This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. It is a place where I can be honest and I appreciate that. Here, I splurge. No one comes out looking good. It is a selfish place written by a pretty selfish person. It is a place of ranting and I am, ultimately, an unreliable narrator. Bear that in mind. I attempt to be honest, but things are very much from my point of view.
Highly subjective views of people in my life proliferate. It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the "Story So Far" Page above. I can also heartily recommend that Dysphoria link if you're questioning or interested. Thank you!
Given my mental pinging back and forth over the last few posts (and, indeed, in the last few months since reading Real Life comics again) it's not a word I thought I would be opening a blog post with, but you play the hand that's dealt.
Me, walking in the park. I took myself off alone for a bit due to pace - my mother needed the respite, frankly.
Obviously I took a selfie.
After the discussion with my mother, which was related truncated and without specifics here, we didn't touch on it much after that. During our walk in the park, she asked what I felt when going to the in-person support group: do I feel content when I am there, do I look forward to it, is it exciting? And, well, the best I could say was that, at time of asking, I was feeling down and so emotions were hard to recognise or report on. It occurs to me that the fact that I have been spending days and days dressed is not something that many people know or expect. And, I had packed only my most masculine clothing items and pronouns to go north. I didn't even shave whilst I was up there (my razor is lilac and my shaving cream berry scented, so... yeah, pretty dang obvious).
I did when I got back though. Like, it was one of the first things I did. I didn't dress immediately though, I looked critically at all the cracks I have and wondered if any are new or getting bigger (on the house walls, not in a mirror). I put on an alice band to keep my hair out of my face and dispensed with the hair-grips and felt better instantly. I changed underwear from boxers to knickers and my socks to the trainer socks I bought. I tried to prepare the house for the rearranged curry night with Miss Warrington. Like, do I keep my hair-brush out in the bathroom? How much do I pack away my clothes? What evidence is there about the place of how I've femmed up my lifestyle this summer? Or, do I go the whole hog, don mascara and dress for the occasion?
When I showed my mother this shot she said: "I don't see you there."
Oh, yes, the curry night. I did not dress or wear mascara. In the event, I was very much underdressed when Miss Warrington arrived in dress, denim jacket and a new-ish haircut. Later than anticipated, we had but one half each before the meal, and it was nice. Inevitably She asked if I had been back to the in-person support group. She complimented the alice band. She said that She thought no one would raise an eyebrow if I were to attend work dressed and 'come out'. She suspected that students may already suspect and would be supportive. It was affirming. I mean, She could have just asked and I would have told Her, but hey, I appreciate the effort She went to for it all to appear accidental and conversational that She asked. She went, I walked home, got into my bra and nightie and slept. Soundly.
This morning, shaved, I had a bath (ridiculous luxuriation) and have dressed in my flared jeans, pink t-shirt, bra, knickers and glasses. And I sit here and feel... comfortable. So, this is what comfort feels like? Well, yeah I guess it is.
She saw me here though.
I mean, clothes aren't the thing but they are part of the thing. I am working up the nerve to don a coat (there's a light drizzle) and return the other jeans (they aren't long enough in the leg), get some tissues and maybe swing by my local supermarket and get some groceries. I would be doing this fully dressed for the first time. And, well, I could maybe get away with that. I'm still going to get read as male, but the clothes aren't obviously feminine enough that people would even notice. Well, okay, stuffed bra and t-shirt would be, but they'd be under my coat - so no one will really look twice. They may look twice, but it would be inconclusive enough that no one would look further.
People would raise an eyebrow at work. I was already getting side-eye from my ex-boss (replaced by Alice now) last term with the longer hair. Let's not forget that I took down the Genderbread Person graphic in fear of parental complaints because a conversation sparked by the graphic led to a parental complaint and an official warning from the management of the school about that conversation. The teacher of Psychology has referred to 'that popular trans-sexual issue' as something that she is 'uncomfortable teaching about' because 'basically it's unscientific and far more damaging than analysing suicidal ideation' to 'developing minds'. "It's one of those passing fads," she told me by the photocopier once "and I worry that too many youngsters think it's a Thing when really it's just a tool to get engagement and attention."
Part of the walk Oop North. It was very pretty.
A long time ago now, but at the same school, there was an English teacher whom I learned was a Vicar's wife. She and I had many conversations about faith and society - it seemed I was someone she felt 'safe' talking to about feminism in faith and challenges and all sorts. In amongst everything it came out that I was perfectly happy with trans people in my understanding of my faith - that is, I used my line that God does not make mistakes ergo trans* people were created that way by God and thus it was for us to react to them as Christ would, meeting them where they were. Yes, I used the term 'they' because this was a few years ago now and I did not consider myself 'good enough' to be trans* in most applications of the term. Anyway, the teacher was leaving and we had spoken a lot about why - like I say, I was playing supportive colleague. As part of that she very deliberately took me to one side after school one day, it was sunny and warm so maybe in the summer, and then...
See!? Really really pretty walk.
She asked how I reconciled my obvious strong faith with transgender people in general. What was my take on the fact that it suddenly seemed popular? I answered honestly. And, in the process, I said in defence of what I was saying "you ask how I can know some of this? Well, the truth is, I am one." And she smiled, nodded, but was visibly taken aback. To her enduring credit, we continued the discussion, she finished saying she would have to read more and try to understand; but I did wonder about the crossing of a line. I feel I did cross a line. She was liberal, she was caring, she probably did go and read more and was challenged. But had she stayed at the school, I suspect our relationship would have been irrevocably changed.
My point?
If I were to 'come out' more widely at work, if I were to arrive dressed, I would not only raise eyebrows and ruffle feathers, I would be taking a huge risk - even with people who would be sympathetic. But, as I did say to Miss Warrington, I do feel, now, that it is rather more a matter of time than choice. Sooner or later action will have to be taken. Hormones? Surgery? Social transition? I don't know. How far or how obvious I cannot say, but I am going to do something.
My mother asked that question too, Miss Warrington asked it last night, do I want to 'fully' transition? (I put the 'fully' in quotes because, whilst I know what they mean by the term, I'm not sure what it actually means).
I went to the in-person support group Thursday night and it was...
When I used the term 'alienate' in advance, I meant that I do that to others - I push away, I unsettle. Even at a group designed for people whom society deems unsettling I can unsettle others.
I really need to get better at getting others to take a photo.
This is my attempt.
After some retail therapy in some charity shops I had a new coat and some new flared jeans. I ended up wearing my existing flared jeans (they are longer in the leg and brush the floor if one is not careful and I like that far more than I am prepared to admit) with that £7 t-shirt from earlier in the summer and the coat over the top. Oh, I also bought a new bag. Cath Kidson, baby-blue, with a rainbow-like design. I like it a lot. I mean, again, probably more than I am prepared to admit. Smaller than the black number. Along with my glasses and a cap and I didn't even feel nervous going to my car up the street. I didn't mind driving unmasked. I had splashed out on mascara and lipstick. I felt... at home.
Not trusting my voice I managed to navigate to the group past people who did not immediately suspect (I was wearing my mask by this point) and join everyone else. The glasses gained a compliment or two (I know, right?) but I suspect the work here was being done with mascara as I had worn the glasses last time and no one seemed to have noticed.
I got talking- no, I got talked to by one of the older ladies there. Self-diagnosed with autism she was wearing an awareness band and I commented on it. She then proceeded to talk to me about her life for the best part of an hour an a half. But, see, I am there to listen so pipe down, Joanna, shut the fuck up and listen. She teased me to guesstimate her age. Ever the conversationalist and smarting about some erroneous assumptions about my experience (or, rather, lack thereof) I asked in return. She bade me lower my mask and I did. "Oh," she said, "Well, your beard ages you."
Beard. I'd only spent an hour trying to get as close a shave as I could. I wasn't prepared to have that comment.
On my way to the free coffee.
It was after lunch, so that may have been part of the reason for the difficulty sleeping.
I mean... oh. I no longer felt at home. No longer comfortable. Nerves started again, tinged with anger and regret - aimless, baseless, at first at the lady but then, on reflection, at me. I mean, what did I expect? I was talking to a woman who had undergone electrolysis and laser treatments as well as hormones. She was around 70 years old. She regularly referenced being scared of men. I am 41 years of age, no hormones, no treatments, just a razor. My voice is still male, very male (Matt Berry male) and I am, at the end of the day, the sort of person who disappoints commenters on Stana's blog (yes, that was also about the beard and also casts a long five-o'clock shadow). I wasn't wearing a dress, but I am just a man in a dress nevertheless.
I struggled to sleep.
In the morning I tried to set up when and where I was meeting Miss Warrington for a beer and a curry as arranged - you may recall I'd turned down going to visit my mother on this - and found out that She had forgotten. Other plans had been made. Oh. I went to charge the car - eschewing dressing, I wanted to but I looked in the mirror and that fucking beard is still there, if I can be embarrassed at a group for people on the trans* spectrum then I can surely be embarrassed out in public.
Tilly called asking if I would check that she'd turned the oven off - they're off on holiday - and so I thought I may as well go Oop North anyway. On a whim, I did it. There was traffic, stationary at times, and it was a frustrating and boring drive even with me playing the album from the artists I related on Thursday. It took about three hours longer than it should. And, in the evening, my mother asked me about the group and about... well, me.
I showed her Trans: A Coming Out Story. She shared how Eddie Izzard unsettled her but Julian Clary did not. She asked if I was like the people on Ru Paul's Drag Race, how they were "less than men" but not women (interesting phrasing). If I could wear a dress all the time, would I? Because she almost always wears trousers - clothes don't make you- I finished, no, clothes aren't the thing. They're part of the thing but they are not the thing. If I felt like I had never fitted in, counseled my mother, taking any action wouldn't help me fit in more - it may even make things considerably more difficult. She wants to support me, whatever I decide to do or not do, but she finds things difficult: she doesn't know enough, maybe she should, she mused.
WWW - what went well
- The 'look' for the in person support group was one that I liked, it felt right
- I engaged in actual discussion in the group and only once felt like I was dominating, well done me
- I took a decision
- I had a haircut. It is now 'layered'
- Tilly had not left the oven on
EBI - even better if
- I did not have a beard
- I packed some en femme stuff - I carefully kept everything male
- I accept that, maybe, just maybe, this is the latest in a line of things I leap into and then do nothing because, ultimately, I am incapable of feeling happy or fulfilled (I see you Sarah over at TransRetroGurl, I see you)
- I took better decisions
- I prepared for the return to work rather than mooning over existential dread
Two Stars and a Wish
* Wore mascara and it seemed to 'pop'
* New coat
- Maybe not in polite company next time
Shit Sandwich
I managed to beat the original funk enough to get coffee, haircut and some new clothing to attend the evening; now all I have to do is be a better human being so I don't collapse over having a beard as a man; do that and I can succeed more in life.
By the light of the street-lamp on the way out for milk last night, gone 2100 hrs, with an app to hide the stubble and smooth the forehead.
Tonight I go to the in-person support group. I shall play-act for one last time before a change in timings of the eldest's dance group for the new academic year render such escapades impossible for the next ten months. The sunshine of summer is more or less gone for now, it may return as I hear there's a heatwave, but for the last few days it has been warm and slightly muggy.
I have a date for one set of building work, a contractor for the second, and the shower and bathroom remain untouched except for my bodge job that seems to be holding for now. I have turned down my mother's offer of a holiday Oop North over the weekend as I had considered using that time to play-act a little more. Maybe get a hair-cut later today or tomorrow to try and turn my mop into something a little more ordered. Still too long to hide, too short to style, too feminine to really try for a masculine style.
Busy few days. I did nothing on the Tuesday but spent nearly all day doing it, taking the Boy to the game cafe. He lost every game. I managed to win one. KT's boy, new to the scene, won three out of four. Offered condescending advice to my Boy. He's younger, got an expensive deck. It grates a little. Because my Boy is better at this than I he has remained friends despite this, was not riled or upset, had a good time. The following day, yesterday, I took the family to the other city nearby - Tilly had a hospital appointment for her thyroid - and took them to a park that turned out better than I dared hope. Cue the smallest getting upset that we had to leave as quickly as we did and the eldest doing the same. Tilly has nodules, nothing to worry about according to the specialist, but they will check just in case. Tilly paid me £3 for the trouble.
Remember me I ask, remember me I sing.
Think of all the horrors I promise you that I bring.
That payment might be the saddest thing I've ever experienced. She did it on her phone, as I was driving, I couldn't stop her. But that payment means that I rank as less than a concerned friend. She wouldn't have paid, or offered to pay, any of her friends who took her down, nor any friend who babysat the children. Nor would any payment have been expected. Were I still at home, there would have been no payment (obviously). But she paid me. Later that same day I looked after the smallest - had done the same on Monday on short notice. It was late when she bade me bring him home, and he went without the usual screaming and anger. A good time out.
I couldn't say no to either short-notice request. Why wouldn't I take the time to have a good experience with my youngest child? Build a good memory for him. Of course the timings kept changing - I rushed tea then had to wait, ended up staying out with him until 2000 hrs. Too late to really relax in the evening as I had to run out to get milk. Tilly was taking the Boy to look at a cat they may adopt, it looks as though they will too - not the plan as originally told me, but I'm in no position to ask for nor receive regular updates.
Banged one out this morning whilst thinking about hair. Plaiting. Mine. Reflection: nothing has really changed, has it? I said it before here: I have all the time in world, beer and the internet.
- You stole the best years of my life - I'll give them back.
On the way out for free coffee in the sunshine earlier in the week.
At the game cafe Veronica related that someone she knew had 'come out' and was now living as a woman. Had been for a while, but only publically recently. The issue I spoke of last time had resolved - turned out that she had been in the right - and she had been in touch for her next gender clinic appointment. She asked if I had got in contact, encouraged me to come out to my Boy, reminded me that the community at the game cafe know and would be supportive. Reminded me that legal provisions make it clear that I can't be fired for coming out and that life is easier when you do - internally, not socially. What had I to lose? All of this was very positive, supportive.
Lily granted me access to their writing folder last night. As usual it's bloody good. All works in progress, nothing polished, but it has that spark that I like. Characterisation. Cleverly unreliable narrators (the fact that their personality changes the way metaphors and similies are used really hammers that home in the prose - not in speech but in the relation of the story, making perspective changes sing) that allow the story to leak out rather than be shoved in your face. Lily is a master at language and craft. Very like Servitor actually. I used to harbour dreams of writing this well.
Free coffee at Ikea is the plan. Then lunch. Hair-cut? I don't know. Bath; shave legs, chest and pits; choose what I shall wear for the evening. Tea. Go. Avoid the people leaving other groups that spied me and laughed last time - maybe not at me, but I hid anyway and still hit ladies leaving yoga on the way in. Burning with embarrassment. And why not? Chat. Ask no useful questions, pontificate on something like the little professor I am, alienate and erect those walls. Then home, bed, sleep.
If you have been, thank you for reading. I can't give you that time back.
Friday, before I found out how much my repair works would cost.
After the last post I had some people in to check out the discovery of awful damp in the understairs cupboard and maybe fix the pointing. I thought maybe £700-£800 to set the issues right. Ha. No. Cheapest is £1,750 (and that won't fix the wall, just waterproof it, I'll have to pay someone else to fix the outside wall) and the most expensive (to do everything, including the repointing and waterproofing) is £3,800. Ah. See, I don't have that amount in my savings. This hit me rather hard, given the fact that I am also saving for the roof on the matrimonial home (£3,000+ - likely £5,000 in five years, that's for half the job), so I was a bit dow- no, I was very down.
Such is the situation that I had all children on Friday, earlier than planned, then took the middlest to a pre-release at my favourite vegan gaming cafe on the Saturday, both eldest on the Sunday and, today, I have another contractor to provide another quote. I guess to see which of the £1,750 and £3,800 is more likely to put everything right and be affordable. Oh, and yes, nothing done with the bathroom nor quoted for. It is... depressing. As always, I have done that thing where I get an idea in my head, stick to it and then discover that perhaps I would have been better walking away. Also, the eldest needs a room of her own and I can't afford to sort the loft out (as had been my original plan) because, well, I'm paying for other urgent repairs so... well, bugger, essentially. It also means that I haven't had chance to dress properly for a while and I wasn't quite prepared for how much that has negatively affected my mood.
I mean, I went Oop North to see me mother and didn't dress over that weekend and that seemed fine, but now that I have been unable (or unwilling) to spend that time I am definitely feeling it. I used to go months between dressing episodes and I didn't have the comfort of dressing in knickers nor in dressing in a nightie for bed. How in the name of all that is sane did I manage?
Did I ever mention His Grace John MacLean on here? I can't recall. But here he is:
I found the video above back in... 2018? I don't know. The important thing is that he was mentioned by Natalie Wynn in her video on pronouns and I had forgotten about him. So, this morning, I went diving again. Back when I discovered John MacLean's channel I found that I enjoyed listening to his make-up tutorials and was interested. What I hadn't discovered was his video on hair removal (a remarkably personal account given his protestations of privacy) nor appreciated his honesty in amongst his dry Scottish wit. And, during my shower today, it brought a mini-realisation: I've always enjoyed eye make-up and, yes, I wish I wore it more often.
Obviously (I hope) much too pretty to be my eye.
I totally appreciate the way the brow is shaped and the way the lashes have been made to 'pop' along with the subtle eye-liner on the top lid.
That white bit at the right? It's clever, but I always think it's... well, a tad unnecessary. Mind you, my style (inasmuch as I have one) is much too amateur to really be making such distinctions!
During my relationship with Toby I was privileged to have her apply mascara and eye shadow on me twice. It was an amazing experience and I really enjoyed the 'look' that she created. Now, okay, it was very simple and quick, but I loved it. She said I had to get used to doing it myself (fair enough) but then cut off any attempts to get me in make-up - pointing out that I looked awful in it and that I perhaps shouldn't bother. It was... well, it was a bit of a turn-around and seemed mostly to stem from how much I enjoyed those early times. Since then I avoided it, mostly, and indulged only once in 2013 where I decided that it was too much effort to remove. Then, of course, I bought some recently and wore it to my night at the vegan gaming cafe and, more recently, to the in person support group meeting. After the man has been to look at my wall today I am strongly considering wearing it on a walk up to IKEA for a free coffee (because I know how to live).
However, I am supposed to be taking the smallest at 1545 today so... I may not. Mother says that I shouldn't be so available to help when called at short notice (I was texted last night at 2100) but... I'm a bit rubbish at that sort of thing. Always have been. Another reason that I am still very much alone.
Oh, I bought the desk - when facing £1,750+ for repairs, suddenly £60 on a desk doesn't seem steep and, well, not getting it is hardly going to dent the amount necessary to raise for repairs. I have also shaved my face closely again (I lacked the time yesterday and Saturday) and that feels much better. After so long wearing a beard one would think that I was used to it, and maybe I was, but also after so long wearing one I really appreciate not.
Morning Jo. There you are. How've you been?
The video above is one that I referenced on an online forum when talking about feeling envious of other trans-women (and just trans* people in general) and thus out-sourcing dissatisfaction and dysphoria. Now, I can attest that at least one person on the forum who I have met at the in-person support group made me worry a little about my own poor job shaving. It turned out that she was using make up (I genuinely couldn't tell at the time, but I did only get a glimpse as she sipped a tea - we were wearing face masks). In the most recent meeting she disclosed that she was really shy around her chin and jaw because she worried that her beard would (ahem) burgeon through. That struck me as being similar to the story above in the video, which I had just watched earlier that day. So, here's that if it is of use to you, dear reader. Also, and in the interests of clarity and honesty: I love love love Mia's glasses, hair and lipstick. In every video of hers that I have seen thus far. They are, if you'll forgive the internet-i-cism: #goals.
Ah, yes, of course, over on the left you have what used to be my standard waking up selfies sample for this month. I don't tend to take these as often now. Not because I didn't like them but because, well, I get a chance to have other moments of gender euphoria now that I'm getting used to new things. Note how I haven't added make-up on this one - because I don't feel like I need to as much as I am confident that, soon, I shall be adding it in real life more often. I have, after all, shaved off some errant hair twixt the eyebrows and... I like that.
Coda: as I was typing the above, the next tradesman arrived. He quoted a much lower price and with plenty of the same beats of those that had come before so... I booked them. 30 September is booked in, and I might be able to afford it. So... that's nice.
Writing this, sat in my new maxi-skirt from Lidl, acquired on the day I got back from the holiday referred to last time, after having read another article on the historical Jesus and the way the Gospels work, before lunch; I am thinking over and mulling on various things from the last few weeks. Firstly, I am dressed, obviously I hope. After spending most of yesterday dressed I went out to IKEA in the afternoon for a free coffee and to look over a potential desk purchase. It is my hope to buy that desk (with another free coffee) after lunch today, necessitating a change of clothing I suspect. I mean, part of me does rather want to stay as I am as I feel so free and comfortable: snag mustard tights, mustard t-shirt, maxi-skirt, stuffed bra. It's nice. Oh, and glasses. I even shaved legs, chest, pits and face this morning.
My hair is long enough to reliably be held back by a hair bobble for baths now, and I like that this is the case. Today I simply wearing an alice band and it's keeping my face free of errant strands, so I call this a success and think on what I'm going to do when I go back to work. Simple hair grips probably aren't going to be enough so... hmm. I'm digressing, stay on topic!
It was cooller than of late, I wore this rather fetching jacket I picked up last week to prepare and eat lunch.
It was really comfortable.
This blog has spoken before, quite a lot, about The Fear. This is the irrational worry that I shall be ostracised and punished for showing anything of myself. I say 'irrational,' but actually it's based on experience. Any time I have shared a bit of my inner self with people IRL whom I care about and trust I have usually found that turned against me in relatively short order. From my bosses back in the Old Place (and the Years of Hell) to, increasingly, my wife. That is, not always, but often enough that I grew careful.
Starting from admiring Toby from afar and then dating her around 2003-05 I began to realise that there was something about me that I could no longer deny. I had toyed with it since 1991 and realising that there was a name (or, rather, several) meant that I eventually caved to actually embracing wearing knickers briefly in the summer of 2004 (yes, this step actually took 13 years) and thence to dressing (December 2004) and thence to dressing in public (a birthday party, February 2005) over the next six months or so. It was in the summer of 2005 that I reached a decision that this was probably something I should think more on - I shaved my legs that August for the first time and built a wardrobe of sorts that would be used increasingly until buying a house where I specifically planned in the access to my small but growing feminine (for want of a better term) wardrobe.
Then that was all interrupted. This blog picks up in 2011 when I kind of threw caution to the wind and, unknowingly, my marriage along with it. Well, not entirely unknowingly, there had been the Summer that year...
Looking forward to the day when my actual hair really is this long.
But I cannot deny, sitting here right now, that I feel most comfortable when embracing that part of my nature that seeks gender expression in this rather particular way. I cannot deny that, were I to have been assigned female at birth, I would have been a tomboy. I like dresses, this blog attests to that, and I enjoy skirts. I like tights and knickers and bras. But, recently, I have rediscovered a fascination for and love of female flared jeans. Allow me to explain a bit: back at University I noticed a student I would see about the pace who had flared jeans that looked as though she had modified with an extra red velvet panel in a triangle at the base - when she walked this panel would unfurl and take already flared jeans into new flared heights. I was so jealous of her owning those jeans. Apart from that she wore a velvet-effect jacket (male tailored, but taken in above the hips in feminine style), trainers and a t-shirt. All the women's styles I have looked at over the years, I have been drawn to the more masculine expressions of femininity (if there is such a thing).
In short, I think there's something about trousers made for women that appeals to me a great deal - clothes with pockets if you will - and were I born female I would be wearing men's clothes along with utilitarian women's clothing. I would still wear a dress from time to time, I like dresses, but for work I would likely wear trousers and a suit jacket with a plain blouse - almost as I do now. In my leisure time I would wear jeans, t-shirt and some form of leisure jacket.
Today's 'look'.
Which is probably why labels have held such a fascination for me. For the longest time (well, okay, from 1991, the first reliable documented mention I have of me having specifically the feelings I try to explain here, to 2004) I didn't have much of a vocabulary to express myself. I have written before that I knew the terms transvestite and transsexual and didn't think I easily fitted into them. Other people always seemed able to express themselves with descriptive nouns like 'gay' or 'straight' or 'lesbian' - always more than just who they were. I was mostly comfortable with 'straight' but I have been making jokes about that in real life for as long as I have used the term to describe myself in much the same manner as Mae Dean made jokes about masculinity and being male. That is, I never felt entirely straight at all. I didn't find men in any way attractive (still don't, sorry) but I recognised that there were women to whom I was atrracted and women that...
There was, and remains, a large sub-set of women that I don't feel attraction towards. It is something else akin to respect and reverence but also longing. I now refer to that as wanting to be them. But that isn't quite right. Their personalities did not interest me so much (though obviously a little bit as style is often tied up with pwersonality). This manifested, very autistically, in me being able to use style as a means of short-hand to understand how people would react to cerrain social stimuli and what sort of things they may be interested in. But, and this is crucial, I wanted to be them insomuch as I would replace their inner selves with my own. I didn't want their lives so much as I wanted their position and the style that came with that.
Vesta Tilley. I found her in Nottingham in 2019.
I snapped this photo of a photo of her in a pub in which I was drinking a half. She, and many like her, fascinate me.
Here's the thing. If I had breasts and my facial hair were removed and I were on hormones, I would likely choose to dress in very masculine clothes. Now and again. I can really see the appeal here.
Walking around town as a child I would look at others and wonder and how they were able to suffuse their style with who they were (or vice versa?) whereas I would look at what I was wearing and be indifferent. My clothes, I knew, did not reflect who I was on any level at all. I had been dimly aware of it before 1991, but I can find no direct references, so I can't prove anything, beyond some interesting stories written around 1988-1990 that bring in recurring female characters that seem to be an expression of myself. Sometime in the 1990s I recall having the thought that if I could dress in clothes designed for women that would be more comfortable and reflect 'me' more, I had noted that I was looking for pointers in how to appear more in passing women than I was in passing men. I was more interested in the women than I was the men, and not in your usual hormone-addled teenager style - I wasn't looking with lust but with longing and an eye for what 'worked' and didn't. Then, and for much of the decades that followed, I thought that I was simply being egalitarian: "all women are beautiful because of who they are, not how they look" - because what I was looking for was style that matched the way women held themselves. That is, there was no 'one way' to look good but there were multiple ways that women had of clearly feeling confident, comfortable and happy. I saw that and assumed I was experiencing attraction, but that didn't explain why some women I was very much attracted to and some I just... wasn't. And none of that explained why I felt so uncomfortable in calling myself 'straight' or 'a man'.
That incongruence had no name. I learned quickly that revealing even small parts of that feeling resulted in people drawing back from me or teasing until it became bullying. It was made worse, magnified, by having no easy name to describe what I felt - by having no label. Because that made it harder to explain to myself what was going on as well. When I read The Chrysalids by Wyndham I found myself nodding along in agreement to his description of 'thought-shapes' as a means of describing thought processes. Most other authors I have read who delve into the concept of telepathy (and it was a minor special interest of mine) use almost solely words to describe that kind of communication - as if people think in words and sentences. Very few attempt to share feelings or concepts the way Wyndham does. Having that concept and the vocabulary allowed me to understand the ideas better and to make better sense of my inner-workings in ways that meant I could talk about to others who hadn't read The Chrysalids. But, when coming up against my own feelings about who I was or why I didn't feel secure saying I was 'straight' I had no such terminology or analogies that made any sense. Or, rather, not ones that could be conveyed quickly and concisely.
In this post I have avoided labels (having used several nevertheless), and it has taken paragraphs of text to sum up my feelings in a way that makes sense enough to me in a community that I expect to have a passing familiarity with the concepts that I am describing. This is one of the reasons I like labels, so far and no further, and it explains, to me at least, part of The Fear. The unknown. Not knowing these fundamental parts of myself, or being unable to describe them easily, has led me to experience an awful lot of fear, anxiety and self-hatred over the years. That which I cannot define may as well not exist - something that lacks definition cannot be real or realised.
Other people can use (or not use) labels any way they wish - it is a deeply personal thing and I shan't be the one applying labels to anyone unless they tell me what labels they would like applied. I speak mainly to my own experience.
Accepting the term 'trans-woman' to describe myself, learning the term 'trans-lesbian' - these are things that have brought enormous comfort to me because now I can define things, at least to myself. I have a short-hand that I didn't even know I needed to allow me to recognise parts of myself I have long wrestled with.
I once read a book called Mealtime Habits of the Messiah. In it, Gempf has a section where he explains that many Christians wear slogan t-shirts that do not help themselves or the cause. He counsels the wearing of a slogan "Jesus would have had stern words for people like me" and then wearing that t-shirt inside out to prevent us falling into that kind of smug judgemental Christianity that is happy to accept oneself and not others. Or that seeks self-justification in the dismissal of others. In my case I suspect that Jesus would have stern words to say to me about my denial of myself in unhealthy and unhelpful ways over the years. His stern words would have included that admonishment that I was created the way I am - which includes those terms 'trans-woman' and 'trans-lesbian'.
Went Oop North to see my mother with the eldest two this last weekend, and it was pretty good. We had a whale of time visiting Scotland on one day and I took the Boy swimming and gave him his first ever proper lesson on how to swim. He's 11! Anyway, yes, fun was had. And, bonus, the night before we set off I did get chance to attend the in-person support group again and that was quite lovely. Low turn out, sure, but the conversation was good and it felt really relaxed and nice - even if I was trying extra hard to listen and not dominate conversation as is my wont. I wore mascara and lipstick too. I know, get me!
This is all over the place, I'm going to embrace it.
The best part of going was waking up the following morning with a still smooth chin - that felt just a little extra. Shaved legs and pits and chest was also rather nice. Made wearing boxers and male socks for the weekend just about doable. My mother still isn't quite in a place to accept me dressing differently, I feel. And she also brought on some rather depressive thought the first night we were there so I avoided deep and meaningfuls the following nights by joining her in drinks whilst we played board games with the children - these went very well (the drinks and the games). I should point out that I am not alcoholic, we're talking one or two units of alcohol an evening. Literally one or two. There were two on the second evening.
More from that walk.
I was rather looking forward to the evening, can you tell?
I got a bit of a dressing down by a woman doing whiskey tasting, which was a bit unfair, but I did my usual of just taking it and then we left so, no worries. Got to take the children to a castle I remember from my youth and find some new parts - they've discovered an older castle behind it along with a harbour and some other interesting earthworks - that I hadn't seen before. Both children enjoyed it, one taking a virtual tour with my mother on her phone and the other revelling in the freedom to run about and take photos. They both enjoyed the board games as well, which was great as they were all blasts from the past: Swindle, Rat Race, Scotland Yard, Pictionary, A.S.A.P and Charades. We only had one meltdown from the eldest over the latter (not used to thinking how to do words like that, the charades played at drama were... a little less than grunting and hoping your friends randomly guessed the right film). And we had a meltdown from the middlest - which was new.
For that I did, eventually, realise what was happening and was able to actually help - with my mother doing what she used to do with me (which wasn't very helpful despite the best of intentions) being shouted good words and trying to 'chivvy along' - so that the middlest didn't feel too badly about the whole affair.
At the castle.
I really like this one.
One thing did come through though and that was the fact that we didn't plan the holiday like a military operation. I actually felt like I got a holiday too! The whole Scotland trip was ad hoc beyond the desire to hit Scotland - with bits added and changed with the weather situation and what the children enjoyed or didn't. It was like how I remember my childhood and nothing like any break with Tilly has ever been. If it hasn't been planned, checked, written down and prepared for then Tilly won't do it - there was never any spontaneity with Tilly. We got close on our honeymoon and they were the bits she hated the most. And, well, I don't do well being tied to an itinerary that we must stick to come Hell or high water. Nor do I do well trying to plan out in advance everything I'd like to do - I do best when we just bob somewhere because it's close by - the castle bit, for example, was because we spotted a sign and realised how close we were to it and we all agreed that we wanted to stay out longer before going home for tea.
Coming home was good too, a lovely journey - though I did feel very lonely that evening. They both got tea (Tilly had cooked, having previously eaten with the youngest) and Tilly quizzed me how they'd been as they ate. By the time I had left and charged the car it was much too late to eat, so I didn't. Then I just felt incredibly lonely and sad for a bit even with the nice feeling of being in my nightie with stuffed bra (no, seriously, I was not prepared for how much I needed to feel that after three days away and not dressing at all). Today has been a bit busy - shopping, lunch, smallest over then the middlest for his usual evening - no Pokemon though - and now... Now I'm posting on here.
Though there is one other thing to add. Quite out of nowhere Miss Warrington got in contact last night to arrange a curry and beer evening next week. I have to confess that I am quite looking forward to that. Not least as it is the evening after the next in-person support group meeting when the children are off with Tilly to see her parents. I got three nights, they're off for eight. Plus points? Well, this curry night is one and another will be that I get a full week to dress 24/7 - or thereabouts - and I can't say I'm not looking forward to that because I am.
And... well, that's it for now. Nothing weighty or philosophical, just a hodge-podge of random events.
This was me yesterday, popping into town whilst the family was in the city.
That smile though... I was heading to return that red blouse, which I did.
I might be a little drunk, I don't know, I have had a 9% ABV stout and I've had it over two hours, so it seems unlikely. I watched hbomberguy's video on why Pathologic is genius (it was quite the trip - I usually watch things of that length on 1.5-2x speed, but I watched that at normal pace) then happened across Joanna's Musings post on Routine.
I'm... Today has been weird.
Last night I picked the middlest up from the big local city and took him and KT with their child to Pokemon at my favourite local vegan game cafe. Tilly warned me a debrief was incoming from the time she had spent with KT and... I don't think KT is trying to romantically entangle me, but Tilly wasn't far off-base. Veronica was also struggling and, because of my outing myself and thus becoming more of a friend, I came in for some of that struggle and... I am not very well equipped to help others through struggles.
Especially when the uncomfortable truth was that, yes, Veronica was in the wrong and needed to be gently told what she was being told, gently, by the people she was upset by for telling her that. Middlest also had a poor night results-wise and needed support. It was, thus, a hard night.
Today... ran away from me. I have got next to nothing done. After taking the middlest home I didn't even fully change and dress - I had intended to go for a walk, but the clouds came in and the temperature dropped and wearing shorts seemed suddenly like a bad idea. So I watched video essays, changed into my black jeggings for tea, ate some Thai-style green curry chicken with rice and... messed myself up emotionally.
Today has been weird.
I like this look, I do, but it would need trainers to work.
Or some way of not looking like a dick in heels.
I'm still looking forward to tomorrow night - the chance to meet with the in person support group for only the second time - but I am worried about what to wear. I don't want to wear the same ensemble as last time - a girl can't be seen as a one-trick pony - but I also don't want to be 'incomplete' with my jeans or jeggings but no trainers to match. Or trainers at all, really, I have walking shoes for trails as my choice and they are brown - hardly matching. I could wear my new dress, but I wore that to the Pokemon night and, well, it might be colder. I could wear the dungaree dress but it's really short (being size 12 and I'm more usually size 14) and well... I also don't want to come across as someone who is flaunting or... I dunno. It seems like I'd need leggings rather than tights. But, equally, my t-shirts need something... else if I wear them with skirts rather than jeans or jeggings. Basically, my shoes are... not easily matched. Also, my new dress from Next is- well, it reveals that the designers thought someone in size 14 dresses needed a bigger than B cup bust. My blue dress is from Papaya (I forget which chain that is a designer for, Debenhams?) and struggles to contain B cup stuffing at size 14. Eh, I don't know. My hair is long enough to be annoying but too short to style. My make-up game extends to mascara and lip-stick and we'll be wearing face-masks so only the mascara counts and I don't have any eye shadow (a game I really want to learn, I am fascinated by eye make up and always have been - the ultimate in wanting to be rather than see).
And I've sat here, with a break for tea cooking, since 1300 hours and I'm typing here at 2148. Continuing to punish myself with the dating website, ruminating on how I'm going to maintain professional distance from a slightly worrying KT having had a debrief with Tilly on the subject (yeah, KT was odd last night and... odder today) and not knowing what to do. Last night Veronica asked if I would attend Pokemon soon as myself again. She called me Joanna and... I liked that. No one has called me that out loud in the real world and... I liked it.
Today has been weird.
I also spent last night, and most of today, realising that I sound like Matt bloody Berry in Toast of London at the moment. I'm trying too hard with my voice.
But, and this is important, I'm back to the circling that doubt again. Like, what am I trying to achieve here? Is the aim to socially transition? Am I just a cross-dresser after all, what if I am not a trans-woman? What if I am in danger of embarrassing the real community with my fumbling and failures? What if I'm doing that thing that I know I do when I learn something new and just diving in? That ripping off of the band aid without thought and just doing it can also be seen as destructive and dangerous. I mean, I want to turn up to the Pokemon night after going to see my mother with the eldest two children as Joanna, as myself, I do. But what if that isn't actually me. What if I am just bloody Matt Berry?
You need to watch it around 4 minutes in to get the full effect. I don't know really.
Two days after going to the in-person support group. Maybe longer.
Before shaving, in case that wasn't immediately obvious.
In my last entry I was struggling through having watched the video on Envy and ruminating on how that may have coloured my interactions since as long as I can remember. There is something to that, I feel, and there is something in the fact that I view my sexuality as irrevocably linked to my identity and, well, possibly my gender too. I heard, on a video on YouTube granted, that there are people out there who never ever question their gender. They never feel at odds with what seems to them to be a clear fact of life. Not the stereotypes that society pushes, most people question that I would argue, but the very foundation and bedrock of that societal understanding of what it is to be themselves - they never question it.
I remember, at University, reading a site called Brunching Shuttlecocks. One of the contributors would do film reviews, among other things, and make regular references to how all guys secretly wanted to be a princess with the dresses and the frills and the tea sets. It was part of the humour, I guess. And I was always comforted by that. It meant that I fitted the masculine mould, I kinda knew where I fit and I didn't need to worry about it. Real Life comics was similar in that the main character, Greg, would regularly make reference to his masculinity as a burden and joke around about gender switching - making it seem perfectly normal and fine. It was comforting. Well, Mae Dean came out and transitioned in real life and then in Real Life the comic. I do not know what happened to the contributor to Brunching Shuttlecocks. But a similar trajectory was followed by Abigail Thorn (admittedly I only found out in retrospect) and... I got to wondering how much that has happened out there and how much that throws into relief my comfort back in the day from thinking that this was just 'normal male stuff' and that it meant I didn't have to worry about being a trans-woman (or whatever the equivalent terms were back then). Because, of course, it wasn't confimation that I wasn't trans.
But, at the same time, I've lived this long, right? Was destroying my marriage, my relationship, my only real chance of a loving and intimate relationship with a human being I respected and who could grow to respect me - was that not enough? What else can I hope to achieve with transition? I can't afford to go private, I can barely afford the clothes let alone make-up. And the time? Do I really think that a system that made me wait three years for an appointment about ASD diagnosis is going to react anything other than glacially slowly for gender? Hell, there are people going to the clinics in London waiting nine years for a first appointment (which is: fill in form, see you in six months) and... I'm 41. What in the name of all that is holy am I expecting here?
In my dreams last night, what I remember of them, I got taken to task as I wasn't passing as a male enough - turns out I was seen as a woman and people were concerned that I wasn't putting enough effort into being male. Make of that what you will.
I didn't wear the glasses.
Lovely night. Wish I had.
It's been very wet in my part of the UK lately, and I have been watching the damp patches grow on the living room wall as the outside mortar continues to fail. They recede afterwards, of course, but that is somewhat depressing and alarming. Now there is also some damp on an internal wall that I cannot trace the source of at all (it's on the outside of the stairwell, there's no link to the attic nor any outside walls or chimney breasts, it is a mystery - probably rising damp, right? Figures). So far the grouting appears to be doing its job (the middlest was over and had a couple of showers, no further damage there) which is nice. Also had the smallest over for the Sunday, he stayed about four hours and seemed to have fun - getting violent when it came time to leave. It's hard.
Last night I went out for a walk whilst on the phone to my father. We were discussing the eldest and her worries about lack of friendships at her dance class due, essentially, to her 'putting people off' with her masking - they know something is off but don't know what. My father suggested that maybe she should just try harder to appear normal, like I had failed to do (and no, he said, plenty of people get divorced without being autistic when I raised that masking had caused some problems for me). I didn't push it too far. Hence the walk. I was tempted to wear the flared jeans but didn't - I wore my male disguise and had a quite lovely walk after the conversation ended - it wasn't all bad.
Seven years, nearly eight, before I found this view. Madness.
Last week I signed up for a dating website on the recommendation of KT, think I may have mentioned it, and have been on there a bit. Why? I like punishing myself. I have included the pertinent details of being trans*, interested in women and diagnosed with ASD. Predictably, I have not had any responses to any messages. I do not anticipate any. Like I say, I guess I'm punishing myself because I kinda know that there isn't anyone on a mainstream dating website interested in someone like me. I suspect that, were I to not mention the gender issues, I might at least get responses (maybe not, perhaps the ASD is enough, I don't know). But, and this is important, the gender issues were the root of my failure as a husband and... well, I want to avoid that in the future.
No, I have no idea what happened here either.
Tilly had the loft boarded and then called someone in to look at the roof. It needs repairs and will need replacing soon (like, in five years soon). The repairs will cost £700 and the replacement of the roof around £6,000.-£7,000 She was asking me to pay half. I mean, legally, I am liable for that much. So, that's a fun thing I'm going to have to save for. Oh, she says, I'll benefit from that when the house comes to be sold - you know, after worrying about whether or not I'll end up owing her extra money (and getting provisions written into our financial agreements that I would pay off anything not covered by my share of the house in instalments - it's her future) on the sale of the house. Now she reckons it'll be worth re-mortgaging the house and may end up being better that way. Did I mention Tilly has never really understood finances? I have? Oh, sorry. Anyway, that's not to say I do but the upshot is that I feel bad having to save just shy of £4,000 for repairs to a house I no longer live in. Whilst living in a house that sorely needs repairs but for which I can't seem to find people willing to do the jobs.
Into town. Yeah, the App has had a play here.
Into town and I wore my flared jeans with some new trainer socks. Also my bralette, haven't worn them in a while actually, because I felt like I wanted to. Even glasses. I was off to get a card for some friends that have moved house. But I stopped off in the charity shops to try and find some knitwear for the winter - strange to think that I probably do need some seasonal clothes now - and failed to do that. Did get a jacket and a chinese-style red blouse. The blouse will have to go back, a little too tight around the underbust area. Of course. Then I went into a pub and had a couple of ales, because of course I did. On Twitter, where I tweeted my beer, I am now following Mae Dean and, through her, a bunch of trans* people. It's... comforting to see what they're up to. Like the blogs I follow but shorter and thus easier to read a lot of them all at once whilst drinking a half of ale. But I am known personally by a couple of the people on my beer twitter (a local brewer and a couple of pub owners) who insist on using my given name. Also, I know that Tilly sees some of my activity there. I want to get Joanna a Twitter account, but Twitter wants my phone number. No. I draw the line there. So I have not got a Twitter account unconnected to my male disguise.
This evening, Tilly reminded me it was our anniversary. Like this, via text: "Not sure what one says in this instance, but 'happy non anniversary' day today...?"
The Main Event
In 2012, Dee pointed out two paths open to me - end it and live as me or try to suppress my feelings and slowly let things rot me from the inside. I wish I could have done better at the latter. Was it envy?
Natalie Wynn has done a new video on Envy, of course I watched it, and then I watched the one on Incels. There's a lot in both of them about being trans, because of course there is, and the way in which dysphoria can manifest. I watched the Tiffany Tumbles one as well, where at the end the character Tiffany dissolves into horrific dysphoria and, in the process, becomes sympathetic to the viewer. Have I committed the sin of the incel in becoming envious of people like Tilly, specifically Tilly, and thus poisoned everything? Is that why I have had so few relationships in my life - my envy of the women that I am attracted to? That is, not knowing whether I want to be with them or be them? Then reasoning that I am jealous, envious, of how they can dress and wear make-up and, well, live their lives? Certainly I have often ruminated on Tilly's, Toby's and Terry's senses of style, their clothing and the way in which they interacted with people. I have wanted what they had, known I can't get it (because I am not them, it's not their gender but who they are gets these things) and thus felt worse about myself. It's not nice to be around.
Oooh, enough to have an almost actual pony-tail.
Also, poetntial outfit for Thursday, is it too young for my age?
I have never been turned on by myself, in any version (fantastical or reality-based), and usually require something else to reach that state of release one has in sexual activities. I have always needed the fantasy and, oddly for one who claims to be as visual as I do, that is rarely visual - it is feeling based. How it feels or I imagine it would feel to carry things out or wear things or just the academic exercise of thinking about having long hair (yes, that has been used before) for example. My identity, for as long as I can remember, has been tied up with my sexuality. Now, okay, before a certain point around my early teens (maybe tweens?) I wouldn't have known that was what I was doing but after I had read the body book (and before I had the sex-ed lessons in school) I knew something of sexual arousal. My first ever ejaculation (sorry) was while wearing toilet paper ribbons on ankles and wrists, with wrists tied to the head-board of my bed with string, after school late into the evening, around 2300, and I was appalled at myself for stopping up so late into the evening on a school night (we had moved house so I was around 12). I remember seeing the result and not twigging that it was semen but assuming that it was some mucus 'stopper' that had been dislodged and that this meant my body was ready to procreate even if I wasn't. That was it. I cleaned up as best as I could, anxious that my mother didn't have more washing to do than necessary, and recoiled at the smell and texture. Every time after that was on the loo so I would avoid messing the bedclothes. A habit I maintained right through into University.
Aaah, that's better.
Why mention all of this? Because all of that was tied up with the twin pillars of submissive BDSM (even if I didn't know that term yet) and the thrill of the concept of what I would now call cross-dressing. The term transvestite was known to me around that time, and because I liked Latin I adopted that as an explanation of what I did because trans-sexual (another term I knew) didn't seem to fit. I knew I wasn't interested in men (note: even then I refused to call that 'gay' because of what I now know to be autism - it didn't 'fit' as a term I could apply to myself even if I did fancy men, but I didn't, so I never analysed that further) and I had looked into it at the behest of a friend. That's not why 'trans-sexual' didn't fit for me, by the way, I understood trans-sexual to refer to someone who was having or had had surgery to change genitalia - so it couldn't apply to me. Beyond that I didn't think of it at all. I was probably a transvestite because I wanted to wear, and imagined wearing, clothes tailored for women. Interestingly, though I had never heard Izzard's quote, I stayed away from calling them women's clothes because they would not be taken from someone else - that would be theft.
So, right through my formative years I envied women. I knew then that I couldn't work out the difference between being attracted to them and attracted to being them. I dealt with that quandary by deciding not to deal with it at all. Neither Terry nor Toby were people I wanted to be. With Toby I thought this through in enough detail to know why: she was taller than I, stronger than I and I thought she was more dominant than I. So, I didn't want to be her, but any number of her friends and former female partners, yes. I didn't think about it with Terry, but in hindsight it doesn't make much sense, she was smaller than I, a little on the submissive side, but achingly vanilla. I don't know. Didn't want to be her, still don't (her at the time, not now, I'm not sure I know enough to analyse that latter one). But the women I fancied and failed to make a move on? Oh, yeah, there were plenty of those I wanted to be as much as or more than I wanted to be with. I know that on that first night Tilly and I met I was blindsided by the sudden feeling I wanted to be her - the point at which I realised that woman ahead was texting me and we hadn't actually met yet. That moment. It's why I was so tongue-tied when she did speak, because I was processing that thought. And I elected to deal with that by not thinking about it again. But it would have to have been there.
That is what did for our marriage. Envy. Not that I felt Tilly shouldn't have the enjoyment of being her or that I felt my inability to enjoy it meant no one else could either. But jealousy doesn't quite fit here as there are no other protagonists. I guess that this envy leaks out in all parts of my life. Especially in a romantic area. And no one wants to be around envy. But, also, that aspect of who I am, what I now know to be trans-ness, is also a core aspect of my sexuality and understanding of sex and sexy times (if you see what I mean). It is intertwined and connected, indivisible and unified. So that I'm not turned on by myself, never will be, but I am consistent in what has excited me from the earliest point that I could talk about sexual excitement - and that has always been taking a submissive role as a woman. Not in an objectified sense (nor even in a social understanding of what being a woman means in sexual relationships) but in a sense that my journey of being my gender was best expressed by using the term 'woman' in my internal monologue.
As a teen I went through the envy as discussed by Wynn in her videos - if I had had access to today's internet I feel certain I would have come across Incel forums long before I stumbled upon things dealing with trans-issues as a teen. Yes, I absolutely understood the power I imagined women held over people such as me and felt envious - the kind of toxic emotion that probably cemented my loneliness in those years. But my more modern understanding of my feelings toward women isn't quite envy and isn't quite jealousy - it's some combination of the two.
Honestly, this is all far more confused than I had imagined when coming to write this post. I'm sure I have used the wrong terminology, or made a hash of something. I need to mull further on this.
Love that it looks like I have an unruly ponytail though.
Normal service has been resumed! Not much to talk about, nothing of philosophical note, just minutiae.
One thing is of some note for me though - when I got the small game hunting trousers, rather than jeans, whenever that was - Tilly quizzed me about whether or not they were tailored for women. Then I pointed out that if the label didn't specify and there was no clear signage and Tilly couldn't tell by looking then what did it matter but, at the same time, I reasoned that they were male tailored. But, since wearing the jeans with the flared legs, I realised that, if I wanted to, I could pull the trousers up a bit higher and have the waist above where my hips would be had I been endowed differently. And, if I did that, well then, the trousers fit a lot like those flared jeans do. Well I never.
Reflection: at my favourite local vegan gaming cafe (I am going to have to come up with a name for it sooner or later) Veronica asked me if my children knew. She's met the middlest Boy and opined that he would be fine with knowing, he would accept me. She mentioned it again when I visisted with the Boy and he was off in the loo. I don't think she's wrong. My eldest is keen to share that she is bisexual, enjoys talking QUILTBAG issues with me (I say Quiltbag because it has all the letters of LGBTQIA+ but is pronounceable and sounds warm, comfy and inviting - who doesn't want to be in a quiltbag? The quiltbag? Just in quiltbag?) and has ruminated that she doesn't know why I am so pro-Pride and such. Both of them know about the cross-dressing.
The shaved undercut on the right is... well, it puts me in mind of the terrifying Natalie Dormer.
Tilly always asked that I not tell them as it would be "too confusing" and might make them think that masculinity could be defined by what I did. I mean, she's right, it could be. And, for the longest time and because I wanted to avoid ending our marriage, I abided by that. In summer of 2020, before the end, I told them both that I cross-dressed. I made sure they understood and impressed upon them that though I had had it as a secret my telling them meant that it was no longer - they were free to do with the information what they wished, tell who they wished, talk about it with who they wished. Eldest has spoken, briefly, with me about it (though, in fairness, it's a not really a Thing with her, so it's turned up all of once) and the middlest knows but has not commented on it at all. So much for the confusion (but, then, I always kind of knew it wouldn't be a problem).
Hi there Joanna, how've you been?
My point? Veronica is right. Both of my eldest would be fine with knowing I am trans. I mean, I suspect they would both have more questions of it than they did of my cross-dressing (maybe not) but they would still view me as their father regardless. Fathers can be female. I suspect that the youngest would also be fine, insofar as he is fine with anything, with both the cross-dressing and the trans bit.
When I told Tilly that the eldest two knew of my cross-dressing she seemed almost deflated. She wanted to get angry, but when she realised how long the children had known already and how much it had not been a Big Deal she was almost sad, I think, because there was literally nothing she could get upset about. It was always the big sticking point, or one of them, in any discussions we had on the subject.
So, if the whole clinetele of the vegan gaming cafe know, why haven't I told my children? It's like the least possible risk I can take with telling people. It's significantly less risky than telling Miss Warrington, slightly less than telling Indy and maybe on a par with telling Catherine. It's certainly less of an arduous task than telling my mother was and likely with a more supportive ending to it all. There are drawbacks, it would likely mean that Tilly would know and I dread to think what might happen with access to the children or, more likely, with friends and work.
Mind you, I suspect that she suspects something.
This Thursday is my in-person support group meeting and I am looking forward to going. Hard to believe that the last time I went I had but one 'outfit' that I trusted myself to wear. I have that 'office attire' dress plus jacket but also another dress, another jacket, and a decent blouse and skirt combo. I also have a mix and match of more casual options, including the t-shirt and flared jeans combo that had me almost weeping in gender euphoria last week. Oh, and mascara, can't forget that. And glasses. It's too late to order the trainers in time now, I think. Or not. Hmm.
