say, it would have been better for all concerned if we had had a discussion, it might have saved a whole lot of soul-searching. My father had moved from the Royal to the Merchant Navy, and he had close-up experience of homosexual seamen, and this may have directed his thinking. This was the 60's; nobody knew any different.

Despite the foregoing, my mother saw no contradiction in using me as a dressmaking dummy while turning up hems on dresses she made for herself. For a good few years through my teens, our sizes were compatible. Naturally, I had little choice in the matter, and had to conduct myself very carefully during these episodes.

The moment I left home at age 18 I bought a whole load of books and discovered much about my condition. And about life in general - I had received no sex education at all except "behind the bike sheds". It had never occurred to me until then that women were different from men, except physically. I also started collecting female clothing with a will. Almost all of this was dumped when I met the woman I would marry, as I reasoned, as most here may have done, that a real woman would serve to act as a surrogate for my internal needs. She couldn't, of course, but it took me twelve years and two sons to find that out.

Now they know, and she is supportive, and I have a reasonable balance in my life, although not quite the balance I might wish for. It's the best I can manage at the moment, and who knows what the future might hold?

As I said at the beginning, my difficulties stemmed from ignorance and neglect, in the main. It caused me severe emotional distress from time to time, and much could have been avoided with a little research and support on my parents' part. However, I could argue that it's made me stronger, more able to handle my circumstances. I just wish that it hadn't taken so long. I wonder, sometimes, what really happened in those days before my usually-excellent memory began to function. Sometimes I think I'd rather not know. It's ancient history now. But at least Andrea and those like her have something concrete to deal with. I have very little.

My parents are still alive, though elderly. I have no intention of telling them about the other part of myself, it would only result in denial, misunderstanding (my mother has a gold medal in that) and frustration. Let sleeping dogs lie. My own situation is reasonable happy and stable, and I have worked out all the issues in my past that I can. I know many of you have other problems which make an already-complicated existence much worse, and I can only offer you my sympathies for your circumstances, and suggest that yes, there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and no, it isn't a train.

I hope you have found my little tale to be of some assistance.

Penny