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.

A Little Outlet Beats None at All

Sunday evening kinda snuck up on me. My boy went off in the afternoon to sleep over at a friend's house. Mrs. Leslie took my middle daughter with her to work in the evening. That left me home alone with my oldest.

Initially, I was thinking of it as an opportunity to bleach my arm hair without interruption. Yet, the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to stretch out a bit.

You will remember my daughter's autism, which means that she really doesn't seem to care about appearances. Social norms are something that must be taught in a concrete way, so there is much she does not comprehend. I hope this doesn't come across as callous, but I decided that there was no harm in dressing in her presence. I know her very well, and I did not think it would make a whit of difference to her. By the time she went to bed, I was completely dolled up. She gave me some curious looks, as if something were amiss, but she wasn't upset by it.

Anyway, I got to spend three or so hours as my preferred self, walking around the house, making dinner, answering emails. All the things I would be doing if I got to live like this. Soooo satisfying, made the more so because I won't be attending my meeting this Saturday. Lexington's Independence Day stuff is on Saturday the 3rd, in order not to piss off the Big Guy, I guess. Silly humans. I would think God would like to sit back on a Sunday and enjoy the fireworks display.

Saturday night, Mrs. Leslie and I went out to dinner. She commented at one point that she couldn't believe that I was going to eat my entire plate of pasta. I answered that I was making myself fat because of my self-loathing. It was a flip answer, though not altogether untrue. I'm ten pounds heavier than I want to be, and moving in the wrong direction, mostly due to comfort foods in large quantities.

Sunday night, as I was working at the computer, she came up behind me, put her arms over my shoulders, and asked about what I had said. She wondered if I really was hating myself. I said that it was the dysphoria talking, and pointed out that I was suffering from gammus hideosum. She laughed at the idea, and wondered if bleaching my legs was a possibility. I told her that I thought it would be cost prohibitive and time-consuming, and she wondered about hydrogen peroxide. I don't honestly know how it is used, but I suppose I should look into it. That's what the internet is for, after all.

I'm hoping that my Leslie time tonight can stave off the dysphoria for awhile. It's still a long bit till the first weekend in August, the next meeting date. I need to have this sort of time at home on a regular basis.

Dealing With It

The last couple days have been very hard. My friend Dysphoria just won't shut up. There was therapy on Thursday, and I felt pretty good after that, but Friday and Saturday were a test.

Working alone in the evenings is a mixed blessing. I have a lot of time to think, and on the other hand, I have a lot of time to think. Whatever mood I carry into work in the afternoon, good or bad, has often been magnified when midnight rolls around. Friday, this meant substantial depression. Hairyness is a lot of it, having that dissonance between what is and what should be.

Two weeks ago, I sculpted my nails, and I kept them that way. Very pretty. I have my mother's hands, long and thin. I didn't care what people thought, and no one said a word. I would look at my hands many times during the day, and have a little endorphin surge, seeing womanly hands. Friday, though, the burst of good was being followed by a wave of sadness, thinking about all I am not and may never be.

So, Saturday afternoon, I trimmed my nails. It was tough to make myself do it, but I felt I had to break free of the feelings they were causing. Mrs. Leslie noticed almost immediately. "You cut your nails!" Truly surprised. I told her that I've been struggling for a few days, and looking at them was making me sad. She didn't understand this (I don't either), but she accepted it and told me she was sorry that I was having difficulty. At least she knows now.

Mrs. L had the kids wash my car as a Father's Day gift. It had been more than a year, I think, since it last touched soap, so this was a welcome surprise.

Even better, in the evening my daughter had her guitar out and I decided to join her. I haven't played my guitar for many months, and cutting my nails made it a reality. I played and sang my favorites: James Taylor, Billy Bragg, Paul Simon's "Song For the Asking", Elvis' "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding." That was the real payoff, and a welcome respite from the silenced Dysphoria.

I'm not out of the woods yet. An hour after the guitar session and I'm headed downward already. Father's Day Sunday, then an all day trip to Cincy to an autism clinic on Monday. Oh, joy.

Oh, the Humanity!

My dysphoria is surging anew, and I think I am suffering from another condition that is worsening it. I have gammus hideosum, or as lay people refer to it, Monkey Legs.

Honestly, I don't know if my hairy stems are causing the GD, or the GD makes my normal hirsuteness intolerable. Either way, the longing is strong.

I'm actually grateful for the traffic stop two weeks ago. Fear allowed me to back down off the edge. I stopped taking heels in the car, so the temptation to use them carelessly is not there. The first week was the easier one. I had my meeting to look forward to, and the preparations and anticipation kept dysphoria at bay.

The second week has been a struggle. The inevitable emotional crash of the end of Leslie time was there, as always. I have kept my longish, rounded, buffed nails all week, which has helped. But there has been no real outlet this week, and none in the foreseeable future.

I did get to talk to officer #1 again. He was out in my parking lot when I locked up the other morning. He told me that they were still after the guy breaking into cars in the area, that he's busier than ever. I'm sure the officer feels better about me, having seen me coming out of the business that I earlier claimed I worked for. Now I feel like the police know me and might be watching out for me. In a good way, I mean.

I got my tutorial about being a moderator on the TransKentucky Yahoo Group. It's not a big job, but it is a welcome distraction. The best part is deciding whether applicants are accepted or not. I have to be protective of the existing group, turning away potential predators, but I also have to keep in mind what a life saver this group has been for me, and will be for others that are reaching out to connect. That's an important responsibility, and not one I take lightly. The group is a safe place for folks like me, and I want to keep it that way.

Meeting Postscript

I'm getting a mental backlog of things I want to write about, so I'd best get cracking. I will begin with the freshest material, as tonight I attended my monthly support group meeting.

It's been two months since I last attended, and I was missing my friends desperately. And Leslie, too, for that matter. I don't dress fully anywhere else. I don't play with my makeup, excepting lipstick. I don't wear my wig. Half-assed gives me too much credit. Yet, I find that even without practice, my presentation continues to improve. I'm not uber-femme, I'm modest with the makeup, no campy mincing, but after the meeting I see myself in the mirror, and what I see is more attractive than what I imagined as I sat through the meeting. Consistently surprised.

The meeting place is one that we borrow free of charge from our local gay/lesbian group. They are doing major renovation of the space, well on its way out of dump status. They now have a programmed thermostat, and it was not cooling this evening. We could not find a way to override the program and create some cool air. It hovered around 85 degrees F in the room for the entire meeting. Anyone familiar with wearing a wig knows how uncomfortable many of us were. She's a very sweaty girl, the kind you don't take home to Mother, to paraphrase Rick James. I took a seat near the fan and managed to live to tell the tale.

We had to do some business at the meeting, but it wasn't exhausting as it has been so often in the past. We are going to have some guest speakers in the next few months, so we had to get the schedule squared away. Plus, our acting director wants to step back and share the workload with others. I volunteered to be a moderator on our Yahoo group, watching for inappropriate traffic (almost never) and getting involved in accepting or declining new members. Sylvia and I will share this duty, and we will get our initiation and passwords on Monday. I hope there won't be a sacrifice or any hazing.

There was plenty of good group discussion, but people started wanting to bug out pretty early, mainly due to the heat. This meant that I had to go back into the LATTE and change earlier than anticipated. *sigh* While others went off to a restaurant, I decided that I would go over to Lisa's with Tina, Shandy and Sylvia, for an impromptu cookout. Well, everyone hung around chatting outside the meeting place, so I wound up going home instead. My friends really want to figure ways to get me out more, which I find endlessly flattering. I'm very lucky to have fallen in with such a good crew.

I buffed and rounded my nails before the meeting, and I should go ahead and cut them now, but I don't want to ruin the look. Pulling back after a meeting is very difficult, more so with each one. The July meeting falls on the Independence Day weekend, so I likely won't be Leslie again till August. Way too long.