Languid and Bittersweet

"I'm staying here, inside my greatest mistakes" --Barenaked Ladies--

I've seen a lot of blog material of late regarding childhood experiences, and it's had me thinking extensively about my own (childhood, not blog). I skirted the issue (sorry!) in my bio pieces in March '08, but I want to delve further. Consider yourself warned.

I don't have a lot of memories before age six. I vividly recall watching my mother dress when I was probably four. And I remember being fascinated as my grandmother did her makeup. I loved to sit at her vanity. All those wonderful smells, bottles and tubes, powders and perfumes. But I was not a little girl in my head. I don't think it was something I ever thought about.

Memories really kick in when I started school. In first grade, I have my first memory of wishing I was a girl. I was a shy child, and I liked girls a lot, but I was scared to approach them. They seemed so different. I wish now that I had had a sister; I would've understood that girls are people too. I came to believe that women have all the power in the boy/girl mix, and for me they truly did. I always had one or two girls in every grade that I would watch obsessively, wanting to be close to them, often to the point of wanting to be them. I remember them all: Tami, Leslie(!), Melissa, Kelli, Hallie, Jill, Amanda...

I would go to sleep at night praying to wake up a girl, with a closet full of dresses and knee socks. There is Appalachian folklore that if you kiss your elbow, you will change genders. Try it, you can't do it. But, oh, I tried. I always made a mental note, too, that if I ever broke my upper arm, I needed to make a point of kissing that elbow while I have the chance. At night, I would untuck my blanket and wrap it around myself as tightly as I could. As I lay there swaddled, I imagined myself in tight gowns or foundation garments. What a weird and lonely kid.

By third grade, I'd started to be more comfortable interacting with some of the girls. I played a lot with Kelli and her friends at recess, boyish things like tag. And I grew to love the square dancing unit in music class. I was one of the few boys that actively chose a partner for dancing. Most just lined up and accepted their fate. 3rd, 4th, 5th grades, I was very outgoing when dance time came around, quite a spectacle, and unlike the person seen the rest of the time.

By 5th grade, I was really at ease with the girls. Dark clouds started to roll in, though, in 6th and 7th grade. Certain girls decided that I didn't meet their standards, and they acted accordingly. I was ridiculed and rejected. When square dancing, these girls would refuse to have contact with me, to hold my hand as they were supposed to. Rather, they would blatantly hold their hands out in the empty air, pulling them away if I attempted to touch them. It sounds like a small thing as I write it, but it's a vivid and painful memory for me, one that haunted my relations with women for a long time.

Puberty, of course, was cruel. I know that is universal, but... My hair became amazingly oily, my skin broke out, and I acquired my first, and very unflattering, set of glasses. My self-esteem was crushed over the next couple years. And, at the same time, I became a latchkey kid, with the run of the house for nearly two hours before Dad got home. And so began the crossdressing. If I couldn't figure out how to be with the girls, I guess I could be one myself.

From age 12 to 18, I was crossdressing in my mother's things. Never got truly busted, but if Mom didn't suspect something, she was in denial. Once, I left a pair of heels outside her closet, and my brother and I got grilled until I said that I'd been looking for hidden Christmas gifts. She accepted that, though I didn't look her in the eye when I said it. It was an obvious lie, but maybe she just needed to hear something that would allow her to back off. Another time, I had a pair of pantyhose that I kept hidden in my room. I don't remember where I got them, maybe found on the walk home from school (ewwww!), or maybe stolen from a friend's mother (slightly smaller ewww). But my pantyhose disappeared from their hiding place one Saturday during housecleaning. Mom never mentioned it, but I'm sure she disposed of them. If I ever come out to her, I want to ask her about those years.

I was positively timid in middle and high school. I felt like damaged goods. I was terrified of the fairer sex, always placing them on a pedestal, objectifying them. I don't know whether this fear fed the crossdressing, or the dressing fed the fear, but I was a mess. I considered myself an inferior being, not worthy of the attention of females. Looking back, there were one or two girls who I now realize were flirting with me. But in my warped view, they had to be setting me up for some cruel prank. No girl would have any interest in me.

The crushes were long-lasting, and increasingly creepy on my part. I fell hard for a girl in high school, and managed to stalk her around the campus, even drove by her home a few times. I was becoming Mark David Chapman, I think. Wanting to be with her, and wanting to be her. In two years, I never spoke to her. But I watched constantly.

Thank heavens, my future wife showed up in my senior year. She was persistent enough that I finally realized that her interest was genuine. I was a school disc jockey as a senior, and one day a week, I'd be lugging a stack of LPs around all day. My eclectic, and somewhat esoteric, musical tastes were the initial fascination for her, and it grew from there. She grew to like my mind, something no other girl ever got close enough to really see. Despite my awkward gawkiness, she saw something worthwhile. I hate to think where I'd've wound up without meeting her.

Okay. You're getting sleepy, I'm getting sleepy. Let's call it a night.

Ze Spell! She is Broken!

Maybe writing about it did the trick? Tonight I feel much more Leslie-esque than I have for a long while.

I went to the grocery after work, intending to buy some pantyhose, among other things. New hosiery usually perks me right up. I always check the clearance table. Never know what you'll find. Tonight, Cover Girl makeup! Three big baskets full! It was all various foundations and lip colors. I've really been craving some eyeshadows to experiment with, but lipsticks are nearly as exciting. 75% off everything! Poked around there for awhile, trying not to look completely wide-eyed. My ready answer for any odd looks: I have a 14-year-old daughter, and this is a very cheap opportunity to make her day. Not a lie, but not something I'd follow through on. She'll have to fight me for these cosmetics.

As I write, I'm wearing my hound's tooth miniskirt (see my profile pic) and heels. And new lipstick. Nice to have Leslie back in the saddle.

The Thrill is Gone?

"Look at the graceful way she dances,
One foot speaks, the other answers"
"Ghost Train" Elvis Costello

I've been pursuing this crossdressing/transgender thing avidly for roughly 18 months now. Yet, I find myself at a place I never expected. In a word, settled.

The realization began with an observation. It occurred to me that every night, as I leave work around 1am, I get a wave of dysphoria on the drive home. It just wells up in me for twenty or thirty seconds, then it's gone just as quickly. What is it about heading home that brings this feeling to the surface?

I do a number of things to keep my dysphoric feelings in check, to keep the beast well-fed and lethargic. I underdress five or six days a week. I shave select parts of my body (though not near enough). I trim and bleach the hair on my arms. I'm still wearing very pale polish on my toenails, and I seem to be the only one noticing. (@ Suzi: Revlon Sheer Snowflake Pink)

And in spite of all these rituals, I find that I'm really not all that interested in dressing fully of late. I used to rush home, feed the animals, and run downstairs to slip on a skirt, top, and heels before I hit the web. Now, I just hit the web as is. It doesn't seem to be worth the effort to dress. And it isn't that much effort, in my primitive, non-madeup, alone in the basement fashion.

In my mind, there are two possible conclusions (I sense that others will be suggested). It could just be a cyclical thing, a respite before the intense feelings come calling again. Or, it may be that the limits I have on my self-expression have played themselves out, and I need to escalate in order to retrieve this part of me. Why do I miss this slow torture? A sane person would be rejoicing, happy to have time to pursue other interests. And I feel like I want my journey of self-discovery to broaden and continue, with more Leslie time, not less.

A Female Ally

You all know of the struggles I have had with my wife. But I haven't written much about her sister. This sister, to review, has known of my crossdressing since I told my wife over twenty years ago. I didn't learn that my secret had been shared until last November. There was never even a hint in the way I was treated that I was a known quantity. Pretty amazing in itself.

So, I arranged to talk with "D" just before Thanksgiving. We met at a restaurant one evening and talked over an appetizer and coffee for over two hours. She shared what she already knew, and I filled in a lot of the blanks. I wanted to get her take on my feelings, and my wife's, as an outsider.

She sympathizes a lot with both of us. She knows how hard it is for my wife, wondering if she'll one day find herself living with a woman. I told D that the likelihood of me transitioning is near zero. This wasn't what my wife had led her to believe. I'm just trying to find a plateau that I can live with.

Her take on me was more interesting. She said that everyone is in drag. We all create an image that we want others to accept. She said that she would not be treating me any differently if I were presenting as a woman. She wouldn't care. That said, she told me that I'd better be fully prepared to be completely out, if I thought that I could be out and about in any limited public manner as Leslie, particularly in my hometown. Running into the wrong person is all it takes to turn your world upside down. It was a very pleasant talk, unlike any that I'd had with my wife on the subject. We ended with me telling her how I'd always admired her sense of fashion, what a great look she has. She gave me a big hug and thanked me.

Sunday night, my wife's family got together for Mother's Day. I got a chance to talk to D alone for a few minutes. I told her that I would love to go shopping with her, as she finds the best stuff at Goodwill for next to nothing. She said she'd love to do that. She wondered if my wife would consider that to be enabling me. I agreed that it was a strong possibility. But, she said, if you're going to buy stuff anyway, it would be much better not to throw away money on bad choices, to stay on a tighter budget. She talked some about the many Goodwill stores in the area, which she liked and which she didn't. Quite the connisseur. She was very positive about the idea, and isn't at all weirded out talking about my predilections.

So, now the hard part. Run it up the flagpole at home, and see if the missus salutes. At least now, I feel that D will go to bat for me if the initial response is negative. Having someone knowledgeable and stylish to shop with would be a great boon.

Oh, a followup. I decided to take off the polish on my toes for the weekend. I just couldn't imagine keeping my feet covered for two days. But tonight, I painted them again for the week. Thanks to Caroline for suggesting a neutral shade. I borrowed my daughter's very sheer light pink polish. It's shiny, but pretty much the same shade as my toenails. I love it!

A Special Lack of Grace

"Look at what you wear, and the way you cut your hair.
I can see by what you carry that you come from Barrytown."
"Barrytown" Steely Dan

I've tried to get a rise, a reaction of some sort out of her. Doesn't she have an opinion on this? Not that I've actually asked. I'm referring to my painted toenails (like you didn't know!).

It's been almost two weeks since I painted them. I've had them out in plain sight whenever the kids weren't around. I've seen her avoid looking at them a couple times. But not a word has been said. I've been about as "in your face" as one can be with feet. When we are in bed, I don't immediately put 'em under the covers, but lay with them in the open, waiting for any kind of reaction. Nothing...

This will all come to an end by the weekend, I think. The weather is getting warmer, and keeping my feet covered will soon not be an option. But my world has been sunnier these two weeks. I forgot to take my Zoloft last night, which usually results in a major downturn in mood. But not this time.

I'll show off my handiwork to my counselor Thursday, then the polish will be a short-timer, soon to be gracing a pile of cotton rounds. Another experiment come and gone. Perhaps ear piercing will be the next. That she talks about. Seems amenable to it, though she believes that one at a time might be a little more stealthy out in the big unforgiving world. I'll probably take whatever she is comfy with.

Strangely, we've been getting along famously through this period. One of my friends, either Tina and Shan, said in a chat that she found it odd that my wife was worried about the world's opinion of something invisible (my shaved legs), but hasn't seemed at all concerned about nail polish and pierced ears. Where is the logic here? I'm expecting too much. She failed logic twice in college, so it's not a strength for her.

Okay, another disjointed update completed. It all seemed so organized in my head.