Challenger

Everyone knows where they were when they heard that Kennedy (pick one) had been shot, or when John Lennon died. I have vivid memories of when Reagan took a bullet. And I remember quite well hearing about the space shuttle Challenger.

It's been twenty-five years now.

I've been fascinated with space exploration since I was old enough to comprehend it. I was five when we landed on the moon. I know I wasn't up in the middle of the night to watch it, but I remember watching the next day. I collected the official Apollo patches for each mission. They came in loaves of white bread. My mother sewed them all onto a blue jacket that I treasured. I wish I still had it. Try getting something that cool with your bread now.

Apollo was man's crowning achievement. At least till the iPod. SkyLab and the shuttle were a sad denouement. I still followed closely, but the sheer boredom of it was hard to deny. We were spoiled.

In 1986, I was still a newlywed. We came home from morning classes at the university, and flipped on the TV, probably looking for The Price Is Right. Instead, we saw Dan Rather choking up, showing the same awful footage over and over. The event was less than an hour old. It was bound to happen sometime, given the quantity of launches and the mediocrity of the vehicle. Still, it was shocking, especially for one who held astronauts in such high regard. If I won the lottery, I'm not sure whether starting transition or buying a seat on a rocket would come first on my to-do list. Gawd, I'd love to go to space.

NASA still does cool things, like the Mars rovers, but space travel just ain't as grand as it was when I was a kid. Challenger brought that all back to me yesterday.

Flogging the Metaphor

Jenny asked a question in yesterday's comments that I'd like to address. She asked about the finasteride that I started on a while back, and whether I'm seeing results.

The drug was prescribed in its lower dosage for the purpose of causing hair regrowth on my thinly covered scalp. I've been on it almost three months now, long enough to start seeing signs, you'd think. A couple weeks ago, I asked the missus to have a look for any new fuzz emerging. She didn't find any. *sigh*

I had an ulterior motive in asking for the prescription, of course. Finasteride is also used as an androgen blocker in some hormone replacement therapies. On this front, I'm more pleased.

Hard times for The Senator have eased. He can still filibuster if a major bill comes to the floor of the Senate (which hasn't happened very often), but he takes it easy during everyday business. No need to stand and call attention to his status, he is much humbler than before. When he is needed in Congress, he gives it his full attention, but otherwise just hangs around.

'Nuf said.

What Are These "Feelings" That You Speak of?

Nice to be back in the writing mood again. The realization that I was depressed seems to be opening the flood gates. I've been tamping down my feelings for many months, I think. This explains so much to me about the emptiness I was experiencing.

Feeling again is causing me to look at my recent history with a jaundiced and revisionist eye. All was not as it seemed. For several months, I've been involving myself in other people's problems, sometimes directly via email. I thought of it as maturing into an altruistic maternal figure in our community. While I regret none of that, I can see now that I was avoiding the analysis of my own situation and emotions. I'm sure I have "wisdom" to offer, but knowing myself better would deepen the wisdom pool, no?

At work last night, my emotions came to the forefront. The latest RadioLab episode, "Lost & Found," had me weeping at the end. Then I had a minor recurrence during the newest This American Life podcast. The last time I had cried was New Year's Eve a year ago. This speaks to the denial I have embraced.

I can sense a lighter post coming tomorrow. Not that there's anything wrong with this one.

Life and How to Live It

Okay, here goes.

I have been feeling completely unmotivated this month, easily distracted from tasks. I feel flat. When I went to therapy today, M told me that it sounds like depression. I have been depressed before, lord knows, but this has been different. I have decided that she's right, which is why I pay her the big bucks. This is a quiet depression, more of a malaise. It's not pressing on me from all sides, the way I'm accustomed to. Now that a name has been put to it, I do recognize it as depression.

That is why the blog has gone to seed. I suppose things have been happening, but nothing that adhered to my writing brain. I normally feel compelled to write. M instructed me to do it anyway, so here I am.

We decided that I am grieving. My days of Leslie and roses are numbered, as I am expected to go back to true boy mode after my March meeting. That's less than six weeks. My everyday Leslieness is subtle, nothing overt, yet I am going to miss it greatly. The epilating, the body lotion, the panties and camisoles and hosiery that are an everyday thing at present will be largely relegated to the scrap heap over the summer. I've been telling myself that I am okay with this, but I am not.

I have been suppressing strong feelings, and those can always be counted on to surface. That's where I am now.

Coupled with that, I feel like a cad for the way that I have abandoned certain friends this month. If this sounds like you, it probably is you. I'm sorry. I am expending all my concentration at work, and I can't make myself do more than video games in the wee hours. I'm going to compose an apology to one particular friend as soon as I post this. She deserves better than I have been giving.

I'm going to try to start posting again, not because you all expect it, but because it is good for my mental health. That's reason enough.

Brandy, You're a Fine Girl

I'm a bit plowed right now, as Mrs. Leslie made Brandy Alexanders for us. Good stuff, on the tail of a good day.

Firstly, I went to my support group meeting tonight. This was not the best meeting I've ever attended; that honor goes to my second meeting, the one where I was finally able to live a few glorious hours as myself after forty years of waiting. Tonight's meeting was, though, a close second. It was a sparsely attended affair, eleven of us, all MtF. Two newcomers were there, and getting them up to speed on people's back stories was the impetus for lots of in-depth discussion. I learned so much about the new girls, and about some members that have been around awhile. Plus, I shared some of my difficulties and issues. It was all quite emotional and engaging.

On top of all that, I was dressed to the nines. I told everyone that since I didn't make it out on New Year's Eve, I was treating the next day as my party night. I regret not thinking to get my picture made, as I felt as pretty as I have ever been. The memory will have to suffice for me, and imagination for you. Long patterned velvet skirt, gold shell, and patterned silk peplum jacket, with the brown pumps. I pulled it all together myself from the parts bin that I call my closet, none of it designed to go together. Felt like a fashion maven!

Before I left for my meeting, I was bantering with Mrs. L in the kitchen. I had just made a pithy remark, when she said that she was about to pay me a compliment, but might not now. She said that her therapist earlier in the week had told her that since I was being a good husband and parent the last two weeks, that she needed to reinforce me with honest praise. I don't think she was fully comfortable doing this, but she pushed through anyway, and let me know that she appreciated the more equitable labor division we've had during my vacation period. She was happy that I was stepping up and taking on tasks. I wish she could've said it without the disclaimer beforehand, but it was good to hear.

I feel very satisfied tonight, and serene. If something I said here lacked coherence, I blame it on the brandy, the creme de cacao, and the bossa nova.