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.