We Are Not Amused

True of Queen Victoria, I guess, but not me. The family went to Kings Island on Saturday, a major regional amusement park in southwest Ohio. It was a terrible day to go, but the only one available to all of us. 95 degrees F (36 C?), with humidity to make it feel 105. Warmish.

We rode lots of coasters, and my boy didn't balk at any of them this year. He's finally getting over his fear of the unpredictable, and he greatly enjoyed himself. We even rode a couple after dark, something new to us. It's kind of like the whole ride being in a tunnel. Quite thrilling, but rough on the neck not knowing what turns lie ahead.

My oldest enjoyed going up to the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower. Yeah, you heard me right. They have a 1/3 scale replica there, 314 feet high. It's the centerpiece of the park.

Weird Tangent: Anyone conversant on the 1968-74 sitcom The Brady Bunch will know Kings Island. Americans my age can quote chapter and verse on the Bradys or Gilligan's Island. Just try me. In the last season (I think) they did an episode promoting Kings Island. It seems the architect father, Mike, has been deeply involved in the creation of the park, so the family got to go visit it. Quite possibly where the show jumped the shark (if it's possible for a show this mediocre to lose credibility). Lots of lingering shots of the family enjoying the park, with a tiny plot draped over it.

Back to the present: My wife and son went off to the water park for a couple hours in the afternoon. I don't really like my body much in its current state, so the girls not being in a condition to swim gave me an easy out. This gave me an opportunity to disappoint my wife regarding my parenting skills. My oldest was not feeling well while Mrs. L was away, and I failed to take the proper steps, or recognize the problem (likely dehydration, but she doesn't tell me she's thirsty). So now the missus is worried what would become of our daughter if Mrs. L weren't around. I think she just needs to have a nit to pick.

A grand time, for the most part. Everyone is old enough now to be semi-independent, and we've aged out of tantrums (though teenage surliness and sarcasm is more frequent). No one barfed, a whole new level of success for us. The entertainment is canned, but it does provide lasting memories for everyone involved.

Giving an Inch

The comments from the previous post were few, but they made me step back and look at what transpired with a fresh outlook.

I am being fatalistic, not uncommon for me. The worst case scenario is usually the first to mind. Claire and Elly, in their individual and collective wisdom, pointed out that Mrs. Leslie has not lost hope, as evidenced by her efforts to end my depressive state through strongly encouraged exercise. Melissa points out that exercise won't make GID go away. Yet, many do lessen the symptoms through physical activity. Plus, part of my depression comes from the bit of weight I've been putting on, and exercise is half the answer to that.

Mrs. L is going out of her way to try to make me feel happier. Leaving out the question of her sincerity, she seems sympathetic to my difficulties. She is engaged with me, not acting distant, and she deserves credit for that. I, too, am acting more animated than I feel, and working hard to be a good partner and parent. Maybe I'm transferring my own emotional distance onto her. I can hardly fault her for doing no better than me.

I'm not sure any of this changes my conclusions or fatalism. What she is trying hard to preserve is the husband I am currently playing for her. I think she believes that if I am happy enough while in this role, I will be less inclined to slip back into the female role that dominates in the colder months. I readily see the selfish, cynical aspect of her actions, without giving her credit for trying to salvage our marriage. Consider her credited now.

I resolved several months ago to break my cycle of false hope, and I believe that I am maintaining that. The emotional disconnect required to protect myself may be the undoing of the relationship, but it also will allow me to step away if it comes to that.

Small wonder I'm depressed.

Conversation and Implications

Saturday night, Mrs. Leslie suggested that we take a walk. She uses walking as an aerobic workout sometimes. I'd already done an aerobics tape with her earlier in the day. She is trying to work me out of my funk with some exercise. It makes certain muscles ache, but my head did feel better.

We went walking around 1am. The streets were silent. As we walked, she soon brought up my depression, and asked if I would tell her what has been bothering me. I told her that since she surprised me in the spring with the fact that she wasn't feeling connected to me, I am no longer trusting my ability to gauge her feelings for me. I asked her if she is feeling connected, or if she is going through the motions in an attempt to feel connected.

I don't think she wanted this question. First, a drawn out "I don't know." Then, "I don't hate you." I put my arm around her shoulder, and said, "Thanks, honey, I don't hate you, too." "There have been times that I have hated you." "Yeah, I know that."

The good news: She doesn't hate me. The bad news: That leaves a lot to be desired. If she isn't feeling connected to me now, when I'm presenting in the way she prefers (male and hirsute), what chance do we have when October comes around and the dysphoria starts redlining? The only thing that gets me through the summer months is knowing that I'll be able to break out the epilator and find myself again in the autumn.

How much of my current depression is my subconscious recognizing my wife's distance, something I've been ignoring to preserve myself? I'm not getting the warm fuzzies about the way this is going.

Girls' Night Out

Being on vacation this week, I had the opportunity to sit in on Mrs. Leslie's regular Friday night winefest at one of several chain restauants. This week's happened to be at O'Charley's, the same venue where I had my early November Leslie foray. I now have one visit in each mode. The first was great, but this one was pretty good, too.

Mrs. L's best friend called in the early afternoon to set things up. They discussed whether I would be welcome to join the group. I called out that I wanted to be an honorary girl for the evening. Much laughter. I was in.

I had a lot of material prepared, like saying that my denim skirt was in the dirty laundry, so I had to go with shorts, or that the late notice didn't give me time to epilate. That sort of nonsense. I wound up using none of it, but I was gregarious and quick with the witty one-liners. I curled my lashes before going, and almost wore a sports bra (too damn hot), and I had lip gloss in my pocket that I was prepared to whip out and use judiciously if the chance arose. Sadly, no.

The link with these girlfriends is children with autism, so always much discussion about school issues and therapy and legal battles. I would have preferred more standard girl talk, but they don't ever do much of that. I tried to stay engaged, but I was seated directly beneath a big TV (that's television, people) that was showing the Reds game. No cable at home, so I normally only get the radio version, ergo a stiff neck from watching my favorite team while trying to keep track of the table conversation. Not couth at all, and certainly not ladylike.

I enjoyed myself and felt welcome, and my mood is significantly brighter now. It's nice to be part of a hen party, even if mistakenly viewed as a rooster.

Looking For Inspiration

I haven't been feeling like doing much of anything except sleeping, and I haven't even been doing enough of that. I have some things I want to write splashing about in my head, but the act of writing them down seems beyond me. Talking to my therapist today, she said it sounds like depression. I realized that she was right. As often as I've been depressed, I cannot believe that I didn't recognize it. I think this round has been more about shutting down, rather than my more typical edge-of-crying sadness.

More than anything, I feel like whining, and I don't want to subject loyal readers to navel gazing of that sort. My solution this last week has been to write supportive emails to my Blogistan sisters. It takes me out of my own head for a bit, and I hope sends a little love out where it's needed.

One subject that's been burning to be written is related to religion. To be delicate, I can't imagine how I can write this without offending some very nice people. I'll give it a go, I suppose. This might seem whiney. You've been warned.

I can't remember a time when I ever bought into religion on any level. My parents took me to church with some regularity, but it never stuck. I'm fine with that. I think of myself as a humanist, and my values hew closely with the Christian standards, just without a god looking over my shoulder. I sometimes envy the serenity exhibited by those with a god, but not to the point where I would try it.

My point in sharing this: Perhaps I've never embraced a god because I've always felt forsaken. I have never felt that I rested in the busom of a supreme being. I'm an outsider looking in, and always have been. I don't fit, and I resent it.

Strangely, though, I had the most vivid dream five or six weeks ago, unlike any I can remember. Very cinematic in construction, covering several months. The dream seemed to take place in the Old World, perhaps Italy or Ireland, with narrow streets and old homes.

It began with an older female relative coming to live with our family. Soon there was prayer going on, maybe saying grace at a meal. She noticed me doing what I do in real life. I have my eyes open and my head unbowed, being respectful but not participating. She called me out for it, told me how disappointed she was. Before long, I am bonding with her. I attend church with her, though keeping my skepticism. Gradually, I am won over by the church. At the end, months later, I acquiesce to my relative, and lead a halting, clumsy, but quite sincere, prayer.

I awoke with a sense of inner peace and warmth. Was this a glimpse at something my soul cries for, a sense of belonging? Despite the feelings engendered by the dream, I cannot imagine becoming spiritual in this fashion. I have attended my local Unitarian church from time to time, and I like the sincerity of the people there, and their openness to differing religious views. This is a place that would be accepting of me were I to become openly trans. Yet, I still have trouble being at ease there around so many people I don't know. Not being at home in my own skin has left me socially stunted, unable to get my footing with new people.

Ultimately, I think I want a sense of community more than religion. Still, I don't want to embrace a new community as my male self. The falseness of my male presentation makes it seem unworthy of the effort required.

I'm not looking for proselytizing comments, or encouragement to find a god. I just wanted to share something that seemed very profound at the time, and still leaves me wondering now about the message I should take from it. Thanks for indulging me.

Doing Better

I think I just have a problem with holidays. Christmas always gets me out of sorts, but I usually chalk it up to all the extra responsibility of buying things we can't afford and getting them packaged on deadline. Maybe there's more to it.

Frankly, Father's Day did the same thing to me emotionally, and now Independence Day. I've been depressed and dysphoric, not wanting to be with others, and hating being alone. Not many options other than those...

We went to our lame-ass parade today, as we do every year. Lots of politicians, as it is an election year. Only a few bands, one a bagpipe outfit, and a couple of community bands that play each year. This year, my wife and second daughter marched in a community band. My girl played clarinet, my wife was a flag girl. Pretty cool, but it meant I had full responsibility for my daughter with autism, which I have a lot of trouble handling. We got through it, but it wasn't all pleasant, and it left me in a mood.

On a happier note, we did not go into the multitudes to see the fireworks. We watched from Mrs. Leslie's work, so much more peaceful and intimate. I'd prefer this any year.

Afterward, knowing that all the special stuff was completed, I began to relax. I think I'm probably wrapped too tight most times anyway, but holidays make me as taut as a guitar string. I have long believed that my daughter's autism comes more from me and my family. Removing me from my routine causes me a lot of stress, a common symptom of autism. A holiday is, by definition, a change in routine. The greater the expectations, the more likely I am to have a meltdown. Will recognizing this in myself help me deal with it? Don't count on it, but I'll have some excuse to point to.

Warning--Humorless Post

I visited the therapist today, and I found more to talk about than I expected to. This week has been a real struggle for me, especially the work hours. Usually (and granted, it's a small sample size), the dysphoria doesn't become unbearable till late summer into October. The end of June is way too early to be dealing with this, because there are just no easy solutions at this time of year.

For now, the kids are home all the time. My middle daughter has become the night owl that I am, up reading into the wee hours. My oldest's assistant is around the house much of the day. I was very(!) fortunate to have gotten a Leslie opportunity last weekend, as I don't see another any time soon. Privacy is practically nonexistent. This also means that I have little chance of talking to Mrs. Leslie about any of this.

Oddly enough, I feel like discussing these things with her. She has exhibited some concern for me recently, which makes me think that she would be open to talk on the subject. We talk about her stressors all the time. I'd like a turn. I continue to worry that Mrs. L is going through the motions, trying to be connected by acting connected. She broadsided me with that in April, and now I'm forever leery. I deeply regret that she shared that secret with me, because it has poisoned the well for me.

I was kind of mopey in therapy today, as all this is taking a toll on me. I normally perk up for my sessions, as it's always a bright spot, talking about myself for an hour. My blog is the only other place I get to do that! M asked me how I picture things in my future. I thought a long time. I can see myself living as female away from work. The rub is that I cannot reconcile this with living with Mrs. Leslie. I am incapable of imagining her accepting any form of this goal. The two most important things in my life, my family and my identity, are completely incompatible. I don't see a way to connect them and live happily ever after.

Okay, that's all the self pity you have endure here tonight. Thanks for reading, ladies.