The Post-Christmas Post

The holiday is past now, but the feelings linger on. Christmas went very well for us, other than financially. The missus and I worked together well to put everything in order, plus into bed by 7am Christmas morning! Luckily, our kids have finally reached an age where they can endure waiting a few hours to start opening packages.

I had a high time shopping for Mrs. Leslie. Most of the purchases were made at Kohl's department store. We shopped together first, so that she could give me some idea of her likes and dislikes. I kept commenting about styles and colors that I liked, and strangely, they were quite different from her faves. So, once turned loose in the racks, I bought things that she would like. I still looked for myself too, of course. Having gotten nice things off their clearance racks before, I combed through them vigorously. I left with an armful of things for Mrs. L, but nothing for moi. That was a downer.

The next evening I dropped by Macy's. I hardly ever darken their door, but people whose fashion sense I admire (Shannon and Petra, for example) swear by the store. I was astounded by both the prices (much higher than I expected) and the fashions ("butt ugly" crossed my lips frequently). I understand that clearance racks are likely to be filled with items that the public refused to purchase at full retail, so that may explain the unbearable eyesores hanging there. Sadly, the items that looked halfway wearable were not great bargains even on clearance.

Finally, I found something that I liked, a stretchy black skirt, cut a bit above the knee. The tag read around $12, but I ran a price check on the bar code and it came up at $7! Even a mistake would be worth that price, so I bought it. It looks okay on me, but I still need some sort of black shoe or boot with a closed toe. There is no way I'm wearing this one bare legged, and I'm not keen on hosiery and sandals. The skirt won't be making an appearance at Saturday's meeting.

Tuesday night, I saw that Soma had a 5 panties for $20 sale online, so I placed an order there too. I truly can't afford to do these things, but, mentally I can't afford not to. These purchases are going to get me through the winter and the worst of my dysphoria, if past is precedent.

The family got Wii Fit from Santa. Four of us have been having great fun with it, and it is making for some fine quality time with the kids. I got a WWII dogfight game, and have been shooting down German planes more than reading blogs in the wee (Wii) hours. I've been ready to write about all this for three days, but couldn't tear myself away from the Wii. Very addictive when you find the right game. Oh, and no surprise, but Leslie did not get any gifts.

Because of New Year's Eve, I have to do the bulk of my meeting prep right now, rather than Friday night. So, if you'll excuse me, I need to go choose an outfit. Happy new year!

Glad Tidings and All That

Tra la, tra la, 'tis Christmas. Merry merry to all that celebrate such things.

Aside from profligate spending on a par with drunken congressmen, the holiday is going well. My wife and I seem to work well together and enjoy one another's company when we have a common goal. As a result, our Christmases, while rushed and exhausting, are times when we bond and get along well. This year we are even a bit ahead of our usual timetable. With any luck at all, we will be in bed before 4am Christmas morning. Many years, we see the sunrise through sleepless eyes.

We are finally laying the Santa fallacy to rest. He still visits, but we aren't making a big effort on the believability front. He will be bringing us the Wii Fit, among other things.

We've visited our nearby Kohl's department store a couple times this week. Today, I was purchasing for Mrs. L. Naturally, I was looking with myself in mind as well. I just love combing through the racks, now without any self-consciousness. I'm not to the point of holding things up to myself to check sizing, but I'm not shy about checking out the stuff. After I made my purchases, I felt a little sad, as I failed to find anything for myself. While looking around with the missus, I frequently commented about items and styles that I liked, but I didn't ask for anything directly. In the past, the automatic response has been that if I want things like that, I will have to purchase them myself. She won't be a party to it. So, I opted for hinting this year, and maybe she will have softened.

We made enormous headway with our clutter issues, mostly to make proper room for a tree. We rearranged the garage to make room for a sofa we are retiring, and segregated much of the material that we intend to market in a yard sale when the weather warms. There are many bags of clothes in this zone of the garage now, and with the yard sale designation, I feel that they are fair game for my perusal. I have spent a couple of late nights this week going through bags. I have pulled seventy or eighty items so far, some as wardrobe basics, others as center pieces. Now, some may not fit when I get around to trying them on, or look ridiculous on my manly frame, but they looked close enough to claim them.

I suppose I am making my own Christmas dreams come true. May all of yours come true as well.

Mixed Bag

Again, news is piling up, unreported. I will try to clean out the backlog. Today was the most interesting development, but I will take things in order.

My meeting (a week ago!) went swimmingly. Sat with the radiant Shannon. Much of the meeting was spent viewing an HBO documentary called Middle Sexes. It's a pretty good doc, if you have a taste for such things. I did get to show off my rejuvenated wig, and felt less self-conscious than other recent meetings.

The time spent at the meeting must have been what the doctor ordered. I spent the better part of a week without the constant tug of dysphoria. It felt a bit flat, as some others have been writing lately. I'm not a huge fan of feeling flat, but it was a nice break from the torture.

Two emails managed to knock me down a couple nights ago. Both from very close friends, one with great news, and one who is having wife trouble much like my own. I'm not divulging any content, but the severe up and down took me off balance. I was quite upset and depressed when I went to bed.

My sister-in-law, D, has been moving for about a week, and has reached the point of needing to get out. Naturally, the deadline created a lot of pressure and pleas for help. In the afternoon, I talked with her at length on the phone. She told me that Mrs. Leslie has been discussing the marital/gender problems pretty extensively with her. She gave me a good idea of the advice she has been giving my wife. She is doing a good job of not taking sides, I think.

D believes that the children should be told what is going on with me. She thinks that the kids sense the tension between their parents, and knowing the truth would be a relief. I said that would have to happen unilaterally, as Mrs. L would never go for it. D said that it isn't Mrs. L's call to make. It is between the kids and their father. Interesting take, eh? She also has been suggesting that staying together because of finances is a bad reason. Mrs. L "wants to get on with her life," and I "need to have a life." She did point out that her standard advice to Mrs. L is to throw me out, but as an answer to the complaints she is hearing, not out of any dislike for me. Just a practical, realistic assessment of the situation.

In the late evening/early morning hours, I assisted her with packing the last things and cleaning the apartment. This was done during a howling snowstorm and temps well below freezing. While I was vacuuming, I commented that it was a shame that it was too cold to be doing this in a French maid outfit. She laughed and asked my thoughts on fishnets with said costume. We agreed that fishnets are a bit slutty and not to our taste. We had a nice discussion about shoes as she packed her large assortment of heels. Excellent fashion taste. She genuinely understands my love of feminine things, because she feels the same way.

D had breast cancer a few years ago, and has a couple wigs that she no longer needs. She wanted me to have them. We talked about Mrs. L's issues with the recent wig maintenance, and D sided with me. She knows that wigs get hopelessly tangled and need professional help sometimes, whilst Mrs. L has no experience with wigs. We only found one of the wigs tonight, but she will be looking for the other as she unpacks. She described the one I got tonight as Jane Fonda's Klute hairstyle. I can't wait to give it a spin.

I've Been Remiss

I suppose I shouldn't have left everyone hanging like that. I did leave off in a bad place. Allow me to bring you up to date.

After the big talk Saturday night, we had a fairly quiet, if tense, Sunday. We were apart most of the day, allowing tempers to dampen.

Monday, I went to see my therapist. It was a rather intense session, as you would expect. Nothing was settled, mind you, but we did explore the major choices I have, the biggest being should I stay or should I go? I am still ready to keep trying to make this work, and it would be great if it could. Realistically, though, I cannot imagine Mrs. Leslie bending to the extent I would need. Miracles happen everyday, but not usually to me. In light of the facts, we will begin to look at an escape plan, in case things become intolerable.

Mrs. L went to see her therapist on Wednesday. Before she left, she asked if she needed to talk breakup with her shrink. I assured her that she didn't. That's a pretty big whopper, even by my standards. There is nothing eminent, but she ought to prepare for that contingency. Maybe I'm leaving her with false hope, but if I pull the rug out from under her, there might not be an opportunity to heal. Tough choice, and one consideration was the difficulty of the subject. So, nothing at all learned from the last talk.

Our affection has resumed to a degree over the week. She has been more talkative and touchy-feely. Even a few hugs and kisses. The bare legs make me question the resumption of conjugals, but the lessening of tensions is good enough for now.

My support group meets Saturday night, so I have been preparing myself and my trousseau for the evening. When feminine presentation is pursued fully only once a month, the details do not come naturally. Essentially, I start from scratch each month. Such is the fate of the part-time woman. We are expecting snow all day Saturday (nothing resembling what the UK is enduring), so attendance may be a little thin.

I think I am going to use the Christmas shopping excuse with the kids, just to give me a fresh reason to be leaving them alone. I am becoming increasingly reticent about telling stories to them regarding my whereabouts. No solutions come readily to mind. Funny how much worse I feel lying to the kids than to the missus.

Oh, one last thing, a happy thing. I picked up my wig from the shop today. Pam washed and conditioned it, and gave it a much needed trim. The tangled ends are gone, the hair is soft and shiny, and the bounce is back in the wavy curls. It's an inch or so shorter, but so much nicer than when I left it with her. Pam is an artist. All for twenty bucks! I will take my hair in for maintenance more often, given the quality and price.

Now, off to final packing for my meeting.

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.

High Anxiety

This has been a crappy week, at least inside. Events have not been conspiring against me, nor have any super villains, yet the pressure within keeps building. I resolved not to write about this aspect long ago, but I've decided that, what with the private blog (and maybe 35 people actually reading it), I'll delve a little deeper than usual.

I have a great deal of privacy at work. As long as I stay in my immediate work area, I am securely by myself as much as six hours a night. And so, I have my best opportunities to be Leslie. It's not a high risk proposition, but even a little risk with one's career borders on the colossally stupid. Still, these parts of me must be expressed, and my home is becoming more problematic as a true option. That is effed up.

I was in a chat last night, and it was observed just how backward this situation is. My home should be the one place where it is always safe to be myself. Well, it just isn't. Twice this week, while I was computing late at night, my boy has wandered downstairs looking for blankets, or whatever. In my perfect world, I would've been full-Leslie when he appeared. Happily, I was not. This is the ginormous flaw in the arrangement that Mrs. Leslie has given her blessing to. It is not a safe situation for me to be me. I have to release this pressure somewhere.

Honestly, working in skirt, heels, bra, etc., allows me to be more productive. I sit for longer periods, and feel more content, less restless and distracted. I see it as moderate risk, high reward.

Moving on, Saturday at 4pm, I learned that Mrs. L intended us to attend a party at 7pm. News to me. Half an hour later, I learned that it was a costume party. This is very short notice, don't you think? I have a real problem with people in costumes. When I'm at my support group, what others might take as costumes are actually people stripped of their costumes and being themselves. I feel so at home there. Disguises are alienating. I don't like interacting with others in costume, and I don't like role-playing for myself. On a related note, I don't like clowns.

As Mrs. L was suggesting lame ideas for me, I started to get quite agitated, which eventually turned into an anxiety attack. I don't want to be Bono, or a Republican, or any other half-baked excuse. Secretly, I started thinking of what I could do in female garb, though I knew she would neither suggest it nor agree to it, especially with two of the kids coming with us. I wanted to be Christine O'Donnell, who is running for Senate in Delaware. She's a Sarah Palin doppelganger, if that means something to European readers. She once admitted to dabbling in witchcraft. One ad this fall had her speaking to the camera, "I'm not a witch. I'm you." I could do this, with our similar look and clothing tastes.

Anyway, I'd have needed approval and several more hours to make it happen. Another pipe dream turned to pipe bomb. I've always said that dressing female for Halloween is not for me, but this time I wanted to do it, and do it well, not campy. So, I wound up going in my normal street clothes. Mrs. L was kinda gothic, long black busty dress and black wig. I did enjoy sitting in the kitchen, chatting with the ladies, so it wasn't a total loss.

The current situation would seem to call for a conversation with the missus. Not sure when that might happen. My therapy has been moved to alternate Mondays, and I am quite ready to spill to her this Monday. I am wound tight.

Blessed Therapy

Thanks for all the nice comments and emails. I am feeling noticeably better now.

My therapy session was lacking any breakthroughs, but very productive. We stayed exclusively on the recent dysphoria and upset. There were a few items of note, outside the relief of just talking things over.

"M" hates labels as a rule, but she's in a business that requires such things. She asked me whether I feel more like a crossdresser or transsexual. She's asked this from time to time over the years, and I'm sure is comparing answers. I told her that this week, it seems to be largely about the clothes. I am feeling an urgency about my presentation that trumps any gender consideration. But I told her that it's like the difference between climate and weather. I'm having a little storm right now, but we need to look at average temperatures to assess things properly. And, long term, I said I see myself being full-time non-op. Not that it will happen, it's just how I picture things being resolved. Should that image ever bear fruit, I imagine that surgery would start looking appealing. I just don't see it from here.

Another thing that likely changed my mood was picking up my package from Soma. M has had it at her office since Monday. Soma was having one of their big clearance sales last week and I had to indulge myself. I got two panties, one cotton, one microfiber (in red!), for $3 each, and a stretchy nude camisole for $7. If my transition ever happens, I think I should try to marry a camisole supplier. I have gone loopy for them. I must have fifteen, and they are a regular part of my underdressing now.

No action yet on the bare leg detection front. Trauma teams are standing by.

On Cue, the Fog Rolls In

Hey there! It's been awhile. I've decided that tonight I will stop sulking, and write down the things that are bothering me. Please keep your hands inside the car while the ride is in motion.

The girl fog has come on in a big way the last couple days. She's been hanging around the edge of the playground for several weeks, but is now on the seesaw opposite me, trying to bounce me off. I like her chances, as she is much more energetic than me.

One of my closest friends here in Blogistan is having a major life crisis, and truly, this hit me hard. Our situations are very similar, and the fact that things aren't working out for her just makes my odds seem even longer. I've been quite depressed about it. Liz and Renee have been my tag team counselors the last two nights, and I want to thank them for listening. It helped.

My legs are bare up to the knee now. It has hurt like the dickens, but the desire to be rid of the hair overrides the pain. Lots of red bumps, sometimes burning, sometimes tender. Epilating makes me happier, but there is a downside. Mrs. L hasn't noticed yet, and I'm not looking forward to her reaction. I'm not sure which would be worse, anger or bitter disappointment. It will be one of those, I assure you. You may want to place your bets now.

There is one other thing eating at me, and the fog is making it much worse. I have discovered, quite accidentally, that I have been blocked from following a blog that I had been welcome on before. I don't know when it happened, but I've not seen her on my dashboard for a long time, and just assumed that she wasn't posting. That was not the case. This is what worried me most when my blog became private, that someone would think that I was intentionally shutting them out of my site. At least, I hope that was the cause for this. I spent days hunting down email addresses for my followers, trying to get everyone back into Club Leslie. It was a fool's errand, as so many do not have any contact information. She was one of those. Yesterday, I left a comment on her blog, the only way to reach her, asking her to write to me so I could sort things out. Today, my comment has been deleted.

This should not matter so much to me. One cannot be loved and admired by everyone, yet I want to be. I don't want to let a misunderstanding cause a loss of esteem for me. This is a control issue for me, I fear. I am powerless to plead my case, and, strangely for someone that fantasizes about forced femininization, I don't like being unable to fix this.

That's what is going on here. Blessed therapy upcoming Thursday afternoon, none too soon. If I have a breakthrough, you'll be among the first to know.

Mission Accomplished

A happy resolution with the doctor means that I just popped my first dose of finasteride. I had to talk to the nurse two separate occasions before she was clear about the nature of the problem: insurance. The doctor must not have had to deal with this situation before, but to his credit, he fashioned a plan. I am to take one half of a 5mg tablet on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. No, this won't result in a constant level in my bloodstream, but it will total 7.5mg per week. I'll count this as a victory.

The title I chose for this post is intended to carry the negative connotations associated with the infamous George Bush banner. I know that my war with my inner nature is far from over. I cannot say that armed conflict has been completed. This is but one more stop on my march to nowhere. I'm trying to march in place, but some forward momentum sneaks in from time to time. I am attempting the slowest transition on record, pushing the envelope just enough to feed the beast.

My therapist, astute observer that she is, pointed out the reason for my delayed girl fog this year. I had literally been carrying this prescription around in my hip pocket for two months. As I pinned more and more hopes to this slip of paper, it gave my mind something positive to hang onto. When it was abruptly pulled out from under me by the insurance company, the walls of my own little alkaline sludge pond collapsed, and the corrosive waters of my dysphoria soaked me.

I am mentally ready for my fall harvest. I broke out the epilator yesterday. The hair on my legs is gone up to mid-calf now. I also worked on the back of my hands for the first time, and I like the look. I'm not taking off every hair there, but I would like a sparser, more feminine look for my arms. I will complete the legs before my November meeting, which is our Transgiving potluck dinner. I plan to wear a skirt for that. Makes my heart pound to consider it...

Let the Healing Begin

Hi, ladies. Much better today. Thanks for the med suggestions. When I told my wife what you had said, she was in total agreement. I will call the doctor to see what can be done along those lines. I'm sure he'll get with the program. I also looked into Melissa's thought on Walmart generics. While I detest most everything that Walmart stands for, I can get 5mg Finasteride at $9 for 30 days. If I divide a pill five ways, that bottle would last--add two, carry the seven--what, five months? Yeah, let's say that. I think that qualifies as affordable.

I don't think I've mentioned this in the blog, but my computer situation has been rectified completely. I'm back on the desktop which was in quarantine since January. Mrs. Leslie can take credit for that, her finest accomplishment (outside of birthing babies) since she rebuilt the carbeurator of her '68 Ford Fairlane. Her sister has restored function to our primary laptop, too. Just a passel of hidden talents in that side of the family. What exactly do I bring to the table, other than comic premises?

The dysphoria has fallen off a bit from my day of crisis, but having been triggered, I expect it to linger. I'm already thinking about clear cutting my lower extremities, the sooner, the better. Yes, Caroline, there will be hair vs. hairless blogs to come, rest easy. They always return, like Halley's Comet.

One more thing. I feel that I have said the same things at least twice over the course of this blog, and I am trying to find a fresh angle or new subject to change things up for me and you, dear readers. I need inspiration. The silly Sponsor piece was a joy to create, very energizing. I want to capture that energy, punch some holes in the lid, and keep it on the shelf next to Hitler's brain, where I can access it easily. Blogging has become more of a struggle this year, where the words used to flow. I still like the task, but it has become work, and the results have that feel to it. I want to be leaping to the keyboard, and creating magic. Sleight of hand would suffice, in a pinch.

The Hunt for Pink October

I've written about October before. It's when the leaves fall, along with my meager defenses in the face of my annual dysphoric spike. At the very least, this has been the pattern the last three autumns. This year I've been left wondering.

Normally this thing builds through September and reaches critical mass in October. There was no real build in September this year. Just yesterday, I was musing that perhaps I had finally found my Plateau Of Satisfaction (POS). I've kept my fingers crossed that at some point short of transition I could find a POS, a situation where I was getting enough quality Leslie time to keep the girl fog at bay. Is this what it feels like to be balanced? Had I reached my resting point?

In a word, nope. A little back story, then the trigger. Please forgive the TMI aspects.

I have been having mild prostate issues most of the year. This has been new for me, and I thought I was dealing with it okay. At my recent physical, my doctor found an infection in my urinary tract, probably due to an inability to fully empty my bladder. So he put me on some big time antibiotics. I also brought up my concerns about hair loss, and acquired a prescription for Propecia. The doc asked me to wait to start that one till my urinary tract cleared up.

So, I've been eagerly anticipating Propecia. Maybe my hair might thicken up on top, and maybe my testosterone would be blocked somewhat, removing the sting of my dysphoria. Best case: gynecomastia! But a girl shouldn't get her hopes up too high.

Yesterday, I finally got back to the doctor for a followup, and got the green light to start. I wanted to write about taking that first pill, the closest thing to hormone therapy I've experienced.

I went to the pharmacy to pick up my stuff after work. The pharmacist asked if I had any questions, and we talked a bit about it. Then she remembered to tell me that my insurance doesn't cover it. The one mg dosage is regarded as cosmetic, not medical. Oooo-kaaaay, what's the damage? Eighty four dollars, she says.

I was crestfallen, but I held it together. I told her that money woes are the reason that I'm losing my hair. Take it back, I can't justify the expense. As I shuffled out of the store, I felt the first twinges of GD. More than anything, I felt like going home and crying myself to sleep.

It's not that big a deal, really. I am going to go bald, and I'm well on my way already. I put too much stock in a potential treatment. Just more reinforcement for my pessimistic view of the world.

October started five days ago, but my pink October started today.

A Word From Our Sponsor

Is your blog tired and listless? Do you find it difficult to get your post up in a timely manner? Are you afraid of not pleasing your audience? Do you feel alone in this challenge? Ha! Not a chance.

Your friends at LeslieCo may have the answer. Expressive Dysfunction, or ED, can happen to any blog, particularly as they get older. ED needn't be a source of unspoken shame between you and your readers. Viblogra has proven to be effective for those times when a post just will not come together. ED doesn't have to spell the end of the joy experienced through your blog. With Viblogra, writer and reader can once again enjoy the depths of a good posting.

Uncommon side effects may include: narcissism, wrong-headedness, foot-in-mouth disease, an acute sense of self importance. In rare cases, Viblogra may cause career suicide. Viblogra will not help give you ideas, but only to enhance the ideas you have.

If your post lasts longer than four paragraphs, seek help from a publisher immediately. Ask your literary agent if Viblogra might be right for you.

Maybe Soon

The computer front is looking a bit brighter, like the eastern sky a couple hours before dawn.

Our laptop is undergoing unknown experimental treatment by my sister-in-law. How that will pan out is anyone's guess.

More standard remedies are being applied to our desktop Dell. My wife has reformatted it after backing stuff up on our new external drive. She might be willing to release me to the interwebs on it soon.

I fear that I am the culprit that brought trojan horse viruses to our two laptops. I think I picked them up on tg caption sites. I may be old and harmless, but I ain't dead. A little kinky fantasy about forced feminization still turns this girl's crank. I will just have to have my fun elsewhere.

Still typing on the Wii for now. It works okay for blogger and making comments, but is incompatible with Yahoo's email. I can read email with no problem, but I cannot type a response. I hope no one has decided that I'm an uncouth biotch, because it is beyond my powers to fix it. I will spend some nights catching up as soon as I have a proper connection again.

Ta for now, ladies. Hope to be back in saddle soon.

A Wii Setback

A brief note of excuse, typed painfully on the Wii out of necessity. Our third and last computer resort has been violated by a virus. My sister-in-law believes she can wipe it out, so she has it now.

In the meantime, I am reduced to hunt and peck with a Wiimote pointed at a TV screen. Going better than expected, but still very slow. Unanswered emails are piling up, and they will get responses slowly at best. I hope this will suffice as a reason for my relative silence, because I would love to be writing and sharing with you ladies. I still love y'all. It's nothing personal.

Also, reading blogs is no picnic on the Wii, so I won't know if something big happens in your life. Just saying...

I'll be back in the saddle asap. Try to be more patient than me.

Dull Recap (with pic)

Okay, ladies, I'm a little out of practice with blogging, but I'll muddle through with your kind patience.

I attended my monthly suppport meeting Saturday. I was very happy to be there, and proud of my increasing speed and facility transforming on site. The makeup is almost second nature now, and the hand stays steady. The adrenaline doesn't surge quite like it used to, but that means I don't crash afterwards either. And I'm less likely to get a headache. I don't need that kind of negative reinforcement anyway.

We had an electrologist visiting the meeting, telling of the wonders of electrolysis. I thought I understood the process pretty well, but I learned a great deal. She also seemed almost affordable, at least for isolated sessions. She gives a discount to TG clients! There were loads of questions and animated discussion, so I think we can call the meeting a success. Next month, an endocrinologist will talk about hormone treatment with us.

I sat with Sylvia most of the night, and she was a delight. She's very warm and gentle, with a good sense of humor. She and Tina both made overtures about getting me to come along on a girls' day out to Louisville sometime soon. 1) They like my company, I think, but, 2) they are kind people who recognize that I have a need to get out more. Much talk of kidnapping me, but I'll try to discourage that for now. Maybe when the dysphoria gets stronger in the fall, I'll beg to be taken against my will!

I got to say my last goodbyes to Sophie, who was with us for too few months. She is starting a new career in Utah shortly, and I am very happy for her good fortune. Her energy added a lot to the group dynamic.

Tina very kindly offered to take a few pictures of me, and I readily accepted. I don't think I've had any new pics made since March. Time to document my progress. I am pictured here sitting next to my biggest fan. Click on the image for a larger version, but shield your eyes first. Actually, I'm very pleased with this. Let me down easy, girls.

The cropped jeans were found in amongst bags of clothes in my garage. The original owner is quite petite, so likely full length on her, but whatever. The purple shirt is boy clothing that I wear often, paired with a pink cami, which I wear less often. During the meeting, I was inspired to tie the shirt at my waist, such as it is. Voila! C'est magnifique! Sehr schoen! Where's the damn umlaut on this keyboard?

Hiyo, Silver

Mrs. Leslie and I had our 25th anniversary last week. For the uninitiated, that's a freakin' long time. Take my word for it. I do still love her, but there continues to be a distance between. No hostility, but no passion either. This is precisely what I saw in my parents growing up, and I promised myself I wouldn't end up the same way. But then, I see my father (almost) every time I look in the mirror, so why shouldn't my primary relationship reflect him as well?

We had a nice dinner at the Olive Garden. I had a coupon for $4 off, so an easy choice. I got her flowers and a card. She got me a card and new earbuds for my iPod. Just like Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, no? We might splurge soon and give ourselves a new garage door opener. Life in the 'burbs.

As I'm writing this, I have let down the privacy shields on the blog. I'm hoping that when I hit publish, that blogger will pick it up for display on everyone's dashboards and blogrolls. I've been experimenting with this for a bit. I suppose I'd like to have public notice of new private entries. It may not be possible, but what is life worth if you don't reach for the stars?

My dysphoria has given me a lengthy break since my meeting. It's creeping back, but the high lasted most of a week. I dread the coming of fall. The girl fog always returns full force in October. I will want to take my four month turn with bare legs, and I know the coolness I feel in the house now is in anticipation of that inevitability. The need to push the envelope is there every winter, and the envelope gets a little bigger each time. I've had the leash pulled back hard twice now. Next time, I might find myself getting left out in the country to fend for myself.

Dark days, dark days...

Miss Me?

I hope my absence has made your hearts grow fonder. I have been too busy to blog, if that is fathomable to you. Yes, there are other priorities!

I spent the bulk of my week preparing for Saturday's support meeting. I have rushed through the prep the last couple times, and feeling less than 100% about myself dulls the thrill of having Leslie time. This time around, I endeavored to leave no stone unturned (except shaving my legs, of course). I am lovin' my arms, with very(!) close-cropped hair that I bleached twice in the last week. I also spent a lot of time thinking about my attire. I bought a pair of charcoal leggings from Newport-News last week, for the express purpose of having something truly feminine with which to cover my legs.

Part of my ardor, too, was the fact that I had arranged for my therapist, M, to come speak to the group. In over two years of therapy, she has never seen me all Leslied up, outside of photos on the blog, and that is just wrong. She accepts me as female, even though I am presenting as male. Needless to say, one of my very favorite people. And now, finally, she has seen me at my best.

Next month, we have a hair removal lady coming to present (free samples?), and in October we have scheduled the endocrinologist from the university that cares for most of the TG folks in the area.

The meeting was a great success. M commands an audience very well, and she knows her stuff. The fact that she was coming brought some folks out of the woodwork too, some that I hadn't seen in over a year. I was feeling quite social, too, which is how I gauge my confidence in presentation.

So, it was a fine week, and the dysphoria dried up with the anticipation of being myself for a while. It's been a rough month or two, GD wise, and the break from it feels good. Regular blogging should resume as the dysphoria and/or marital tensions ramp back up.

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.

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.

The Thin Blue Line

As always, I left work tonight between 1 and 2am. I set the alarm, and clicked out to my car in my wedges, in our very dark parking lot. As I was pulling out of the lot, two cruisers went by very slowly. I pulled out behind them, and they then pulled into the next lot. I had an inkling what would follow: flashing blue and red lights in my rear view.

My first thought was to shed the shoes. I whipped 'em off and slipped on the boat shoes that I had right there at my feet. Mahogany pantyhose still visible, but potentially less embarrassing standing on the roadside. When he approached my window, the first officer immediately asked if I was putting on my shoes, and why I was driving without them. Couldn't think of a reason and told him so.

Suspicions aroused now, he looked over my license and registration, then asked if there was anything illegal in the car. I guffawed and said no. He asked if I would mind letting him take a look. Not at all, I said. So, I got out and walked back to the first cruiser and chatted with the second officer about my work, and why I was there so late, while #1 went through the car.

As I was chatting, I was relaxing a little. I knew the first guy was putting together what I had done, what with the heels on the passenger floor, and Newport-News catalogs, and a brassiere in a felt bag. I wasn't terribly worried about explaining the truth about me. I was actually thinking more about the very light lipstick and gloss I was wearing, and what impression that was making. Very self-conscious about that.

When the search was complete, they ran my license. I've never had so much as a speeding ticket, so that didn't worry me. I was very surprised that #1 said nothing about what he had found. I suppose they only cared about contraband, and strappy sandals are still legal. They sent me on my way.

I have been wearing heels and lipstick on my drive home for a couple months now. I have been known to wear the bra as well, stuffed with the socks that I'm obviously not using on my feet. I am very glad that I didn't have a bust when I got busted. That would have complicated things a lot, and made me quite embarrassed standing in the bright lights. This might be enough to slow my self-destructive risk-taking, at least for a while. This was only the second time I've ever been pulled over, and the adrenalin had me almost shaking. I'm glad they recognized my sobriety, didn't do a field test. Imagine trying to walk a straight line in three inch wedges with your eyes closed. I think I could do it, as I have mad skills in the heel department, but I'd rather not perform these feets(!) of daring-do in front of The Man.

Anyway, that was my exciting drive home tonight. Don't be like me...

Not a Game

I want to address some things said by Liz and Renee in their most recent comments.

Liz was concerned that Mrs. Leslie or myself would be confronting our dughter's new TG assistant. Nothing is further from our minds. We are not playing a parlor game of "Find the Tranny," though under other circumstances that could be fun for one of us. I would describe my wife as concerned about our daughter. She just wants reassurance that this woman is safe, something that would be true of any worker. In our discussions, she has never failed to use the proper pronouns, so I'm not seeing any overt disrespect, except perhaps some mention of clothing choices. That could happen with any woman. Yes, there is some latent prejudice, and that is unfortunate, but she has never dealt with anyone from this walk of life, except me.

I got to meet the assistant today, and yes, there is no doubt that she is TG. That said, she presents very well, and I imagine she passes well much of the time. She, Mrs. Leslie, and I talked for several minutes. My wife was very friendly with her, and did not treat her any differently than anyone else. That was encouraging. The assignment is only for two weeks, so I doubt they'll become BFFs, but Mrs. L is having her take my daughter around town to therapy and shopping as any worker would.

The unexpected part for me was my reaction. She was tall and thin and pretty, and I was overcome by envy and dysphoria. This young woman had the courage to go out and live my dream, and she is rocking it. I looked at her and couldn't imagine myself succeeding on that level. I've met a limited number of full-timers, but always in the big closet of the support group. This was someone working as her true self in the real world, and I was not free to hop around shouting, "Me, too!", or ask her questions. That was difficult for me, and I hope my attempts at "normal" conversation didn't come off as false or weird or forced. I was trying to maintain my role, when every part of me wanted to bond in sisterhood.

Anyway, all indications are that this woman will be successful. She has a better sense of direction, and reaching her by phone or text seems to be no problem, both big improvements over the previous worker. I think this will be very good for Mrs. Leslie, and for me.

In Which the Cosmos Leaves a Flaming Bag of Poo

Sometimes one just has to admire the way the universe works. Some delicious irony dribbled on us today (well, on Mrs. Leslie actually). First, a few facts to set things up.

I've written before about my oldest child, who has a fairly advanced case of autism. Late last year, we finally got approved for state Medicaid benefits. This includes a budget for certified assistants for my daughter, essentially giving us parents some respite. For the last five months or so, we have been fortunate to have an aide that had great rapport with our daughter, and was very pleasant to be around. That was balanced by a propensity for lateness, unannounced absences, undependable transportation, and difficulty reaching her. A mixed bag, to be sure, but we liked her. Then the agency that provided her found that she was turning in hours for days when she didn't make it in to work. That's a firing offense, and that's what happened.

So, we were left without an assistant. Today, we got a temporary replacement. Mrs. Leslie called to tell me that she believes that this young woman is transgendered. My wife wanted to know, firstly, whether I might know this young lady. I didn't know her by name or description, so I'm guessing she hasn't been coming to support meetings. No help there.

Then the real question, should this woman be trusted with my daughter's intimate care? The previous worker would sometimes assist with my daughter's showers, and with toileting. I explained to her that if this woman is transgendered and employed as a woman, then she is full time at the least, and probably on her way to more. If she does have a penis, she likely has no fondness for it, nor any desire to use it in any fashion. I tried to explain that she is living as a woman and thinks like one. A pervert is not going to go to these lengths to get access to vulnerable children.

Though it was a serious conversation, I had to hide my amusement that my wife was going to have to come to grips with the reality of the trans world. She is finally going to get acquainted with a real person living the life. She is too polite to reject this woman, so she will have to decide how to deal with her. There will be eggshells to walk on, and this will only be a couple weeks, but this has the potential to put a human face on my situation. I hope the young lady proves herself to be caring and responsible. I also hope that Mrs. Leslie learns a degree of empathy for a group that she has marginalized in the past.

Mysterious ways, indeed....

Something's Gotta Give

Absent for long enough now, I think I've got something to write about at last.

I went to therapy today (that's always good for a few paragraphs!). I didn't think I had much to talk about going in. Things have been a bit distant at home, but there's no overt tension between us. Dysphoria has been creeping in, and the need to dress more fully and often has come with it. I've been walking around with lipstick and lip gloss in my pocket for weeks, and using them often. And now, I am feeling depression coming around for a visit.

This morning, before my session, I was thinking hard about subject matter to share. I asked myself a question that hadn't occurred to me before. If Mrs. Leslie came to me and said that she wanted a divorce, how would I react? The answer surprised me. I waver constantly on the divorce issue, but when presented in reverse, the answer was obvious. I would quietly agree to it while clicking my heels inside my head.

I have no clue what freedom looks like, but my heart is crying for it. There have been good times, but I have wanted out for so long. I am fine with splitting, but apparently I have a problem with initiating it. Have I mentioned before that I'm a bit submissive? Conflict averse? Mild as oatmeal? Yeah, I thought I had.

Deep down, I know what I want. What I lack is the courage and fortitude to pursue it. This gives me something to work on, I suppose. In the meantime, focusing on this has made me sadder as the day wore on.

I also mentioned to my therapist how little sleep I've been getting. It's not that I can't sleep, it's that I can't make myself go to bed. My whole Leslie life is in this corner on the computer, and I keep staying up later and later, not wanting to leave it, even for blessed sleep. I am a zombie much of the day, and it is reaching critical mass. My therapist told me that I won't last long without crashing and burning. She's right, but I'm not sure how to get a handle on it. This is my most alert time of day, as feeling alive gets the adrenaline and endorphins going. Then I daydream about napping at work. Something's gotta give.

Free Range Thoughts

Not a lot has been going on, but I have several smaller things to share, so let's pack it all into one big post. Long silences tend to make folks worry about me anyway.

I had therapy last week. I believe that I am now prepared to go the divorce route if it comes to that. I am fine with staying as well, but I guess I have an ultimatum if I need it. It all feels like emotional blackmail, even just speculating about it. Still, as a dedicated realist, I have visualized the worst case scenario and believe that I have what it takes to confront it. We have been kind of distant the last week, with one exception.

Saturday, Mrs. Leslie surprised me with a romantic candlelight dinner! Given our present tensions, I was not expecting such an effort. She made broccoli garlic fettucine with a nice salad, a Cafe Grande for me and a bottle of wine for her. And brownies! A great meal, but I was left wondering about the why. Did she sense that I am pulling away? Did her therapist suggest it? Does she really want to keep me? I sometimes get the sense that I'm being strung along. My boy has one more year of private school, and I have wondered if I will be cut loose after that. Cynical? Paranoid? Correct on both counts.

My underdressing is escalating. Even with the warmer weather, my usual pantyhose are being supplemented with frequent camisoles and occasional bras. Oh, and lipstick when I can manage it. I think it speaks to my unsettled mind, and the constant stress of playing at being happily married (and male). I hope to spend some time cropping body hair Friday and perhaps epilating around my ankles. I take my sanity where I can get it. I'm back to wearing skirts at the computer at night, and the leg hair just looks ghastly. A trim is in order.

At work today, two co-workers began to talk with me about encounters with trans folks. Lucky me! They relayed someone else's tale of an "it" at an Indigo Girls concert, that left the guy guessing all night. There were other stories as well. I just had to quietly take it in. I'm very fond of one of these fellows, and part of me wants to give him a pass, chalk it up to stupidity. Just guys bonding by dehumanizing strangers. Yet, it makes me wonder about transitioning in my current workplace--not that I have plans, but, again, visualization. If people I know and like are going to respond this way, what of the ones I don't really know or don't like?


Last week, my order from Payless arrived. I took advantage of BOGO and a 20% off coupon for my birth month of April. How could I say no to a perfect storm like that? I am wearing the wedge seen to the left as I type. I think I have finally found the black sandal that I have been seeking in this pair of shoes. In addition, I got the black patent slings seen at right. These are a wee bit tight, but I have a thing for slings, and I will learn to deal with it. I modeled the wedge for my therapist last time, and I will make a point to take the slings next week. A girl cannot have too many pairs of black shoes.

That's all the news that fits. Maybe I'll have that difficult discussion with my wife one of these days.

The Next Stage

"Why should I cry for you?
Why would you want me to?
What would it mean to say
I loved you in my fashion?"
"Why Should I Cry For You" by Sting

So tell me, what stage of mourning comes after anger and denial? I think I am coming out of the denial stage regarding the slow death of my marriage. I think many of you have realized for some time that I have been in denial about the true state of my relationship. For the last week, I've slowly come to a new place. Much of this was spurred by comments from Sophie B and Calie and Tina, who noted that the common ground I share with Mrs. L could be the stuff of a platonic friendship quite easily. And then Liz, the Sonora Sage, cinched it.

My marriage is essentially best friends with benefits. It is largely a passionless affair, with the occasional steamy booty call. In this day and age, one can have this sort of relationship with or without a marriage license. The kids complicate things (understatement!), and give us our main reason for being together this long. Seeing things this way makes me less inclined to cling to all this like a life raft.

Mrs. Leslie has therapy Wednesday, so, as so often happens, she was trying to shoehorn an important conversation into the last minutes before her session. There wasn't even enough time to start the talk, but after the request, I decided to start writing down the things I need to share with her. Here's what I have:

I've burned you twice. What is your motivation to stay? When I tell you who and what I am, you can barely hide your disgust. Why stay if you hate the truth?

I still love you. I'm still attracted to you. Yet, increasingly, I feel that we are best friends with benefits. There is physical passion intermittently, but the emotional attachment seems gone, replaced by a mutual fondness, at least when we're avoiding the elephant in the room. We enjoy one another's company. Is that enough, ultimately?

I think we're both unhappy with the status quo, but we each think it needs to move in opposite directions.

That's just some ideas and thoughts thrown together, and I am unlikely to give it to her in written form anyway, as that has backfired on me multiple times. I think I can deliver this face to face.

I feel like I'm ready to let go now, without despair or gnashing of teeth. The thought of leaving doesn't upset me terribly. Disappointment, sure. Nothing will get done quickly anyway, so there is plenty of time to contemplate further. Still, I think I have taken the first step toward independence, maybe the hardest one, letting go emotionally.