Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

It's good policy to write things down when you're upset, set them aside overnight, and then find more delicate and politic ways of conveying your message. I'm going to set aside the second and third parts, and just share my largely unedited thoughts. I don't expect this to flow well, or even make sense fully. I don't care, not like I usually do. I am a raw nerve, and we'll see where it goes. I know my audience, thanks to the private blog, so I feel safe to let loose.

After our tense dinner Friday, we went without touching one another in bed, then said next to nothing significant all day Saturday. When she was coming home from work, I knew that tonight was going to be the talk. A brief call on her way home, coming home much earlier than usual, fixing herself a drink. We watched The Closer, then she told me she isn't happy.

I told her that I knew that. It's been obvious to me for a good while. She says she feels like she's faking her way through life, pretending that everything is okay, that we are a happy couple. She says she is trapped. I told her that everything she is saying is true for me too.

Okay, I want to drop the blow by blow. My head is spinning with dark thoughts.

I am a terrible father. My boy thinks I'd rather be at work than with my family. He said this Thursday. I guess my absence is considered to be a choice, not a necessity. The missus insists that she has never said anything to the kids that would even hint at this idea. I believe her. I just have so much trouble bonding with people.

My bare legs were the first thing she brought up, so it's safe to assume that this issue is never going to fade. I do whatever I want to do. I stay up all hours, sleep in and hurry off to work. We never have time to talk, and that is my fault. My question: why would I want to talk with someone that clearly doesn't like me? Isn't my time better spent chatting with Liz or Renee or Sophie or Shandy, writing to Calie or Claire or Halle or Elly or Penny or Petra? They care. They understand me. They want to hear my most deeply held thoughts. They don't require a fucking filter.

I hate my life and she hates her life. And short of bankruptcy, we are stuck together for many years to come. I told her my suspicions that she has a plan to exile me next year. She thought that was laughable, but in the next breath was wondering what would ever be enough for me, how many years she has till I make my escape. I can truly say here that she isn't doing much to make me want to stay.

We are caught up in a vicious cycle. She resents the time I spend online every night. Yet, her coldness and anger make me want to delay going to bed even further. Since she made her issue clear three(?) weeks ago, I have substantially increased my time and effort with household and child care matters. I can't change overnight, and I'm getting less incentive with each passing day.

So, I'll regret this post tomorrow, I guess. I still feel bound up, but I don't know what else to write. My life sucks, and I make little or no progress in changing that. I just complain about it and try to make it another day.

Tension Makes a Tangle

The other shoe has yet to drop. A good week altogether, with the holiday keeping my mind busy on other things.

Then, today, I said something to Mrs. Leslie about her having a glass of wine at home. I didn't mean anything critical by it, I just thought she was going to be driving later on. Yet, she took it as critical, and snapped at me that I have been rather judgmental of her lately. I kept my cool, told her I didn't realize I had been striking an attitude, but said I would try to temper it.

Nothing further was said on the subject, but I quickly began a slide into my dark place, questioning my own worth and my love for my wife. In truth, there has been a lot of tension between us all week, since the wig incident. There wasn't a lot of affection before that, but there has been no warmth at all since. She seems to be holding back, and I suppose I am doing the same.

We went out to eat late. I was fully expecting there to be accusations thrown about, but nothing developed. Just a quiet meal with polite conversation, the elephant being skillfully avoided by us both, talking of anything but that which was foremost in our minds. I am certain the dam will give way soon. When it does, I intend to discuss the Halloween party, the wig discord, and my suspicions on the existence of a breakup plan. So many things are unsaid at present, and much needs addressing.

Subtext

After months of delay, I finally surrendered to need, and took my poor wig into the shop for some professional help. It's not as if I've worn it hundreds of hours. Truth be known, it's likely not been on my head for a full week over the 2-1/2 years I've owned it. Yet, it seems to be suffering from excessive dryness, as the ends of the hairs in back are horribly tangled and ratty looking. Pam will wash and condition it, and might have to do a little surgery with the pinking shears, all in time for my meeting the first Saturday in December.

Now, a story. I went to the wig shop this afternoon. Mrs. Leslie was leaving the house at the same time to pick up a child at school. As luck would have it, we were traveling the same route. I had told her that I was going out to buy dog food (true), but then I turned left when she was expecting a right. She already had an inkling that I had something else cooking. A text exchange began.

She: Is your 2nd destination a secret destination?
Me: Kinda.

A little later, after I'd finished at the wig shop:
She: Are secrets a good thing?
Me: Depends. Took wig in for much needed work. Is that bad?

This question hung out there for about twenty minutes. I never considered this task to be a secret. I considered it something that she wouldn't care to know about. Maybe that is a false distinction? When she expressed curiosity, I only hesitated for a moment to share the nature of my trip. Maybe she thought I was doing something for her Christmas, I dunno.

After the long wait, I texted again.
Me:Hmm, no response. Is that a bad thing?
She: Driving with kids.
She (a bit later):What kind of work? How much does that cost?
Me: Shampoo, condition, maybe trim some damage. Ten or twenty dollars.

I was finishing this text as she came into the house, but I went ahead and sent it. She asked me if we were going to be that couple that texts a breakup message across the dinner table. Not sure how much truth was hiding in her little ribbing.

In the evening, we went out to dinner together (I'm on vacation this week). I expected the third degree. All I got was a short exchange. She thought I should wash and set it myself. I countered with the fact that I have no safe place to let it dry after washing it, as it can take a few days. She said the garage is available. Not entirely safe, I said, and I don't have the proper equipment or experience anyway. We left it there, but it may come up again.

I like to think that she has come to understand that there is some maintenance and expense involved in my "hobby". Today makes me wonder if that bridge still hasn't been crossed. This is not a terribly expensive project, I have put it off for months, and I tried to keep her out of the loop and in her comfort zone. I'm still unsure what long-term consequences might come of it, or if this will open the door to bubbling criticisms that were being left unsaid.

I really need to start working on those timelines.

Never a Bridesmaid, Never a Bride

I've been to a few funerals since GID capsized my boat a few years back, but this was the first wedding. One of my many cousins finally got married, as it's not easy for a mortician to find a husband. It was a grand swanky affair, one of the fanciest I can remember in my family. Uncle Bill will be living on cans of beans for months, I'd think, after the checks he must have written.

I normally hate large gatherings, but I have a great fondness for my Dad's family. They are exceptionally kind people. I have a deserved reputation for being quite reserved, but I had been keeping Leslie in the front of my mind all week, hoping that this would allow me to be at ease. When we ran very late getting to the wedding, I was afraid that my growing bad mood would knock the girl right out of me.

I recovered. I had some very nice talks with my favorite aunts and especially some female cousins. I touched and hugged them a lot, and complimented haircuts. I wanted to mention some well-tailored outfits, too, but didn't get the chance.

Mrs. Leslie was quite fetching as well. We even danced a bit, at her invitation. I don't think she expected me to do it, as I usually don't, but I thought that it was something that Leslie would want to do. We danced to two songs: Sinatra's "The Way You Look Tonight", and "Love Shack" by The B-52's. Not the same dance for those two, by the way.

The ladies there were dressed wonderfully, as you would expect. I was concerned that seeing them would swamp me completely. Other than a few passing moments of envy, I got through it fine, settling for admiration and taking mental notes. I was underdressed, plus extra stylish in my man suit. I figured out a combo where I could wear a shirt that was robin's egg blue with a very colorful tie. Second best to be sure, as I would love to have been presenting like some I saw, but not bad.

Tired of Standing Still

When I went to therapy Monday afternoon, I had a goal in mind. Or rather, my goal is to have a goal.

I've confessed my confusion here many times, an inability to decide whether to move forward and deal with my gender identity with more than a Band-aid. Being stuck in limbo, neither this nor that, has been useful in some regards, but ultimately futile. I bought myself some time, but my condition is no better. I need a plan for the future.

One reason for this is a persistent worry that I am being strung along by my missus. While she has frequently shared her worry that I will leave her to be a "woman", I too am concerned that she might make a preemptive strike. My boy is in his last year of private school, and I have wondered if, when that financial hurdle has been cleared, I might have outlived my usefulness.

Is there evidence, you ask? Circumstantial, I reply. Her part-time job now requires her to work Saturdays and Sundays. This arrangement is doing us no favors maritally, but she is unbending about keeping it. I think she might be putting her ducks in a row, making sure she has options. If she were only worried about me leaving, wouldn't saving the marriage be the first priority? I dunno. Maybe I'm just seeing conspiracies where there are none. I've said before that wanting to be female doesn't help me understand their thought process.

My therapist has given me homework for next time. I am to create a couple of timelines for myself. As I am unsure of my final goal, she wants one to reflect an ideal future, the other to assume that things stay roughly the same (we'll call that one reality). Both start with the actual present (married, school age kids who don't know, financial quagmire) but build in different ways from there. The idea is to figure out what I want, and how I might get it.

I've already done some brainstorming on it. My first move on both would be to begin hair removal. It is not a real commitment to anything, but it would make me feel so much better. I will definitely be doing these timelines in pencil, because I have never thought this through fully. It's always been an impossibility, just a fantasy outcome without actual defined steps. There are so many increments to consider.

And, just like blogging, writing it all down will be therapeutic.

Anger Explained

Whilst discussing several things that are currently frustrating Mrs. Leslie, she added that it never seems a good time to have an argument with her husband. She offered to have it now. I agreed.

The source of her upset is the perception that I am not carrying my fair share of household duties. When I didn't make it home in time to have the baton passed to me after my meeting, her feelings reached the tipping point. It appears that it has little to do with Leslie, and everything to do with male me.

The crux of it is our schedules. She has recently been required to work both Saturday and Sunday evenings, the Saturdays being a new thing. I work Monday through Friday evenings. Perhaps you can suss out the issue here. Yes, we have zero time in which to be a couple. In fact, the opportunity to talk privately is increasingly rare. I have told her that it's not working. I think she understands that, but her solutions look a bit different.

She wants me to start going to bed earlier, so that I might rise earlier and help her with our oldest child and various things around the house. I get the point, and yes, my computer time could be considered excessive. Of course, the place this solution leads (and I don't think she has considered this), is the grossly insufficient Leslie time I am accorded, and her attempt to shorten it. This is where the next conversation will have to go, and it will not be a happy one, certainly not for me.

I'm going to pull male privilege here. My job pays three times hers per hour, and I have full benefits. Her job (the one in question), is part time with no benefits. I cannot start my day of work before 3pm. I need to work overtime, and I need time to wind down when I get home. Moving my bedtime will not be easy. I might be able to aim for 4am, but here I am blogging at 3:50. Seems a stretch, doesn't it?

She also brought up the need for outings for the two of us. I see the need, but it's unclear when they might occur. She suggests that we might do lunch occasionally, if I rise earlier. She also wants me to arrange these things, despite the chaos of her schedule and the thick routine of mine. It will require a lot of me, but I will attempt to do this.

There was probably more, but it was sixteen hours ago. That was the gist, anyway. I was pleased that it wasn't about my ongoing internal battle of the sexes.

More Whining, Please Disregard

By all rights, I should feel happy right now. I don't. I was pretty happy in the days leading up to my meeting. I was distracted in a positive way by the myriad tasks required to make this boy seem lady-like.

We had our Transgiving meeting last night. It was reasonably well-attended, and the food was very good. Barbara Ann made a wonderful Cajun version of stuffing. I was full and content. The company was grand. Lots of time talking to Sylvia, Tina, and Shannon, among others. All terrific things.

We were late getting started, and we stayed late. About 10:30, I get a text from my missus: I'm leaving for work. Where are you?
I reply: Changing!
She: Kinda late, isn't it?

This made me suspect that she was upset, though it wasn't spelled out. When she comes home after work, she normally calls me and chats for 5 or 10 minutes. This time, a terse text: I'm driving home.

Uh-oh. When she gets home, she makes herself a drink, but doesn't offer to make one for me, which she normally would. Defcon 3. Conversation was typical, if not warm.

I do not want to ask her what her issue is. Was it my staying late at my meeting, or did she believe that I had gone off to do something else? It's a terrible thing to say, but I would prefer that she keep her suspicions to herself, rather than dump a bunch of accusations on me. I have had a rough go of it for two or three weeks, and I kept it to myself. I was counting on this night raising my spirits for an extended period. Well, even as I was driving home, I felt like I was going back into the hole.

I hate to write whiny stuff like this. I don't want to read it. I don't know why anyone else would. I am incapable of long-term happiness and should stop pressing for it. I have again painted my wife as a bit of an ogre, even if that seems a fair assessment to me at this instant. Yet, I have to record this here, because this is my safe place to vent, and venting is required. More than happiness, even, I would like to be in a place mentally where I didn't need to vent.

So What?

All this drama seems to be raising everyone's blood pressure. Funnily (to me), all the drama depicted here is unilateral. Mrs. L is blissfully unaware of any disturbance in the force.

Many of you are providing me with tough love, and I appreciate it. I detest small talk and niceties in serious situations. Meat and potatoes for me. Make your argument, get to the point, and then we can work with the truth. No dancing. You ladies have been taking off the (opera) gloves, and giving me a good rogering. Thank you, mistress, may I have another? I like to know where people stand. Many of your comments have been blunt, but none have been unkind. They are the words of folks that care about me. Thank you for helping me sort things out, and see things from other perspectives.

Of course, I'm one to talk. I've been dancing around my truths here at home for years. That's because Mrs. L has a very different style of communication, and being the dominant personality, we do things her way. It's hard for me to blame her for her ignorance, when I am the one withholding the facts. I accept much of the responsibility for the position I am in.

Sophie left a very telling comment, I thought. She dropped an extended version in my mailbox. She is encouraging me to start making some decisions, and calling me out on my BS. And it is BS. I keep going around in circles without committing to any goals. My therapist has suggested working out some goals (more than once), but I truly don't know what I want, or what I am. I complain in this space, and in the shrink's office, and chatting with my friends, but the response to those complaints should be, "So what? What do you intend to do about these problems you are tangoing with? When the music ends, will you still be with your partner? Or will you have changed into a slinkier, curvier outfit, and started looking for a new partner that dances to a different tune, knows more steps?"

I have a lot of work to do in the coming months. I am going nowhere now. Time to map out a future that makes sense to me.

The Need for a Plan

Sunday, Halloween, was an improvement. Still very stressful, as Mrs. L has only one way of operating on a holiday: putting 10 pounds of plans in a 5 pound bag. Throw in a late start on executing said plans, and her need to head to work just before the goblins began coming to the door to hustle some candy, well, you get the idea. Such is life with my missus.

Sleep took the edge off my depression from Saturday evening. Now, on Sunday night, I'm pretty stable. The comments left on the last post are much appreciated. I especially liked that you ladies started getting agitated at my wife. I know that several of you harbor some ill will toward her, based on my descriptions. Truly, I think you would all like her if you met her. But then, she doesn't have a vested interest in your lives, and no desire to maintain your status quo.

I was having a very earnest chat with a friend Saturday night, and we were discussing the need to tell my kids the truth about their father. It comes down to a realistic choice. Do you allow them to find out accidentally, which is bound to happen at the current rate, or do you find a way to reveal the truth gently, in a planned fashion, with support at the ready, prepared to field tough questions? I would say the latter. Mrs. L would likely deny the possibility of the former occurring, thereby negating the need for the latter. She lives in a world where she can will things to never happen. Nice to be God, no?

So, I've been thinking about this a lot. I've wanted to tell my middle child for some time. I think she would handle it well. She's open-minded and tolerant. Mrs. L might even agree on that. It's the boy she fears for. Just entering puberty, she believes that losing the image of a thoroughly masculine father (has she ever met me?) would turn his world upside down. Well, finding his father dressed to the nines one night in the basement will most assuredly accomplish that, and without a safety net.

I have therapy Monday, and I will be getting my money's worth after the last few days. I have a lot on my mind that needs to go through the therapy filter.