Another Meeting, Another Blog

I went to my meeting tonight. It had originally been a Transgiving potluck, but, organized souls that we are, the potluck was canceled for lack of people signing up for specific dishes. I think one person committed to bringing something. I didn't think I would be attending, but Mrs. W arranged things to make sure I got to go. She's like the duck sauce at the Chinese restaurants. Sweet and sour.

I was able to get out of the house early again, so I changed at Lisa's place and drove to the meeting in full regalia. (I love driving in heels!) There were seven of us all leaving from Lisa's. I mentioned that I had an open seat, and Shannon decided to ride with me.

Shannon is a bit of a role model for me. She is reserved and non-confrontational like myself. We were talking tonight about the difficulty of making huge decisions where there is fallout either way. We both said that our instinct is to just step back and not make a decision. Yet, Shannon made a huge decision about two years ago, when not committing was no longer an option she could live with. She embarked on the journey to womanhood that some of us just fantasize about, "some of us" meaning me.

On the ride over, Shannon wanted to make sure I was okay with the comments she had left on the blog. Hell, yes! While Shannon usually firmly defends me, I am often astounded by how well she is able to interpret my wife's actions and intuit her motivations. When I can't comprehend Mrs. W's logic, Shannon does sometimes get it and explain it to me. All this, and she's never met the woman!

I had a wonderful time at the apartment. Very witty people, and kind to a fault. The meeting was good, too, pretty much just a social gathering. Strangely, it was all MtFs and two GGs. A veritable hen party. It's usually close to a 60/40 split, with lots of FtMs.

Late into the meeting, Shannon noticed how quiet and pensive I was. I told her that a big wave of lonely had swept over me. She gave me a good, long hug, and we talked about it. I think that melancholy is going to be my constant companion for a while. As long as she doesn't bring her best bud depression around to crash on the couch, it'll be okay.

Oh, and Sylvia makes a heckuva Christmas cookie!

Clarifying is Best Left For Milk

I'm busily prepping myself for my meeting Saturday, but I think I need to clarify a few things.

The Abuse thing: Mrs. W and I have different ways of communicating. I do get browbeaten when I stand up for something that she disdains. "Abuse" is a loaded word, and I don't know that I want to go there. Henpecked, bullied, berated, but not abused. I might add that under most circumstances, we get along very well. I believe my therapist wanted to make me think.

Manipulation: I am passive-aggressive, and yes, I can be manipulative. With my therapist, though, I am not overly dramatic. I do phrase things for optimum impact sometimes, but I also downplay other things. For this very reason, I remind her to read my blog a few days before a session. I want her to see how I tell the same stories for another audience. I want her to have the fullest picture possible. Plus, I frequently forget details by the time we meet, so the blog fills in some blanks and allows her to think about the questions she needs to ask to draw me out.

The Escape Plan: This is a very long term situation. We will have to get our finances in order before we could afford to live apart. The fact that I feel like leaving now is largely irrelevant. It could all change, and there will be much time for that to occur. Unless she throws me out. One never knows. Y'all can't get this resolved that easily. This soap opera has many more plot twists left to play out.

Three kids makes this impossibly complex and emotionally weighty. There's much more fallout than two jaded and bitter quasi-compatible middle-aged married folk. She uses the kids as a reason to limit my Leslieness, and I see her point. This could prove very disturbing to one or more of the kids. Living with a very unhappy father could also be damaging, I suppose.

Anyway, I have to get back to my preparations. I think I'll be wearing my gray dress, which I wore to two meetings last winter. I have a miniscule wardrobe, and no money to put toward improving it. I love what I have, but even at once a month, I'm repeating myself a lot. But that's a small issue next to the marital stuff. Tomorrow night, perhaps a report about my meeting.

De-Briefing, or Pantying Up

First off, what an amazing collection of comments on the last two entries. You ladies are aces with me. Melissa and Renee, I am tempted to lock you two in a chat room for the duration, but I do love you both. In fact, I love the lot of you. It's hard to fathom this many folks caring about one's situation. There are also numerous emails, and I intend to reply to them all, but your patience would be appreciated. I'm better at modeling secretary outfits than I am at typing.

On to the main event: therapy. It was a pretty somber session.

In the past, I have repeatedly found new stores of hope to mine. Not so much this time. When the shit hit the fan Monday, I was ready to walk. I was very upset through the afternoon. Co-workers were noticing. I had a great phone conversation with Lori, who helped to calm me. After that, I was more contemplative than angry. If I had written my post in the afternoon, it would have been blistering. Since Monday evening, I've been doing a lot of reflection, and that's where we went in therapy.

My therapist, M, was bewildered by the mixed messages, though not surprised that the bare legs were a bone of contention. I have no intention of backing down on the leg hair. I brought up the notion of an ultimatum, calling her out on the subject. Not in a harsh way, just making it very clear that this is precisely what I need to stay functionally sane. She can react however she pleases, but she needs to know just important this is to me. I feel like we could maintain the status quo for a long while if I have this.

Of course, I've been adamant with my wife before, and I've always backed down in the end. I told M that I'm now realizing that my wife is a bully. Yeah, I know, I know, but I had to see it for myself. Whereupon, M quietly added that she regards me as abused, a judgement that I think has been unspoken for a long time. That's a sobering thought. My wife is undoubtedly the dominant personality. My feelings get short shrift. I hesitate to embrace the idea of my wife emotionally abusing me, but it gives me a lot to consider.

Anyway, coming from a calm place today, I told M that I don't hold out much hope of this resolving. My take right now is that I need to create a plan for getting out. One day of being myself each month is wholly inadequate. I have no other opportunities to express myself fully. I'm not agitated about this, just sad. It just seems like I'm missing the solution somewhere. I've been struggling with my condition, and with her, for two years. I've carved out a tiny niche for myself, especially here in the blogosphere. I've grown bigger than this niche now, getting pot-bound. The Leslie part of me needs more space, more of a corporeal presence. I don't think I can get that concession.

Mixed Messages

Roommates, eh? I'm gonna have to look up the definition.

In our big talk, my wife made it pretty clear that we would not be intimate again until I let my leg hair grow back in. I have no reason to doubt her resolve.

Many of you know that I am up late into the night. My wife frequently falls asleep in a recliner, then I roust her into the bedroom when I retire. That was the case last night. When we were settled, she told me to move over toward her. "Don't you want to get warm?" Well, I don't know... "Oh, just be pragmatic."

The question I wanted to ask was whether this is standard behavior for roommates. We wrapped up together, her legs on mine, and we went to sleep spooning. What am I to think? That she still loves me? I was just going to claim my half of the bed and sleep in her proximity. Is her anger and frustration as narrowly focused as this makes it seem? Happily, Thursday is therapy day for me. There is much interpretation to be done.

Her words and her actions are completely at odds from my viewpoint. I still haven't learned the subtleties of feminine thinking despite my sincere efforts. Maybe this all makes sense to her. I'm just confused by it all.

Incidentally, I am maintaining the epilation. I am completely bare nearly to the top of my thigh. I will probably not take it much further, but I won't be letting up anytime soon either. Smooth legs are amazing, and epilation keeps the sensation alive for much longer than shaving. I am totally sold.

Crumbling Like a Graham Cracker

Won't it be dull when we rid ourselves of all these demons haunting us?
"The War on Drugs" Barenaked Ladies

We've reached a tipping point.

In comments for my previous post, Lisa and Shannon both made the point that we transgendered folk often think that everyone's suffering is related to our issues. It's a perfectly valid point. We're a narcissistic bunch. In this case, though, I was right. It was about me.

The wife came to me today to have "an unpleasant conversation," one she's wanted to have since before Thanksgiving. It was not my imagination. My reading of her demeanor and body language was spot on. The talk was very civil, only the content being unpleasant. My legs, it seems, are indeed a dealbreaker. This is the line that I cannot cross. She has allowed me to grow my nails and shave my pits, but the legs...it's just too much. Mind you, this one thing got me through last winter, happier than any winter in memory. Note, also, that I was feeling nicely non-dysphoric until this talk today. Bare legs make an enormous difference in my outlook. Sadly, the same is true for the missus.

Last year, we had one session of couples counseling with my therapist. In the course of the hour, my shrink mentioned that one couple she dealt with had an agreement that he would get to shave his legs for one week out of the year. My wife is holding onto this idea like a pit bull. Not surprisingly, she sees this a great compromise position for the two of us, instead of the four months bare, eight months hairy schedule that I'm following.

Most of the ground covered today has been gone over several times, both in our talks and here on these pages. I'll try to boil it down to the salient points. She feels stupid for staying with me. She can't talk to her friends about this. If this relationship is doomed to go south, she wants to find a new mate while she's still young and pretty enough.

She told me that she was glad that the two of us had had colds during the last couple weeks, as it gave her a good excuse not to be intimate, not to feel obliged to kiss or embrace. She is glad that we haven't had opportunity to go out together, as she doesn't want to sit across the table from me and carry on a conversation.

"If you want to have a roommate, just keep doing what you're doing. That's what we'll be: roommates."

Her therapist has suggested that my support group is full of people who are divorced or single, and that getting advice from them is a grave mistake. It's true, marriage is rare in any trans support group, mine being no exception. They listen to me, they counsel me, but I make my own decisions.

Me: Have you ever questioned that you were a woman?
She: (pause) No...never.
Me: Well, I question my maleness constantly, every day.
Later...
She: Why does dealing with dysphoria have to involve changing your appearance?

I could go on. I've been trying for two years now to have my cake and eat it too. Today I came to the realization that there is no cake to have. The cake is a lie.

What next? I guess we'll be roommates for awhile. She has every right to feel the way she does, but I am not backing down. My feelings are legitimate, too. I have a right to my identity. I have a right to do with my body as I please. I have a right to feel as comfortable in my skin as she does in hers. I have tempered my desire to do more, out of respect for her feelings. It seems that that is not sufficient.

Prediction: More of the Same

I suspect that Simone and I are the only ones not tired of discussing football, so let's see what else we can get into.

I'm beginning to think that I will be having a confrontation with everyone's favorite antagonist, my wife. She's become increasingly distant since the big holiday. I've broadly hinted that closeness would be welcomed, wrapped my arms around her and such. She's not responding much, and I'm sure(?) it comes down to my semi-bare legs.

What irks me most is that I am not presenting the least bit female around her. I've cut my nails, I'm not wearing toenail polish (something I could easily get away with at this time of year), I'm fully-haired elsewhere. She's got her same old husband, except for some hair. Why is this a dealbreaker?

For now, this is an overreaction on my part. Nothing has been said. It's just a pattern that I recognize from the many previous fallouts. Time will tell if I'm reading her right. Angst is a lot like Christmas shopping. It pays to get started early. Then you're ready for the big day when it arrives.

Decades of Futility

I would consider this a good title for my memoirs, but here I refer to my alma mater's football team. I was on hand tonight as my team lost in overtime. So close, yet...

Thanks for the support, ladies. I'll nominate the lot of you for Kentucky Colonel status. If you were looking for me in the stands, you wouldn't have known me. I was deep cover. Two days growth on my face, and I left the wig and mascara at home. I did wear black pantyhose and black patterned tights as part of a layering scheme to ward off the chill, but ESPN wasn't using their see-thru technology for this game. If I had been prescient enough to know the outcome in advance, I might've done full-on Leslie with a paper bag for my head. I was 20 the last time my Cats beat Tennessee, more than half a lifetime ago.

When we arrived at the stadium, I spent a few minutes watching all the pretty women walking by. Boots were very popular today. Aaah, boots. My brother was amused by me. At one point, I watched a woman for a long while from above.

Me: There's a look. A Pepto-Bismol mid-thigh length coat with matching stilettos.
He: Right up your alley. Especially the stilettos. You'd be 6'8".
Me: Well, closer to 6'6". I don't go for platforms.

He has settled into routine teasing on the gender subject now, which means he's perfectly comfortable with his brother's "differences". It's just one more thing to gently mock. Very healthy, very natural.