Jaye’s se­cret dou­ble life was about to be dis­cov­ered…

Pick Me Up! Special - - Real Life Poisonous - Jaye Wright, 20, Gosport, Hamp­shire

Run­ning through the front door, I tore off my shoes and sprinted up the stair­case. Within sec­onds I was set­tled at my com­puter and fran­ti­cally check­ing the mes­sages.

One... two… three… four!

The un­read mes­sages flashed up on my screen and I got to work re­spond­ing.

Most girls my age spent their free time shop­ping, watch­ing films and gos­sip­ing with their friends.

Yet I couldn’t wait to wile away my even­ings talk­ing to my girl friends on­line. But there was one slight snag. My friends didn’t know the whole truth.

To my fam­ily I was Poppy, a nor­mal teenage girl.

But to my friends on­line, I was Jaye – a boy.

I knew it was wrong to de­ceive them, but I felt more at home as a boy than I’d ever done as a girl…

Even from a young age I strug­gled with any­thing girly.

I hated all things pink, frilly or sparkly and in­stead, begged my mum Claire, now 43, to buy me boys’ clothes.

De­spite be­ing just five, I couldn’t wait to get dressed in my Toy Story T-shirts and Buzz Lightyear train­ers.

‘Don’t you want a dress like the other girls?’ Mum would say, when­ever we went shop­ping.

I’d refuse and Mum, who loved me and tol­er­ated my lit­tle quirks, wouldn’t force the is­sue.

Sadly, the same couldn’t be said at school.

‘Ha ha, you’re an Ac­tion Girl!’ my class­mates would jeer, when I took out my Ac­tion Man lunch­box in the school can­teen.

Ashamed, I’d close my eyes and wish with all my heart I could be in­vis­i­ble.

School was tor­ture, but home life wasn’t much bet­ter. Aged 9, I got my first pe­riod. When I first saw the red spots on my knick­ers I knew ex­actly what it meant.

But the idea of go­ing through pu­berty, de­vel­op­ing breasts and hips like my older sis­ter Jas­mine, now 24, sick­ened me.

Some­how, the idea of turn­ing into a woman felt un­nat­u­ral.

Dis­traught, I hid my changes from my mum.

Once a month I’d steal my sis­ter’s san­i­tary tow­els.

I couldn’t bear the thought of telling Mum what was go­ing on.

But as the years wore on it be­came harder to dis­guise the truth.

‘Maybe we should get you a bra,’ Mum said one af­ter­noon, af­ter study­ing my ch­est.

‘No!’ I yelled, hunch­ing my back to hide my grow­ing breasts. ‘I don’t need one.’

Star­ing at my fig­ure in the bath­room mir­ror, I felt dis­gust well up in­side me.

My waist was start­ing to shrink, my hips were grow­ing out­wards and small lumps on my ch­est had formed.

For most 12-year-old girls, the signs of wom­an­hood would have been a wel­come sight. But not for me. I cov­ered my chang­ing shape with baggy tops, loose trousers and sports bras.

While tor­ment was rag­ing in­side of me, to friends I was as con­fi­dent and loud as ever.

I was a stereo­typ­i­cal tomboy and found a group

What kind of girl hoped they would wake up a boy?

Grace doesn’t care that I’m trans­gen­der

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