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.