Preparing to Revelate

I am getting closer to sharing my sartorial quirkiness with my daughter. Not visually (yet), but telling her.  She came to me last weekend as I was watching Doctor Who on Netflix.  She had her laptop in hand, wanting to show me something.

She was sharing a page about demisexuality.  After much gnashing of teeth, she has decided that this is the label that fits her sexual orientation.  A demisexual is someone that only feels a sexual attraction after an emotional connection has been established.  As a result, these are often relationships with the same gender, like her current relationship.

She had shared this page with her mother a few days earlier, and her memory of the reaction was that Mom said it sounded like BS.  I, naturally, was completely supportive, as I am superior in all ways.  Well, in reality, it would be pretty awful for someone like me, longing for the world to accept my deviations from gender norms, to belittle my daughter's tentative steps into the LGBT alphabet soup.  I asked her several questions, and assured her that I would stand by her as an ally.  As her mother should have done.

I nearly told my girl about myself right there. I quashed the notion, though, as I thought it would take the spotlight off her, and this conversation should be about her.

Telling my wife about the talk, she said again that she thinks the time to tell her of my TG status is rapidly approaching.  I want to wait until finals are over next week before I delve into it, but I think it will happen soon after.  She needs to know that I am more than an ally, that I know a great deal about how she feels.

Knowing that this is coming is making me want to dress.  I had a great meeting a week ago, highlighted by a new skirt, and I'm sure that feeling is contributing as well.  And we are going to a Christmas party Saturday, and I cannot escape the fantasy of attending fully dolled up, and being comfortable in my skin for a change at this event.  Fantasy will have to suffice for now.

Good News, Bad News

First, the good news:  I feel like writing again, a return to the deep-seated need that used to rip at me till I could sit down at the keyboard, and sometimes made me pull out a legal pad to tide me over until I could get home.

The bad news: I am feeling that old dysphoria as I haven't in several years.

I haven't felt "right" for several months, and I chalked it up to a lack of opportunities to be Leslie (the beginning of August through the beginning of November, to be precise).  That would be enough, really, but the struggles of my daughter have been tearing at the missus and me as well.  All that stress requires an outlet, and I had none, at least not the kind I desired. 

We were in couples counseling this week, for the first time since June (money, you know), and my daughter was the primary subject.  My wife and I disagree about the way to handle her issues, she tending toward hovering and intervention and raised voice, me preferring the occasional nudge or suggestion, but trying to treat her as the proto-adult that she is at 18.  Let her fail and feel the consequences.

The therapist noted that each time my wife described a confrontation with our girl, I was making pained faces (quite unconsciously).  She wondered if it was related to my reasons for defending my daughter.  I said that I feel a deep sympathy for her struggles with anxiety and the paralysis caused by it.  That I want to help her, but I feel completely unconnected to her.  I said that I want to talk to her about my own history of anxiety, as well the underlying reason for it, which I have been forbidden to discuss with her.  My wife then said that she has been reconsidering that rule recently, wondering if it the potential positives might now outweigh her fears. Didn't see that coming.

I also realized that my own discomfort with my wife's methods with my daughter are close to home. Her tone, her language, take me back to the awful conflicts we had when my gender issues started spinning out of control.  She would talk at me, and made me feel the size of a garden gnome, and just as communicative.  I would get lost in my own head, considering a hundred things to say and rejecting all of them, settling for a pained silence in a sad attempt at damage control.  Don't say anything that might make it worse.

My wife's heart is in the right place, honestly, with my daughter.  She is worried that flunking out of college now will stop her education for good, and doom her to lesser jobs forever.  Could be right, but she is truly not ready for the rigors of higher education at the moment.  The transition has been too much for her.  I think we need to back off and let the chips fall.  She will learn much more through failing than she will by our not allowing her to fail. 

The main point of all this, though, is that I am contemplating a long, odd talk with my daughter.

Nutshell

I don't want my Chelsea Manning rant to be the final entry in this blog, not that this one will be the last one either. But, postscript-wise, I still hate that Gender Dysphoria was implicated in this case. However, what I once thought a cynical last-ditch defense, I now see as sincere, if ill-timed.  And most important, and I hope the only lasting legacy of this case, is that the US military will finally have to address the trans issue with some sort of formal policy. That's a good thing, and long overdue.

So, what's happening now? Hmm...

My running program, so regular last year, is dead in the water now. I dislike running during the day, as I get a serious rash on my hands in direct sunlight, and I hate full-on sweating.  But my night running, which was so successful before, has hit a mental barrier. Its name is fear. I thought nothing of running in my neighborhood at 2am, basking in my male privilege. Now, I feel very vulnerable, so I don't run. Nothing changed, except my mindset.

I really need to be running, too. I have fallen into some very bad habits, eating copious quantities of candy corn and Nerds (little crunchy blobs of flavored sugar, for the uninitiated). Huge amounts of empty calories, and testing my insulin factory with every bite. I don't know that I've gained weight, but any fool could guess that I have.

I think I am pushing down some emotions, which might explain the compulsive eating. In addition, I am chronically underslept(?), unable to pull away from stupid computer games and go to bed.  In essence, I am numb and very sleepy.  Not taking care of myself.  Depression, in a nutshell.

Why not be depressed?  My middle girl is having panic attacks and bombing out of her first semester of uni.  We are bleeding money.  And I haven't had my dressing stress release since the meeting at the beginning of August.  Transgiving is a week from Saturday, and I am worried that the schedule is going to keep me from attending again. 

On the positive side, I have mostly bared my legs, an October tradition.  In the last six months, my wife seems to be more accepting of my sartorial quirkiness.  She makes a point of offering me things before giving them away, which may seem small, but for a long time she begrudged me having any sort of alternative wardrobe. She thought that having just a few items should be plenty to appease my inner demon.  Now I think she understands that I, like most genetic women, have a need to feel fashionable and attractive.  And clothes do make the woman, in my mind certainly.

So that is my status report.  I'm slogging along day to day, with no plan for fixing things. I take comfort where I can find it.  Tonight, I find it writing in my blog.

Not Helping the Cause

I have other, more personal things to write about, but in recent days my mind keeps drifting back to current events.  The court martial of Pvt. Bradley Manning took a sudden veer into my world when his struggle with gender identity was revealed. (Note: I will use mostly male pronouns, matching his current presentation, voluntary or not.)

The whole business of WikiLeaks is something I have followed with moderate interest, mostly due to the oddness of Julian Assange, partly due to concerns about government secrecy and my own privacy.  In my view, both sides of the conflict are less than honorable in their dealings, the government for covering up bad deeds, Assange for revealing secrets without regard for consequences.

Regarding the crimes of which Manning is accused, I believe that most of the information he provided was completely innocuous, more embarrassing than harmful to the government.  Manning was a gullible, idealistic, confused dupe with more security clearance than someone of his rank should have, taken advantage of by slightly more stable people for political purposes.  Assange is a narcissist, and does not care who is sacrificed in his crusade.

Of course, the item that brought all this to the forefront of my attention was the revelation that Manning is struggling with gender identity issues.  A pic of him in wig and makeup has been submitted by his defense team, which apparently was sent to his commanding officer at some point before the legal troubles, in an ill-considered attempt to explain his issues.

So, Manning is using Gender Identity Disorder as a defense.  Look, I remember the fall of '07, and my own struggles.  My judgment of risk and reward was grossly skewed.  I simultaneously wanted to maintain my secret and sing it to the world, two ideas that cannot coexist, matter and antimatter.  Luckily, I was not entrusted with terabytes of secret material at the time.

I cannot deny that Manning's judgment was likely critically impaired by his condition. But, damn, it makes me, and my peers (you dear ladies), look bad.  I am reminded of John Mark Karr, who falsely (and weirdly) confessed to the murder of Jon Benet Ramsey.  Karr is reportedly living as a female now, and I hope it has made her happier and more stable.  But Karr, and now Manning, put on a stain on folks like us.  As we say at my work, one "Oh, crap!" cancels out ten "Attaboys."  The public will remember the sordid over the successful, setting back our acceptance once again.

Peeking Out of the Closet

I have decided to end my longest silence ever, and start a new silent streak tomorrow.  Hard to explain my absence, and though I know I don't have to explain, I want to.  Three months!  A lot has happened, and a lot hasn't happened.  Yet, it is my current emotional state that brings me back to the keyboard, so I will try to limit my tale to the relevant.

The last few months of the school year were very difficult, as we had to drag our graduating daughter through the last half year of her high school experience.  Sloth has proven to be her deadly sin of choice, and her commitment to it has carried over to the summer break.  She starts college in August, at great expense to us, and I fear that we are essentially setting fire to our finances.  She has made perfunctory passes at finding a job, but mostly chats and surfs on her new laptop.  At a time when she should be spreading her wings, she is settling into a rut.

We all went to the beach at the end of June, along with my wife's sister and mother.  It was very nice to get away, and the group dynamic was pretty pleasant throughout.  I settled into the change of routine pretty well, which is never a sure thing.  We had not been to the beach in about ten years, so it was essentially a new experience for the kids.  And it is likely the last time that we will do this, so no regrets.

While we were away, I took my Zoloft only sporadically.  Maybe a couple times during the week.  I was happy, and began thinking that I don't need it so much now.  The hit or miss approach continued until yesterday. 

I suddenly realized that I was starting to feel like I was losing myself.  I blew off my monthly meeting last Saturday, not wanting to be bothered with dressing and socializing.  That is unlike me.  I have been withdrawing from my femaleness, feeling more fear about how the world sees such things.  Honestly, I thought I was over this stuff.  I thought that I had become comfortable with my identity, whether hidden or explicit.  But here I am, feeling a bit lost, becoming inwardly sullen, though not betraying it outwardly yet.

So hard to put into words.  I don't know that I have done it justice.  Anyway, I am newly committed to taking my pills.  I hope to start communicating with you folks again also.  I have been hermit-like for months now.  I just don't know what to say in emails, or on this albatross of a blog.  I don't feel whole.  It doesn't help that my therapist, M, has started working toward a doctorate, and is selling her office.  I suppose I can start seeing our couples counselor for solo therapy too, but the rapport isn't the same.  I'll have to make a judgement call once the drugs stabilize me.

No promises, of course, but I anticipate writing here again before three more months have passed.  I miss y'all.

Love,
Leslie

A Night in the Big Closet

Very hard to get motivated to write at the moment.  I have two subjects to cover, both very positive, and I can't muster the will to write.  Grrrr!  Makes me feel like holding up this wall for a spell...

We had a great TransKentucky meeting on Saturday.  We had a guest presenter: one person, two diverse topics.  Rebecca, a speech pathologist, heads up the Gender Identity Voice and Communication Clinic at the university.  The GIV-CC is one of four such programs in the country, so we are very fortunate to have this here.  The program allows transfolk to work on their voices, mannerisms, movement, in order to blend into society more fluidly.  The program is entering its second year, and reviews are very positive.

So, Rebecca came to talk up the program, but after that discussion, she got out her giant cases of cosmetics and began a makeup tutorial.  She did a complete makeover for Joni, all the while teaching us little tricks and rules.  She has a very quick and dry humor, so I naturally just adore her. 

She then did some impromptu work on a transman who wants to have the look of a beard shadow.  She didn't have the tools she would normally use for that, but she tried something novel, and the results were excellent.  Even Rebecca was surprised, and Benjamin was thrilled.

Questions started in earnest, and a few short demos to illustrate.  Then I made my move.  I walked to the front of the room and asked for a critique on my makeup.  She was complimentary, but decided to talk about my eyes, and the issues with making deep set eyes pop.  It's like she read my mind.  She said I have beautiful green eyes (correct), and wondered about the blueish shadow I was wearing.  I explained that it was gray, but she pointed out that it wasn't gray anymore.  Makeup changes color over time, moves with gravity and secretions.  She cleaned off my shadow and started over.

She darkened my eyebrows just a little with brown shadow, helping to define them.  She thought they were shaped pretty nicely.  Then she used what appeared to be a metallic pink shadow on my lid, and a darker shade in my crease.  I'm unsure about the details (dammit), because I couldn't see my own face during this.  The results, though, said it all.  My eyes have never looked better.

I wish this photo was a better representation of her work.  Sylvia had the presence of mind to suggest a pic, but maybe we should have done one with my eyes closed.  Can't tell a thing here.

Soon after this, I had to wash it all off and change back to pumpkin mode.  Rebecca says that makeup is just dirt.  Colorful, expensive dirt. 

As I was putting my Leslie things away in my car trunk, young Benjamin spoke to me.  "I hope this doesn't offend you, but I think you make a beautiful woman."

"There isn't any situation I can think of where that wouldn't be the nicest thing you could say to me.  Thank you."

Before I left, I made a point of speaking again to Rebecca.  After giving her a hug, I said, "You are a beautiful person, inside and out.  You are doing a great service to this community."  We talked a little about my home situation, and she gave me some encouragement.  A really sweet, talented, caring woman.  We plan to have her back on a regular basis.  There's so much she can teach us.

Legs and Other Trifles

So much time since I said I'd be writing more frequently...good thing they don't hand out fines for mis-speaking in Blogistan.  Now to decide what needs reportage.

Let's start with my March support meeting.  I hadn't been Leslied up since the first weekend of December, and let me say that is too long.  I went in drab in January, and I had a soiree to attend with my wife in February.  Let me point out that this all occurred during my brief winter of hairless legs, so my efforts have all been for myself.  I finally got a chance to wear some clothes that I purchased at Kohl's during the Christmas season.  I had my final full epilation on Friday, ready to dress to the nines Saturday.

It was a terrific meeting.  At least half the twenty attendees were first timers and their supporters.  This made for a free-wheeling group conversation, all over the map.  Three of the newbies were FtM, too, which is a presence we have been missing for a good while.  After we broke to mingle, I had a long talk with six or seven ladies.  Engaging the newcomers gives me a warm feeling, that while I am not advancing in my own goals, I am pulling others up.  The group has given me so much, and this is when I get to lead and give back.  Plus, I get a lot of nice comments about my legs.

We had another couples therapy session a few weeks ago.  Suffice to say I was dressed differently than at left.  The bulk of the session was about finances, an area where our issues are relatively pedestrian.  We owe heaping piles of money, and have no good plan for changing that.  I came from a family that saves, she comes from a family that spends every cent that comes in (and then some).  Guess who has won that fight for thirty years?  I wound up having an anxiety attack for about four hours after the therapy, my usual reaction when we start delving into how bad it is.

So now I face the long spring/summer with hairy legs, which I can feel beginning to sprout already.  Tweezing hairs on my legs has become an obsessive time-waster in recent weeks, and I will now have to break that habit.  If the weather is cool in April (or even May!), I will work out an outfit with opaque tights, just to stretch my season a little.  I take much more joy from dressing when a hemline is involved.  I'll just have to play it by ear.

Airing It Out

Couples counseling yesterday, and none too soon.  We were both aggrieved about the confrontations on New Year's Day, and we had avoided any kind of followup.  The usual healthy approach to relationships that all my readers have come to expect.

The session came down to two major issues, and maybe one minor one.

First, we talked about the gift from Soma.  I shared that I found her "quid pro quo" comment deeply offensive and hurtful.  I told her how much I loved the necklace she gave me at Christmas, and that I wanted to do something unexpected that would express my gratitude and warm feelings.  She said that her first thought was that I was using the shopping opportunity to buy stuff for myself.  She believes that I did the same thing a few years ago when I bought her something at Victoria's Secret.  I do have a satin nightie from VS, but I told her that I did not buy it there.  I just checked back in the blog, and confirmed that I resisted the urge to make a Leslie purchase that day, and I will be sharing that with her.  Regardless, her first reflex was that her gift was a selfish act on my part, a chance to acquire more dainties for myself.  We have a long way to go, no?

Second discussion, about the boy's nausea that evening, and my outburst when I couldn't take her unsubtle suggestions any longer.  This boils down to her not trusting me to handle parenting, despite her frequent criticisms that I am too detached from my kids lives.  I told her that I regretted yelling at her, but that I stand by everything I said.  I was handling the situation in my own way, and the boy felt worse every time she woke and started trying to force her solutions on us.  The counselor largely agreed with me, that she can't have it both ways.  She either stops criticizing me for not taking the lead on parenting issues, or she lets me get used to being the primary parent when I am dealing adequately with things.  She has to trust me.  Even I will tire of banging my head against the wall.

The minor issue was about her birthday in general.  I did not make a cake, despite being led by the hand, recipes being left open on the table, still there even now.  I did not even mention her birthday on the date, though in my defense, I was extremely upset by the events of the previous evening.  Not our biggest problem, by the by.

Okay, enough already.  This is only my side here, and she has legitimate complaints with me as well.  I have felt fairly settled for the last year or so, and the lack of posts here have reflected that.  Tonight, I have that old feeling in my gut, that things are headed downhill.  Our attempts to make our long-standing incompatibilities disappear by ignoring them have bought us a bit of time, but I think the strategy has run its course.  My mood is quite dark right now.  Writing may play a bigger role in my everyday activities for awhile.

Steamed

Christmas was very positive, I thought.  The missus went above and beyond, getting me a rather feminine necklace from Pandora.  Kind of a charm necklace.  Very pretty, and decidedly girly to me.

But that's not why I feel compelled to write tonight.

We had a hard day today.  Lots of running around, prep for school that resumes tomorrow.  My daughter's Rose Parade appearance was not covered by television the way we would've liked.  Plus I was shopping for my wife's birthday.

My wife insists that the kids all come along for the shopping, and I see her point.  But our eldest has zero interest in that, and she can be very difficult to manage when agitated.  So I had to deal with that.

We took the kids out to eat.  We wanted the boy to know how much we have appreciated his help looking after his sister when we had to be out, and the middle girl was off in California.  Good meal, Italian.

Come bedtime shortly thereafter, and he has a bellyache.  Too much food, too much sugar earlier in the day, too much caffeine with the meal.  It doesn't matter.  He is nauseated, and can't get to bed, and all my wife wants to do is badger him to do this or that, and figure out the source of the problem.  Even as she is sleeping in the recliner, she is waking and asking for status reports.  And I am handling things in my way as the wakeful parent on duty.  Just the way she always says she wants it to be, except when she doesn't.

I keep biting my tongue and pushing forward with the matter, not wanting to cause any permanent damage.  Just take care of the boy.  Then I finally have a short explosion, telling her to back off, that she is upsetting the boy by badgering him to do things, that she has to control everything.  Not the prettiest soliloquy I ever composed, but basically true.

Oh, I forgot to mention... Earlier, I told her that I wanted to go ahead and give her a gift now.  I thought it was special, and a little private.  She was very leery, and said that she hoped there wasn't a quid pro quo attached to it.  No, I assured her, though I secretly thought the comment a tad insulting.  So I gave her the package from Soma, five pairs of panties and a pretty nightshirt. 

Yes, I went off the grid and got something she didn't ask for, not unlike her Christmas gift to me.  The panties were all cotton, no lace, as was the nightshirt.  She is very particular, I have learned over the last thirty years.  She said that the panties might  be okay.  She thought the nightshirt was a bit shorter than she'd like, and the medium I selected might be too confining for her to sleep in.  You're welcome, I thought.

So, my mind was there before the outburst as well.

I feel certain that she will be expecting an apology, and I am equally certain that one will not be forthcoming. 

And that's how my two week vacation ends.