Pros & Cons

Fears are starting to creep back in. It's easy to talk big two weeks before something, but as it gets closer, the negatives begin to loom larger.

The positives: I'm confident I'll be able to wear short sleeves, because the bleaching test area worked out nicely. If the wife and kids are out of town, I have extended Leslie time. I have tentatively arranged to change clothes at a friend's apartment, so I can get the makeup and hair right and arrive at the meeting as a woman.

The negatives: I've never been out driving as Leslie, and this will be in daylight. I'm losing my nerve about going out afterwards, which doesn't bode well for how I'll feel Saturday. And I'm still not very confident about passing, even with nice hair, as I'll still be well over six feet tall (and that will never change!).

I'm reaching the conclusion that attending support group meetings was a big step for me, but it's a molehill compared to going out in public. Group meetings are really just an extension of the closet. It's almost as safe as my bedroom, and there's little risk of criticism or judgement. The public is going to be less forgiving. I'm fairly thin-skinned and emotionally delicate, so I fear I'll shrink into myself at the first negative comment. The nagging negative thoughts are always right below the surface, waiting to spill out. I don't think it will take much of a push to go back there, despite how far I've come. A little success would go a long way toward putting the demons to rest.

Letting Hope In

"You can make it in your disguise, just never show them the fear in your eyes"
"Stage Fright" The Band

It looks like my planets may be aligning. My wife and I had believed she would have to work Saturday July 5th. Tonight she calls me from work to say she isn't on the schedule. I didn't say it, but this means I can go to my monthly support group meeting. A minute later, she says she might go to Cincy that day with the kids. I could scarcely breathe as the possibilities swirled around my head.

Leslie might just make a public appearance if I don't have to come straight home. It might even start during the daylight hours. Maybe get my picture taken.

I feel the hope building in me. That scares me. I'm setting my self up for a crash. My wife is notorious for changing her plans at the last minute. I can get all my ducks in a row, and she might decide Saturday afternoon that the trip isn't feasible. It's happened before.

I need to stay grounded while making preparations: bleaching my arm hair, getting some wig maintenance lessons and products from Pamela, maybe see if anyone will be bringing camera equipment, choosing what I might wear. I have to contain myself, or I won't sleep for two weeks. My heart is pounding just contemplating it all.

Lamaze Delivers

"When will you discover who you really are inside? Follow any other reason and you won't be satisfied" -- Matthew Sweet

I spent four quality hours Friday with my new wig. The hair just makes all the difference.

All in all, a pretty good week, on an even keel emotionally. And with that came a great desire to be one with Leslie. Not in the usual catch-as-catch-can throwing together of a few femme items. No, I wanted the whole enchilada. Didn't get it; I never seem to have time or opportunity to do makeup. But I came close enough to satisfy the craving.

I dressed, I danced, I strutted, I frolicked (Or was it cavorting? I forget which). I wore a blood-red lace lined minidress. With the wig, I just felt so complete, so real. I spent a lot of time gazing at myself. I can feel my confidence growing. The new hair softens my face. My eyes don't look so deep-set. It's not an unattractive face. I worked on my smile, got to about half the wattage of Tara's grin. I'm starting to really want to get pictures made. I'm tiring of being a faceless cartoon.

It occurred to me that Leslie is having a growth spurt. The ages of six to 43, the time of wishing and crossdressing, was the gestation period. Last October, labor began when the urgent need to change took hold. The mental contractions continued through mid-January. Then Leslie was born on January 18th. Awkward, tentative first steps. This new child needs nurturing. Take her to a counselor. Show her off at support group. Build her self-esteem. Now I think she's entering her teens. Wants to show the world who she is, what she has to offer, create an identity. (This tortured metaphor is brought to you by your friends at Blogco. Ask your doctor if blogging is right for you. Side effects may vary.)

These are the thoughts that enter one's head when staring too long at one's own reflection. Probably excessive, but harmless enough if you don't do it while driving.

This Note's For You

I'm happy to report that handing the note to my wife wasn't required. After the family took me out for Mexican, she invited to the basement to talk while she did laundry. She was pleasantly surprised that I was concerned about communication. She says she's been conditioned recently to think that wanting to talk means I want to make some drastic change in my physical appearance, a la removing all body hair. So, we talked.

I told her that I'd put it off as long as I could, but it was killing me to hold it in. She laughed when I said that I was trying to achieve some feeling of normality, calling that unlikely in my case. She asked if I was going to pick her brain about fashion tips or my winter palette. I said maybe. She cried hard thinking about her sister's death in March, so many tasks still left undone. We discussed the note she dropped on me on my birthday, saying it still pretty much sums up her feelings and worries. We talked at length about my recent bout with depression. I told her that I've decided to go with bleaching my arm hair, given the debacle with shaving my upper arms.

In short, we had a good, long, calm give and take about where things are. There's still plenty that went unmentioned. I'm glad I didn't have to divulge the blog, as I'm not sure she would approve of airing dirty laundry. I didn't tell her about my wig purchase last week. Really, she doesn't want to know stuff that would upset her. But she says the door has always been open to talk about my friends and the like. I beg to differ, but if she wants to believe that, I'll let her.

Not perfect, but a real step forward that could ease tensions on my end. I'll continue to try hard not to upset her, because her emotional plate is very full. I don't want to be a burden to her. Just an equal partner.

Whose Day Is It Anyway?

Well, I tried. I thought that I'd be able to entice my wife into a conversation as a Father's Day gift. She didn't want to do something that would make her stomach hurt, so we watched a movie together, as she had planned for us. Spoiler alert: Harold and Kumar do make it to White Castle. Thankfully, it wasn't Sophie's Choice or Schindler's List, because the tears were at the ready.

Today, she has gone with the kids to see her dad, so I started writing. I'll share it with you:

How are you doing? What's on your mind? Is everything all right?

These are questions that convey concern for another. The answers to these questions create a sense of shared intimacy. That intimacy is the foundation of a successful relationship. These questions are at the heart of the problems in our marriage.

I don't ask these questions very often, but frankly, I don't need to. The answers to them are the content of practically all of our conversations. And that's fine. That's what I signed on for all these years ago. These conversations make us closer. I like knowing the ins and outs of your experience.

But there's a gaping hole here. I have been living what I will modestly call an "interesting" life. I'd like to share details of it with you. Not to make you feel bad, but because I need to feel that shared intimacy with my wife. We don't talk about my life.

I'll give you an example. Last week, I had a very rough time emotionally. My therapist has recently noted that she's seen me slipping into a bad place for weeks now. And I finally made it there last week. I fell into a heavy depression, mitigated somewhat by the Zoloft. I slipping down a hole and you didn't know anything about it, because you didn't ask those questions and I was uncomfortable volunteering the information without an opening. When I learned that my weekly session had been dropped from the schedule, I had a complete meltdown at work. My fallback, my release valve, was gone. We talked on the phone several times that night, and I held it together during those conversations. But I was dying inside with the desire, the need, to spill my guts to you. The invitation never came. We talked about the things on your mind. And that's fine. But it's incomplete. Without the face-to-face possibilities with you or my therapist, I fell back to the internet.

I wrote about my situation on my blog. Yes, I have a blog. Writing about my experiences has been very therapeutic, and I've forged a bond with a world much bigger than the inside of my head. There's a commonality of experience, a shared path, that makes us a community. There are many personal variables, but the standard story is essentially a sitcom formula: Boy meets girl, boy is girl, friction ensues. Like a sitcom, except nothing funny ever happens.

So, I wrote about the dire place I felt I was going, the despair that I was feeling. And the online community responded. My friends shared their stories, their empathy, some offered phone numbers because I was clearly desperate to talk to someone. They came through in a big way because they've been there themselves. They know the pain I'm feeling. But the one I wanted to talk to was you.

We chose one another 26 years ago. We've lasted through thick and thin (a lot of thin) against great odds, I think. I freely admit that I made egregious mistakes regarding disclosure of the truth, and the timing thereof. I wish I could change the way I've handled things. But until we can afford to buy that wayback machine, we're stuck with our present circumstances.

What I'm asking for, I guess, is that there be more give and take. I love talking with you about the difficulties you encounter, and trying to help you think through them. But I need the same consideration from you, some reciprocation. I need to discuss the successes and failures of myself and my friends, just everyday mundane stuff, the details that make life interesting. Without the opportunity to discuss a large chunk of my day-to-day life with my spouse, I'm feeling more and more disconnected from you. I need to feel the intimacy that naturally follows from easy, and hard, communication. I need to feel a sense of normality about my life, strange as it must seem from the outside. I need you to at least feign interest in my mental and emotional state. Or, ultimately, we have nothing.

I really do love you, and I just want to feel closer to you. Can we talk?

I didn't want to have to write this, but it seems the only way I'll get my point across. I'll let you know how it plays.

Brief Happy Note

"Some people like to make life a little tougher than it is" -- CAKE --

The rollercoaster of this week is reaching a crest now. I picked up my wig today. It's even better than I'd imagined. I spent about three hours dressed (sans makeup), and just kept breaking into spontaneous grins. I got goose bumps every time I glanced at my reflection. "I know that girl!
Where have I seen her before?" Actually, I greatly resembled my oldest daughter. I've always thought I would have turned out much like her with the right hormone infusion at puberty. Suspicion confirmed.

This, even without the makeup and with the hairy arms, was the Leslie-est I've ever felt. I was in a windowless room, with storms raging outside, but the sun shone on me tonight. I wish this could last.

Some Relief

"In the end, compassion has to be the greatest family value"
"King James Version" Billy Bragg

I guess it's always darkest before the dawn. I got a reprieve from my therapist. There was a cancellation today and I got in. Very productive, and very much needed. I'm number one on the waiting list for next week, and we scheduled me every week thru December. No more snafus!

I'm still not sure of everything I want to say to the little woman, but we did work out a gentle way into the conversation that I think I can pull off.

I was also lucky to have someone working with me in the office tonight. I got to concentrate on the Reds game instead of my own worries. I think I get into trouble with only my own company at work. Too much opportunity to ruminate.

If you can't tell, I feel better now. Not out of the woods, fer sure, but not despairing either. The comments and offers of phone numbers were unexpected and gratifying. Thank you for caring. I keep underestimating the value of this community to me. You recognized a cry for help and leapt into action. That's pretty special, and an example I hope I can emulate.

The Dam Breaks

"I don't want to be the hollow man" -- REM --

The tears finally fell tonight at work. At least for a few minutes.

I've been hanging on this week, struggling with my emotions, but feeling a little better each day, knowing my counseling session was coming up. The whole litany of issues I've expounded on here have been spinning 'round my brain. I think it weren't for the Zoloft, I'd be as depressed as I was last winter. That, of course, is why God created Zoloft.

Tonight, it's getting close to 8:00, and I haven't gotten my usual confirmation call from the therapist's office. I start getting a sinking feeling, and call over there. My gut is right. I have no appointment this week or next week. So now I'm on waiting lists. I mean, I only have sessions every week at the same time. How hard can that be?

This could not be more ill-timed. I am so desperate to talk about this crap in my head. Forgive me, I love the correspondence with my friends online, but it's really not the same as face to face communication. So, the great irony, at least from my perspective, is that I'm unable to talk to my therapist about my inability to talk to my wife. My head hurts.

Well, the frustration and anger about potentially holding all this in for two more weeks put me over the edge. The tears fell. Self-pity wasn't enough, but a splash of anger acts like lighter fluid. Nice to know I can still do it. But I really didn't get the relief, or release, I'd hoped for. This was quiet mewling where I need catharsis. If I have to wait another two weeks to talk, I may get several more opportunities to unleash the flood, because I feel like I'm slipping down a hole. I do not want a repeat of last winter.

Duh! A Realization

I think I've figured out what was bothering me, making me want to cry. I think the fact that I haven't had an opportunity to be Leslie, from hair to heels, since April 5th, has caught up with me. Every little reminder that I wasn't getting to realize my true self was triggering a deep sadness.

I thought that figuring out the cause of my recent emotional instability would unleash the flood. Instead, it calmed me. I know the problem and I'll try to find a solution. Like, I don't know, maybe dressing! Not this half-assed stuff I've been settling for lately, underdressing just to stay in touch with the real me.

At the last minute, I managed to go to my support meeting Saturday. I went in drab, at least in part because of the oppressive heat. I shared my real first name during introductions, since I was in boy-mode. Tara had suggested recently that it was safe to open up more to the group, so I did. I was very gratified that everyone continued to call me Leslie, despite my outward appearance. Coming in drab now, after establishing my female look with the group, was probably seen as more courageous than my first stammering, ashen appearance in February. I even got my first hugs from group members. I really feel a sense of belonging there.

I'll save the tears for another time.

Random Notes: Joy and Darkness

Since I can't seem to trigger a good cry, I'll go with the second-best choice. I'll try to purge some of these feelings by writing them down.

-- Listening to the radio a few nights back, a favorite song came on, a salsa-flavored ditty by Kirsty MacColl titled "In These Shoes", about wearing a pair of killer heels. I was dressed at the time and began tripping around the room (the light fantastic, I mean), in my own 4-inch pumps. I spontaneously fell into a fast three-step with crossovers. I felt so graceful and feminine, and I wouldn't have embarrassed myself doing this in public. I didn't sprain an ankle or pull a groin (in either sense). Dancing is way out of character for me. When I dance in guy-mode, it's not pretty. Picture Al Gore with hiccups.

-- Envy is an ugly emotion. It is consuming me. I'm seeing so much success around me. Girls with courage and confidence, passing well, enjoying life, advancing their transitions. I'm thrilled for them. Really. And my comments and support are sincere and heartfelt. But I covet their success. I want to navigate this world with the apparent ease and grace they display. And I simply don't have the tools. It's eating me alive. Envy is so petty and juvenile. I should be beyond this.

-- My wig has come in! Her name is Heidi, and my avatar reflects a pretty good approximation. I've been into the shop to try it on. I love it. Store owner Pam is keeping it for now, stretching it out some, and she's going to trim the bangs a little. A real wig at last at age 44. One item checked off my life list. Now to wear it somewhere....

-- So about this strong desire to cry. I wiggle my hips as I walk; I feel an urge to cry. I glimpse my hairy arm; I feel like crying. I casually touch my hose-clad leg; I wanna cry. WHY? My therapist says it sounds like I'm grieving. This sounds right to me, but it begs the question: What am I grieving?

Maybe the realization that my male self is slowly dying. Maybe the difficulties in birthing this new creature called Leslie. Maybe the bell tolls for my marriage. It's probably some of all these. I just know the emotion comes over me like a wave without telling me what I should be crying about. If I knew the source, I think I could break down.

I came close Thursday night. I was thinking back to my first encounter with Leslie in January, the day my life changed. Likely the most profound twenty minutes I've ever spent. It changed my perception of everything before it, and forever altered my goals for the future. And now, almost six months later, I have not been able to share this critical moment with my life partner. Maybe I never will. That's a tragedy worth crying over.

Raise the Double Standard

I'm not feeling very good about myself today. Therapy has a way of sending me there. We're asking tough questions now. And the toughest issue is figuring out how to have an overdue talk with my wife.

My fear is that it won't be a peaceful discussion. I need that in order to function in a conversation. The thing is, my wife gets to talk with me about anything in her pretty little head. And despite my resolutions to be completely honest with her, I find that you can lead a horse to the truth, but you can't make her listen.

My therapist said today that she's seen me sliding into a bad place for several weeks now, and she was worried about me last week. I can only imagine how she feels after today's session. She's suggesting we set a deadline for the wife talk, because this is eating at me.

What do I want from her? I really just want to be able to mention my friends and their progress or problems. I'd like to talk about my friend with terminal cancer. I'd like to share my success at starting, sustaining, and nurturing friendships online. Just the mundane things that couples discuss, that I don't get to. I've been with her for 26 years now, and she still doesn't really know me. For 25 of those years, that was my doing. Now it's on her. I just want to connect with my life partner on an equal footing. That's not too much to ask.

And if I can't talk with her, I wish I could figure out a trigger for a good cry. I need to wash some of this away so I can think more clearly.

Paging Heloise

And an avatar shall lead them.

My avatar now better represents a short term goal of mine, that of creating some photos of Leslie. I hope she will inspire me to get it done. A change is better than a rest. And now for something completely different.

I used a depilatory cream on my biceps a couple weeks ago. Not bad, I thought. But the maintenance is proving problematic. I'm unable to get a close shave here, with persistent stubble, and a nasty rash about half the time. It looks like my upper arms have been in a biking accident.

My arms score about a seven on the Robin Williams scale. If this small area is any indication, shaving the entirety of my arms will make me as prickly as a cactus. Unacceptable! Am I doing something wrong? Are there any special tricks for special gals I should know about? I wanna be smooth!

Overthinking the Avatar

This avatar thing is just a stand-in, till I get the courage to commit my image to film and share it with the world. But the avatar is the only visual representation I have here, so it's doing a lot of work symbolically. Today I realized I have it all wrong.

Stephanie Warrior Princess commented here the other day, and I subsequently visited her page. This is someone who knows how to live, and embraces the world. Her avatar is an excellent reflection of who she is. So what about my gal over there?

My female self lives a very quiet, lonely existence. So I put my avatar in the most remote place made available, Easter Island. I thought I was choosing this locale as a bit of quirky whimsy (a specialty of mine). But no, I was isolating my avatar just as I isolate myself. It's a good thing there wasn't an Antarctic research station available, or a Mars lander, because that's where she'd be.

So, in the hopes of changing my karma and retrieving my mojo, I plan to change the avatar. Maybe she can lead me to a better place if I let her mingle with other people. I wonder if there's a transgender support group background?