Negative/Positive

Thinking: a sure way to drum up trouble where there is none.

Left Behind

I have three very dear friends locally, all of whom have been mentioned here in the past. One debuted with me, the other two I adopted quickly when they joined our local group. Great people, among the best friends I've ever had. They are all sprinting forward while I crawl.

One is well on her way to full-blown womanhood, including SRS. Another will be full-time within two years, and is at least half-time now. I just learned that the third is getting her letter, and will probably start hormones in December.

Me? I have probably peaked already. There may be minor tweaks I can make to feel or appear more feminine, but, really, if I maintain my marriage (and I plan to), nothing significant is even fathomable.

There was a low-budget film in the eighties(?) about The Rapture, in which people just disappeared, laughably leaving behind a pile of neatly folded clothes. I feel like my friends are true believers, in their identities, in their goals, in their will to get it done. In my eyes, they are getting "raptured", leaving behind neatly folded male clothing, going to a better place. I am left behind. Granted, that's a choice I'm making, and for me it seems a good choice. Still, I feel some sadness watching my friends living my dreams.

Skinny Bitch

I am opening myself up for criticism here, but I'm going to say it anyway, because it's been on my mind for weeks. I'm gaining weight and I'm very unhappy about it.

Some history: Two years ago, I was close to 180. At almost 6'2", that felt a little beefy, but I was the only one who noticed. From October 2007 to February 2008, I fretted off about 25 pounds when the GID took hold and wouldn't let go. I got as low as 152. Way too bony. Once I started with therapy, Zoloft, and a support group, I stabilized mentally, and the weight loss stopped. I don't recommend losing weight this way.

I got my weight back up around 160, and there I've stayed until recently. My favorite clothes (specifically the female ones) fit me pretty well in that weight range. Now bad eating habits have formed, and I'm pushing 170. Yeah, I know, cry me a river. But I can't button my skirts around my waist now. I'm still a couple months away from wearing skirts around other people, assuming I work out a deal regarding leg shaving this winter. But I desperately want to be able to wear the tiny collection of clothes that I have.

I am now making a deliberate attempt to change my eating habits, cutting out some carbs, adding more fresh fruit and protein, reduce empty calories. And tonight, I started walking. I took a brisk 30 minute walk, which I figure is about two miles. As I walked, I listened to Rockpile's Seconds of Pleasure, which I just downloaded yesterday. Love that record.

I don't intend to bore anyone regularly with diet/weight news, because my problems are not going to elicit sympathy from most folks, and frankly, I usually won't read about the subject on other people's blogs. Weight issues hold no interest for me, and I'm certain my weight will soon be forgotten by everyone but me, as it should be. My blog, my thoughts, my therapy. Bring on the hate mail if you must. I won't be your whipping girl after today.

See what I mean? Too much time to think and nothing important to think about.

Retail Therapy

Greeting card companies invented Mother's Day so they could sell cards. Why wouldn't retail therapy be a concept created by department stores? I'm a cynic, I know. As a last resort, though, I tried it.

I have been in a dysphoric tailspin for two weeks, unsure of whether it would ever bottom out. Relief has been intermittent and hard to come by. I'm not sleeping well, or enough. I've felt like clinging to my wife, but haven't had much opportunity.

Tuesday night, I logged into my email, finding an ad from Paypal. I followed a link to Overstock.com, just on a whim, to see what sorts of shoes or dresses I might find on sale. I browsed a long while, soon overwhelmed by the quantity and unprepared to commit to purchasing online. Returns are a hassle, and my luck hasn't been great in the past. I just don't do much etail.

Hey! What about Payless.com? Nice selection, much better than their stores. I usually take a 12 in closed toe styles, 11 in sandals. There were sandals out the wazoo, and very affordable. Then I looked at the shipping info, and knew I had found a home. Free shipping to any of their stores! They call you when your order comes in. If you need to return something, just bring it in to any store and return it there. The only drawback is time: allow 14-17 days. All my uneasiness with online shopping quelled, I set about finding some shoes.

I chose three different styles of sandal, then realized it was BOGO. It made sense to buy in even numbers, so I dropped one pair. Plus a coupon code for twenty percent off. Practically free! Well, two pairs of sandals for $25. Close enough.

Besides the excitement of procurring pretty shoes, I got the extra benefit of a lightened heart. Twenty four hours later, and the respite is still ongoing. I feel better than I have in a while. It's not a game I can play with any frequency, but I am now a firm believer in selective use of retail therapy as a last ditch source of relief from dysphoria.

No kickbacks were tendered for writing this entry, but that doesn't mean that I'm above accepting them.

Treating the Symptoms, Not the Disease

Fall is in the air, at least 'round these parts. My baseball team has given up the ghost, my fantasy team is plummeting in the standings. In times like these, a young man's thoughts turn to crossdressing.

It's really the only thing that crowds my mind outside of baseball. Two passions that couldn't be further apart. Let's just say that my male and female sides each have a mission. When baseball season ends (and for Reds fans, it's been over for a month), there's only one pressing subject left on my agenda. There's nothing else to distract me now.

The last two years, October has been the month when I can no longer ignore the calls from the soft side. October has come early this year. My gender dysphoria is off the charts. I'm trying to do little things to mitigate the overall malaise. As I write, my toenails are drying. Two hours ago, I bleached my arm hair. Five hours ago, I spoke at length with my sister-in-law, and we tentatively have a shopping date in just over a week. These are not cures, but they do take the edge off the symptoms.

Okay, there's the clear coat now. Where was I? Oh, I told my sister-in-law that I was going to just call our shopping trip my birthday/Father's Day/anniversary gift from my wife, and call it good. My patience with the situation has been flagging this week. I don't want to make this a confrontation, but I have to take positive action on it before I say something unkind. It's been very hard to look her in the eye, because I'm a little pissed at her.

We did go out Saturday night with two of her girlfriends. I was very much in girl mode in my head, feeling like an honorary woman at the table, and what an honor! It was a very pleasant meal, aside from the occasional wave of dysphoria washing over me.

Speaking of which....if you'll excuse me, I'm going to curl my eyelashes.

Disharmonic Convergence

I confess. I actually care quite a bit. Talking with my therapist today, I gave my wife a lot of slack about not having given me a gift for my birthday, Father's Day, and our anniversary. I gave her credit for evidence of inner conflict, about whether she should listen to her heart or her head. Her heart says to buy me some earrings or some other trifle that my girl side would adore. Her head says that a gift of that nature might be the tipping point that sends me off to a joyous femme life without her.

That's all supposition, of course. I can't hear her heart or her head, at least since I started wearing an aluminum foil hat. My therapist got me to admit that it hurts a bit, not feeling validated by my spouse. I want to give her the benefit of the doubt, but the clock is ticking. I still hear that.

At work this evening, I was talking with my wife on the phone. She was telling me that a favorite top of hers was available again at Meijer's, in many more colors. It is a very cute and flattering garment. I said, only half in jest, that I would like to have one. She curtly replied that we aren't going to talk about that. And so, we didn't. We talked awhile longer, but I had checked out. I'm starting to drop broad hints now about the gift situation, and she's going in reverse.

I feel stupid for caring about this. My male socialization still holds me firmly, causing me to doubt my reasons and my right to feel this way. It feels weak to me. I want to be vulnerable. I don't want to fear that. I want to have an open heart, admitting all comers. I'm just not sure how to open that door, and leave it open.

After the phone call, I settled back into work, and began listening to the final disc of the Catch-22 audiobook. I read the novel five or six times in my youth, my favorite book, but I haven't cracked it in over twenty years. It's been a revelation all over again especially having it read to me. I knew what was coming in the story. Snowden slowly dying and Yossarian recoiling in horror when he discovers Snowden's secret. I wept. The sadness overwhelmed me, and the tears flowed. I cried for Snowden and Yossarian and for me.

The wife was up when I got home. We did some debriefing about the day, but I said nothing about what was on my mind. Probably should've, but I wanted to write things down here instead. A heart-to-heart does seem to be looming, though. This issue isn't going to go away.

Wacksy Buildup

Inside my head, I'm pacing, wearing out the neural carpet.

The pressure is growing. Things starting to pile up. I haven't had a bonafide anxiety attack since I started taking Zoloft 18 months ago. I guess I'm due.

What's bothering me? Just in terms of aesthetics, one could use a wrecking ball to tidy up my home. It could only improve the organization. When things reach a certain point of chaos, I can no longer summon the strength to fight it. My ability to self-start disappears. I surrender to the law of entropy. To top it off, the kitchen sink clogged today, exposing a massive leak where sink and disposal meet. Damn it, Jim, I'm a crossdresser, not a plumber!

The main item on My Big Anxiety Laundry List is, as always, money. The lack of it, of course. We have been living beyond our means for so long, and it's very hard to get my wife to understand what a problem this is. Her solutions always involve ways to make more money. I have repeatedly told her that there is another side of the equation, cutting spending. I might as well talk to the hand. My cries go unheeded. It's been eating at me for months, but it's pushing me over the edge this weekend.

For several weeks now, since my wife and I had our long, excellent talk, my dysphoric feelings have been held at bay. They still wash over me several times a day, but I was able to ease their sting quickly with warm thoughts of my understanding wife. But for the last week, happy thoughts are not able to quash the discontent. The dysphoric spikes come and they linger. No quick ebbs.

So, anxiety has my mind racing, worries trumping solutions. It's calmed a bit as I've been writing. Blogging is such good therapy. But I'm going to sit down with my ledger and bills in an hour or two, and I just hope I can sleep when I'm done.

24

Over the weekend, the missus and I were celebrating our anniversary. 24 years. Obviously, we were married at age 10, perfectly permissible in Kentucky, ya know. Okay, we married young, but not that young. We didn't need parental permission to wed, though we did ignore some parental advice.

Twenty-four years is a long time, in case you didn't know. Marriage is sometimes bliss, sometimes a mutual non-killing pact. We're much closer to bliss at the moment, thankfully. We spent a lot of time at the other end of the spectrum. I hope those days are done.

She's become quite the wine drinker of late, so I bought her a bottle as a gift. My therapist had mentioned a merlot called Little Black Dress, and I agreed that the name alone would have a lot of meaning. She was surprised by her gift. In recent years, she's come to expect a card and flowers on our anniversary, so this showed exponentially more thought, if about the same expense. She definitely got the warm fuzzies from it (even before she started drinking!).

She hasn't given me a gift. In fact, she didn't give me anything for birthday in April, or for Father's Day. She keeps mentioning a DVR, and I keep saying, in as gentle a way as possible, that I have no interest in a DVR. That is something that she wants for the household. I learned long ago not to give her a cookbook or a vacuum cleaner on her birthday. She made it clear that practical is not part of the birthday equation, unless it has been specifically called for by the recipient.

So, now I am trying to convey to her that I want something impractical. I've written in this space about her desire to buy me a necklace or earrings, yet she's not following through at the perfect opportunity. I want to be subtle. I don't want to let on how huge it would be to me if she got me some pretty sandals, or a nice handbag, or, I don't know, My Pretty Pony. Anything that would acknowledge my feminine streak. She knows that I want something like that. She apologized for wearing shoes that I envied when we went out for a nice meal Sunday night. She knows. Do I have to say it aloud? Why is she acting like she's clueless? She knows. This is so frustrating.

Otherwise, a wonderful milestone passed, with many more to come. She is truly becoming more beautiful and open, bringing out better parts of me. Must...not...screw...things...up...

A Consumer Rant

When I have finished with my last Schick Quattro blade, I will be throwing the razor away forever. It won't be soon enough.

I tried it once before and didn't much like it, but I recently bought more cartridges for it. Why? My ever-loving cheapness. They were on sale. All I wound up buying was grief.

In fact, I now pronounce the "ck" in Schick as a "t".

How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.

There are seven or eight tiny wires running perpendicular to the blade surface, keeping one's skin from making full contact with the blades. Whose bright idea was this? Are the blades so sharp that it would be dangerous to come in contact with them? These wires also catch a lot of hair beneath them, trapping them there forever. Despite your best rinsing efforts, this razor will be clogged by the third or fourth use. Eventually hair starts popping up through the top of it.

Close shave? Not awful the first use. Faint praise, indeed. Sprinting toward awful with subsequent uses.

These are not intended to be disposable razors. They are not priced like disposable razors. Yet, disposing of this Schick (with a "t", remember) product will be the happiest moment I have spent with it.

Ta-da!

Darth Tina: Lesliiee, I am your photaahhgrapher. Join me on the daaahk side.

Me: Sure thing, kiddo. Where ya want me to sit?

My first full-blown modeling session. There's been a few pictures previously, but not like this. I'm very pleased with the results. A couple of head shots and I'll be ready for an agent. Maybe a lead role on a sitcom, like My Three Former Sons, or Leave It to Leslie.* Or a show with a shocking twist, like How I Met Your Brother. So many great ideas, so little interest outside my own head....

Lots of sweet comments to the previous post. Much appreciated.

Tina has remained a very special friend. She and I debuted to a live audience on the same night in March 2008, along with the late lamented Allie, who only got the one chance to be herself. We've supported one another through a rough year and a half, but the seas are looking smoother now for both of us. She's no longer actively blogging, but there is a link to hers in the right column. A force of nature, and an urban gypsy. Thanks for the photos, Tina. You're a swell egg, and hold a special place in my heart.

I put a bunch up on Flickr. If we aren't linked, but you think we should be, drop me an email and I will consider your application. Creeps and cretins unwelcome. Sweet ladies will be a joy to add to my modest circle of friends.

*very dated pop culture references

Hopped Up on Endorphins

Nothing like a support meeting to elevate your spirits. It's been two months away from my Leslieness, and I was missing it desperately. These meetings are my only opportunity to create The Full Leslie, and you know that I savor them.

I'm getting more courageous, too. I started on my makeup out in the car, as I waited for the building to be opened. I had my concealer, foundation and powder in place before I entered. I'm kinda self-conscious about tieing up the restroom, so a head start seemed a good idea. I've given the restroom a special designation that I hope will catch on: the Leslie Ann Thomas Transformational Explorium, or LATTE. Catchy, no? I'm typically the only person who needs the room for anything other than its primary use, so why not name it for me? I'm going to send a lobbyist to the state legislature. I'll keep you apprised.

The meeting was all business, as we are working on becoming an official non-profit. Then we can take dues and have coffers to pay for outreach and such. I'm hoping that we can start converting the masses to crossdressing. I'm certain that I'll never feel truly free out and about unless everyone's doing it! But seriously, it's a big step for our group. Sadly, I have been informed by my wife that I will not be helping out in any official capacity, like being an officer. She doesn't want my name on anything official, and I can see her point. Gotta keep that closet door closed tight. You never know whose hands things will pass through.

After we finished with bidness, we socialized for a while. Tina got her camera and we had a very intense and sexy photo shoot. Standing, sitting, laying on the couch. She took thirty or forty shots of me. Tina has a real knack for loosening people up, getting you relaxed. If I can believe what she was saying, I will have many beautiful shots to choose from. I've been wanting to update my profile pic, so it looks like the time is nigh. Those of you with Flickr priviledges may have a lot to look at.

I felt pretty tonight. That's all I've ever really wanted from this. There's a bunch of peripheral perks, social hijinks, but it all comes down to a self-declared ugly duckling feeling like a swan for an evening.

Already counting the days till I pop into the LATTE again.