Commence Rambling

Anyone who has read me for any time knows that I have two principal topics: being transgendered, and related dustups with my wife. This will be a little off topic, but it's my blog and I'll write what I want to. I'm just going to attempt to exorcise the thoughts in my head by writing them down.

My oldest child is 17, and she has autism. She has very limited communication skills, and limited prospects when she ages out of school. I suspect that she will always live with us, though perhaps she could be paired up with a caretaker of some sort, live a semi-independent life.

We are currently fighting with the school system. They want my daughter to go off the diploma track. She would get a certificate of attendence when she finishes school. My wife is adamantly against this. Me, I'm just getting worn down by the constant conflict. I would've given in long ago, but I'm a realist and she is an idealist. We joke sometimes that she is Don Quixote, tilting at windmills, and I am faithful Sancho, following on my burro, trying to protect my master from herself. And tilting she is, giving it her all. Each meeting is more strident than the last. Today, I simply withdrew and stared at papers while she raged against the machine. She is going beyond my capacity to corral her.

The reality: My daughter is falling further and further behind her peers. High school is exponentially more difficult than middle school. She has to be taught concretely, and there is just no way to make these abstract concepts concrete. Barring a miraculous change in her condition, she will never be able to handle much of the high school curriculum. Maybe the missus is holding out for a miracle. As I said, I would have given in to the school system long ago. But Mama Bear is not going down without a fight.

This is the same stubborn woman that I have to deal with on my gender issues. In her perfect world, her husband is manly and hairy and decisive and ambitious and a hundred other things that I am not. (Well, I am hairy.) She want to control an entire school system the same way that she controls me. She wants to bully them into compliance, but they are not nearly as pliable as I am. We keep drawing out the inevitable outcome, but she insists that she will prevail. And she calls me, and my transgendered friends, deluded...

Okay, that's enough. The thoughts are exercised, if not exorcised. We now return you to your usual diet of TG blogs.

Slow Boat to Sanity

"Some things you never get used to,
Even though you're feeling like another man"
"High Fidelity" Elvis Costello

I suspect people are puzzled by that last post, not that anyone said anything. I'm wondering if that is what a psychotic break looks like. Just my usual dour, sober self, then an abrupt left turn into lunacy. I've long known my inner girl, but now I have to deal with an inner whackjob as well. We're running out of space in here! And I don't have a third closet for a collection of straight jackets. I had a hell of a headache after spending three hours bringing blog posts over one at a time from Yahoo. So, I'll just stick with that excuse.

When my wife is under great stress, I tend to start craving attention, and negative attention will do in a pinch. This is one of those times, as we are fighting against the local high school about my oldest daughter's education (special needs issues). Times of high stress have preceded most of the marital blowups recently, as I do something that pushes the envelope, like the surprise shaving of the legs, and then all hell breaks loose. I am building up a head of steam internally, fixating more and more on my gender issues, but not saying anything about it to the missus. She doesn't need anything else to deal with right now, so this blog is my principal outlet. Therapy on Thursday can't hurt either.

I've been thinking about our contract, which expires April 10th. She hasn't mentioned creating a new one, and I won't bring it up. But if she should, I have finally thought of something to require of her. I want her to start referring to my transgendered friends by either their chosen names or their preferred gender pronouns. When she's feeling charitable, it's "that person. " When she's down on the whole T thing, it's "him" or "that man." Never a female name or pronoun. She's never met any of my friends, and is suspicious of many of them, but the willful disrespect that she shows is deeply offensive to me. I know we're a long way from her using my name, but she loses nothing by respecting my friends.

Masochists, Rejoice!

The wait is over, for me at least. I have transferred the broad enormity of my Yahoo 360 blog over here to my new home. Quite the endeavor, and I have a crashing headache as a result, but pleased nonetheless.

Yahoo 360 is down for the count. I've gotten all the passengers safely off my ship now. I'll stay on board for a while still, at least till I can find an iceberg to ram.

The critics have called my writing the work of a madwoman. Lou Dobbs says, "If Ernest Hemingway and David Sedaris had a love child, she would write like this!" Chuck Norris says, "Her writing makes me kick up my heels, right into her face." Eeyore says, "You won't be disappointed."

If you should decide to read any old posts, here's how I do it. Put on Beethoven's Ode to Joy at a high volume; prop your eyes open with whatever is handy, say, toothpicks or tape (don't forget the eye drops); and read till you can smell your brain sizzling.

False Alarm

"How wrong can I be before I am right?"
"Tears Before Bedtime" Elvis Costello

I got tired of worrying tonight. At the end of a long phone call, I asked if there was still something that we needed to talk about from Tuesday's counseling appointment.

First, she did not even remember saying that we had to discuss something. After much thought, and some prompting, she came up with an explanation. The new gurl I spoke with at length at my last meeting shares my wife's counselor. We talked about this fact at the meeting. The counselor told my wife that I had been very helpful to her other client, my new friend. THIS is what she couldn't talk about Tuesday?!? Why on earth could this simple story not be shared then?

Okay, deep breath.

I told my wife that my belly had been hurting for two days wondering about this. She apologized. I'm going to tell her not to throw that loaded phrase around with impunity in the future. Glad it was nothing, but communication is definitely not our bailiwick.

Oh, and last night, I finally shed the pajama bottoms I've been wearing during my glorious four months of bareness. I've been wearing them in order to shield the missus from the offensive sight and sensations of my hairless legs. Now the hair is past the stubble phase, so I can go back to sleeping in the raw, like God intended. I'm holding out hope of being "rewarded" soon. Woohoo!

Bring Out Your Dread! Bring Out Your Dread!

My stomach hurts. I got to hear one of my favorite sentences today, right after my wife got back from her counseling appointment.

"We need to talk about something."

No hints. And no time to address it today, by her reckoning. So, I've been left to stew for fourteen hours now, and I'll have to sleep on it as well.

What have I screwed up this time? Does she want to draw up another contract? Arrrggh! I'd pull out my hair if I had some to spare. We've been down this road several times in the last 18 months, and I don't remember anything good coming after that phrase.

I hope she doesn't think that I've reneged on my promise to stop shaving my legs. I'm on Day 12 of my Regenerative Intrafollicular Program, or RIP. And yes, like an alcoholic, I do remember precisely when I put down my last razor. I'm saddened that RIP has been a smashing success. Four months of shaving has done nothing to forestall new growth. Hairs are sprouting like dandelions in the spring, and just as welcome.

She hasn't a clue how vulnerable I feel right now. I hope she isn't going to prod the bear. I just need to be left alone to deal with my outward maleness.

Nutshell

"Thanks a lot, Creator of the universe." --Kurt Vonnegut--

My Thursday horoscope read: "You may be torn between who you are and what you want to be." With the help of the stars and planets, I was more prepared than I am most days.

Some whine, madam? We have a nice morose...

Feeling better tonight. Sorry about the last post, though, oddly, it didn't seem to get posted on the blog lists, so perhaps no one saw it. Anyway, I get a little taken with my own suffering sometimes. The meeting, and the opportunity to be myself for a few hours, brought me back into alignment.

It was a delightful evening. Some old friends (a whole year now!), and some newer ones. We had some extensive self-introductions, then a co-director of the group started throwing out questions to specific people. We had some really in-depth discussion on heavy stuff like our fears and goals. I even got to go on a bit about the conflict between my dreams and my wife's fears. Good stuff, the kind of thing I hope we will do more of. It's great to meet with the goal of socializing with those who are walking the same gauntlet, but tonight's discussion is a very different kind of support that is more therapeutic. Quite bracing.

After Q&A, I spent a long time talking to a girl I'd spoken to briefly last time. We have a lot of similar feelings and experiences, but she luckily isn't dealing with a marriage issue. I wish that I could turn off my social anxiety in my male life in the same manner that I do at my meetings. I love making new friends when I can do it as the real me. Presenting as Leslie, and being completely accepted as such, makes for a special night. If only I could get that at home on occasion.

The wife said she was going out to the liquor store while I was gone. I thought she might have something planned for us, but I kept my expectations low. Good thing, too, as the wine was only a means for her to ease into sleep. Nothing planned. I wonder how many weeks the leg hair will have to grow in before she takes an interest in me again...

Harbinger o' Doom

This is getting difficult. Friday afternoon, I shaved my legs for the final time until my support meeting the first weekend of November. At least, that's the schedule as it stands now. My wife will want me to back off even that distant date. And I'm having extraordinary trouble picturing me making it that long. The hair hasn't grown back yet, I still have my Saturday meeting ahead of me, but a large chunk of me is already swimming upstream. I am just dreading the return of the hairy gams.

Here I am, on the eve of my once-a-month chance at full regalia, having my excitement tempered by an ache in the pit of my stomach. Not to be overly dramatic, but.... This feels like a goodbye to the Leslie I've created the last four months. My comfort level has rocketed since I lost the hair. Getting into the shower every day, I've been reminded that there's a lot of girl present inside me. Previously, I was reminded that the girl was very much on the inside, and only the inside. At earlier support meetings, I enjoyed letting my inner girl roam, but I never felt the full glory till I could show my legs. It's an immense change in look and feel, and it allowed me to blossom. Losing that feels like a giant step backward.

We talk about the Big D here a lot. I think now that I have two Big Ds (no, I'm not speaking of breasts), depression and dysphoria. A year ago, I just called it depression, but I have come to understand my feelings much better since then. I thought constantly about my gender, and my disappointment with my current status. I could barely function around the house, zoning out frequently. And I couldn't put my feelings into words. It was overwhelming. Now, I know these spells as dysphoria, and the depression comes with it. But it's a kind of circular thing, with one feeding off the other, spiraling inward.

And that's what is creeping up on me now. I'm trying to figure some things to compensate. I sincerely hope that my wife was serious about the pierced ears, because the idea is starting to take hold of me. That would give me a feminine focus far from my legs, and that might be a good thing. And tonight, my local grocery was clearing out some makeup. I picked up some mascara, cream foundation, and a pot of lip gloss, all at $2 apiece. Maybe I can throw myself into the artistry of makeup as a distraction. And there's always baseball.

My meeting should be one last full-on Leslie appearance, a celebration of my progress. But it's taking on the flavor of a wake for me. Celebratory, yes, but tainted by more than a trace of sadness at what I'll be losing in the ensuing weeks: a full sense of my femininity. I simply don't feel it the same way when I have to comb my legs.

Sweet Smell of Success and Shoes

"I don't care what they say about us anyway"

"Buddy Holly" Weezer

I learned my lesson well. I think I can shop now. Next, acquire money with which to shop.

I returned the ill fitting shoes today. Sadly, it wasn't the woman I had dealt with yesterday. Instead, it was a very thin young man. I put the box and receipt on the counter and told him that I needed to return these. When he opened the box, he flinched a little. You could almost hear the gears grinding in his head. The usual return stuff went ahead, but he was clearly flustered. This was oddly empowering to me. I had to stifle my own laughter a couple times, as I really felt that I had the upper hand on him. I left with cash and a smile.

My good friend Cassie suggested that I try a different nearby Payless, where she knows the store manager. I sat out in the car for about ten minutes, wishing I could see into the store. Just how busy is it in there? Finally, I just said (aloud), "Leslie, if you don't get out of this car, you will not have an outfit to wear to the meeting." So, I went inside. I had relative privacy, almost to the point where I thought about trying on a pair. They had the same shoes I had just returned, but in a medium width. I decided to buy them.

I talked to the manager on my way to the register. I asked if all the size 12s were out, and told her that I might have to bring these back in if the fit is wrong. She was very warm, and assured me that all her girls were open-minded and wouldn't embarrass me. I told her I might well become a regular. A positive experience.

Tonight, I'm feeling a strong desire to paint my toenails, something I haven't done in two decades. But with my wife's sensitive nose, I know that I would have to run the idea past her first. No way to sneak that in undetected. Frankly, I don't have the stomach for that conversation now. And if history is an indicator, the result would be two agitated spouses at an impasse, and the polish being put away for another decade.

I am happy to report (you don't know how happy!) that these shoes fit very nicely. I'm breaking them in right now. Since, for the time being, I have agreed not to go out into the big, bad world as Leslie, it's good to know I can still take care of my needs.

Big Strides

"You must be joking, son, where did you get those shoes?"
"Pretzel Logic" Steely Dan

Any number of people have said it, but it doesn't sink in till you live it: Nobody cares that a man is shopping for women's shoes. I was just embellishing my mole hill, like usual.

I walked right into the Payless, strode to the big girl shoes, and commenced looking. A saleslady greeted me when I came in, but let me be. Not much to choose from in the size 12 section. I picked a black peeptoe wedge pump with about a 4 inch heel. I really wanted to buy something, but it was a less than perfect choice, mostly due to the wide width.

I walked to the counter and asked the woman if that was all they had in women's size 12. She thought a moment and said that everything was out there. I then started looking at the handbags, and she asked if I needed a bag to go with the shoes. I got the feeling that she deals with people like me all the time. She didn't make me feel the least bit embarrassed, and I will feel much more confident shopping for my femme needs in the future. It was a very positive experience.

So, I bought the shoes and a black bag for less than $50. Tomorrow I get to reinforce my lesson, as I will have to go back and exchange my shoes. I cannot wear these. They fall off my feet. I hope the same lady is there. She was very kind.

I have had the worst luck with buying women's shoes. This is the fourth pair of black heels I have purchased, two online and two in person. I even tried on the pair I bought in Maryland last summer (in boy mode!). None of these proved wearable. I wear a men's 11, and all the charts tell me I should be wearing a women's 13. It just ain't so. And why can't I buy something other than very high heels? I look at the lower heels and flats, and think "frumpy" or "elderly" or "pre-teen." Or, so often in my size, "pontoon boat." I still dress infrequently enough that I'm overcompensating, going super femme. I'm never going to approach passable at 6'6" in heels.

Anyway, all the encouragement helped immensely. This fear was an unnecessary impediment to my success. I hope it's behind me now.

Unacceptable Cowardice

Monday, I got my therapy appointment time wrong, and found myself with an hour to kill. I desperately need some black heels, so I went to the nearby mall. Why not go to Payless (BOGO!) and pick up something inexpensive. It's not like I wear these things everyday. I don't need high quality.

I walked past once, scoping out the store and how many people were there. Minimal. And a slow day at the mall, too. Perfect situation. I walked back past again, and sat on a nearby bench. And there I sat for 40 minutes.

What was I waiting for? I saw two women in there. One came out, maybe I'll get the place to myself. Damn, there's a couple of big girls going in. They'll be looking at the large shoes. Can't go in now. Two out, one in. Not getting any better.

You get the idea. I squandered my meager opportunity. I sat and watched the store, then I went to get my head shrunk. This is something I'm going to have to overcome. The wife has said in the past that she will not help me acquire the pieces I need for my "hobby." Well, she hasn't called it that lately, but I think she still sees it that way. I'm tempted to ask my sister-in-law for help. She is a major Goodwill junkie, but has had to cut off buying for herself. She might jump at the chance to shop there for me, but I suspect the wife would not approve, and I gotta live with her.

I would be so much more comfortable shopping with a female presence, someone to beard for me. Shopping for women's things in boy mode is a very intense experience for me, almost out of body. I may try again Tuesday, if I can get the wizard to give me some courage.