Dressing as a woman gave me excitement, sexual pleasure, and a temporary escape from my hated existence as a man.

I could see my reflection in the window pane of the doctor's office. Somehow I had managed to bite off my lipstick, due to my nervousness. A moment later, with a fresh application of lipstick and a touch of perfume, I was ready for my appointment.

I gazed out the window and could see the trees turning from green to flaming shades of red. This is also my change of seasons, I told myself. At last! The receptionist interrupted my thoughts. "Jennifer, the doctor is ready to see you now." She led me down the hall to an office with a large over-stuffed chair.

Minutes later, I began recounting my story to the psychiatrist. She listened, probed, questioned. "I love your dress," she commented, telling me that I made a very attractive woman. "I wish I could look half as nice," she sighed, then paused. "Jennifer, when did you first begin cross-dressing?"

I thought back to the age of four when I had contracted polio. Cross-dressing was already a part of my life by then. My "sexual assignment" was somehow messed up in the womb, at least that's how I reasoned.

As we talked, I dug into my purse for a Kleenexr tissue. I didn't want my mascara to run, and I hadn't planned on crying so much. "I'm making a fool of myself, aren't I?"

The doctor took my hand. "You poor dear. I don't understand why you have gone through all of this torment, but soon you'll be feeling much better." Then she began writing a prescription. "This medication must be taken just as directed," she said firmly. "You will begin to notice some physical changes in a few months' time. Be patient!"

Later, when the pharmacist handed me the bag containing my "dream-come-true" pills, my hands shook with excitement. At last my body would take on female characteristics!

Taking hormones of the opposite sex, consulting with a sex-change therapist, all of it seemed so bizarre. I was a married man, the father of two children, and an active church member. I wondered how my wife, Charlene, would react to my physical changes. Would it mean divorce? Or could we continue to live together as two women? No, that will never work, I thought in disgust.

Since my earliest memories, my closest friends had been female, and they had accepted me as one of their own. There had also been the haunting realization that having a boy had not been my parents' first choice.

"I wish you were a girl to take over my beauty shop," my mother would remark. When as a six-year-old I played dress-up with little girls in the neighborhood, my father would say teasingly, "You're a lot better looking as a girl." His careless remarks left a deep impression on me. I seldom felt loved or affirmed as a boy by my father.

My relationship with him deteriorated further when I was a young teen. I had been sick with the flu, and late one night Dad came into my bedroom to check on me. He discovered me wearing make-up and a nightgown. He yanked me out of bed, beat me up and yelled over and over, "You're just a d___ homosexual!" I was so angry I wanted to kill him, and yet another side of me desperately wanted his love and affirmation. My feelings of ambivalence intensified from that day on. (Contrary to what my father thought, I was never sexually attracted to men. In fact I hated men and anything to do with manhood, but I loved being around women.)

While attending college, I met Charlene and we fell in love. Early in our relationship, I told her about my struggles with transvestism.

"You don't look like a woman," she said. "I'm surprised you'd have that type of problem." I was 5'11", over 200 pounds, with broad shoulders and a masculine appearance. Both of us naively thought that marriage would solve the problem. After all, we were both Christians, so God would somehow take care of it. But even after marriage, my secret obsession continued. I progressed into transsexualism, convinced that I had been born the wrong sex. "I am really a woman, but I'm trapped in a man's body." I began to seriously consider the possibility of sex-reassignment surgery.

Cross-dressing was my escape from stress and self-hatred. Perhaps a conflict would arise at work, and I'd feel like I had failed again. You're sure stupid, I'd think. You'll never amount to anything. On the drive home I would notice a woman in a pretty dress, and I'd begin wondering how her dress would look on me. Soon I'd be headed for a nearby mall to purchase some women's clothing, along with mascara, lipstick and perfume. Then I'd rush home or stop by a motel, and go through the process of "becoming" a woman.

Many times, dressed as a woman, I would go out for a walk or drive, perhaps even going into another mall to do some shopping as "Jennifer Elaine", my female name. I would feel a rush of excitement when clerks would call me "ma'am", and other female customers would accept me as just another woman.

Once at home or in the motel, my fantasies would peak as I stimulated myself sexually to orgasm. Eventually the whole experience would have to end, and I would be forced to resume my hated existence as a man. Feelings of shame and guilt, frustration and anger would overwhelm me. Often the new clothes would be discarded in a Salvation Army deposit box as I promised myself I would never again cross-dress.

A few days later I'd do it all over again.

Finally in an attempt to resolve my inner turmoil, I began seeing a clinical psychiatrist in order to obtain female hormones. I dreamed of having transsexual surgery and becoming a woman once and for all. I even forged a phony divorce certificate to hide the fact that I was still married.

But during my third visit I tearfully told the doctor how scared I was about actually going through with sex reassignment. "I've noticed a few physical changes," I told her, "but I'm so afraid of the rejection I'll face. And I know I'll lose my family if I go through with it. I can't bear the thought of that!"

She stood up and crossed the room toward me. "Jennifer, I can't supply you with more hormones if you have no intention of following through with the procedure."

The drive home was a nightmare. Raging with anger, I cursed my existence. I tore at my dress, agonizing over my fate. For the rest of my life I would be forced to go through the motions of being a man, always fantasizing about what it would have been like...if only...

Back home I stepped into the shower, weeping and crying out to God for some relief. I had been a Christian for almost 30 years. I knew that my secret life was painful not only to me, but to my Lord. As I stood there letting the water wash away my tears, a tiny ray of hope took hold in my heart. Thoughts of suicide subsided as I began to believe that God might provide a way out of my secret agony.

Later that week I made an appointment to see a Christian psychologist. While talking to him, I could sense the warmth of Christ's love and acceptance embracing me. I was determined to find a solution. If I don't get help, I had vowed inside, I will have no other choice but suicide.

That visit marked the turning point in my life. "We are only as sick as our secrets," the psychologist told me. I knew his words were true. The four decades of living a secret double life were coming to an end.

As I progressed in counseling, I came to see that I had believed many lies. God had not made a "mistake" in creating me with a male body. He had planned every aspect of my being from the beginning. "My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place; when I was woven together...your eyes saw my unformed body" (Psa. 139:15-16).

God had planned for me to become a man before I had ever been created! There was not a woman inside my body, longing to be expressed. I had become addicted to certain forms of behavior in order to nurture that fantasy. I had chosen to abandon my manhood, one of God's good gifts to me.

Now I had to learn how to control my thinking and, with God's help, "take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ" (2 Cor. 10:5). Satan had created a stronghold of deception in my mind. With God's spiritual weapons, I had to take deliberate steps to tear down the lies and replace them with His truth.

I had to train my mind to meditate on things that were pure, admirable and true (see Phil. 4:8). I had to embrace the reality that God had made me an intelligent man. I was not dumb or stupid. I could achieve His call on my life. Through Him my weaknesses could be turned into strength (see 2 Cor. 12:9).

None of these changes came easily. Day by day, week by week, I had to submit to God and fight my way forward into new areas of healing. I began the painful process of exposing my secret to trustworthy leaders of my church. I fully expected their rejection; instead, they reached out to me with overwhelming love, acceptance and compassion. This simple act of exposing myself defused much of the inner anguish and mental confusion.

I began implementing the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, slightly adapting the principles to fit my situation. I began to write in a personal journal, opening up my "dark side" to myself and my counselor. He was never shocked by my confessions, but rather showed me how my thoughts were irrational and self-destructive. Then he helped me replace the old, sinful thoughts with new, constructive beliefs.

God also used other Christians to encourage me. For example, my wife and I were part of a prayer group. One night a woman I didn't know began to pray over me with specific insights that could only have come from God. "The enemy has assigned a task force to hammer away continually," she said, "bringing self-condemnation to you in order to spiritually castrate you and prevent you from being fruitful. But God is giving you the strength and courage to stand up in your manhood in Him."

Discarding my secret identity was painful. At first I didn't know if I could emotionally survive without cross-dressing. Eventually I could see that abandoning that behavior was best for my life. Daily I continued to yield my life's choices to Christ in the pursuit of personal wholeness.

Today, almost ten years later, I gaze out the window of my office and see the season once again changing its color. The trees are again brilliant red. My own reflection in the window pane is different now. It's no longer a stylish woman, waiting for the receptionist's announcement. Now I see the man God created me to be. No longer must I be seen as Jennifer. My real identity is contained in the name I proudly answer to: Jerry.

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