Where do we go from here?

So, the dread remains but the decision is made.

And, yesterday, a parcel arrived. It was from Catherine and it was the hat that I mentioned on here waaaaay back in 2013. I am ridiculously pleased with it and... well, after the parcel arrived yesterday (about 11am) I was on the phone to some autism support training (who told me that I was already trying too hard to control my foot-in-mouth disease and ought to have greater understanding at work - this was lovely, but not terribly helpful) and... yeah. I had some lunch. Then, around 3pm, I had phone calls with my Mum and Dad.

Indoors, at the end of the day.

But I have elected to try for the chance to retain my job.

I shaved, I got dressed. As me. Not in a suit, not masc'd up, as me. I donned the pendant. The children came over.

Today I wore my red coat and the hat from Catherine with red roll neck, Kangol jeans, Chelsea boots. And I felt invincible. Until my nose exploded in the car due to pressure and heat and pollen. Had to pull over to stem the bleeding.

I could still lose my job. But I have made my decision, now I must await the decision of my Head and the school. "Trust in the system" were his final words to me, outside the meeting, alone, on Thursday. It could be ominous or it could be encouraging. I shan't know. All alternative jobs don't pay what I need but... a bridge to cross if I lose my job. I can't worry about it now. So, with reckless abandon, I shan't. Like Weimar Germany I shall dance on the edge of the caldera of a volcano. And wear a red coat with a lovely red hat.

Compassionate Whiplash

Baked into the fabric of this blog is the struggle I have always felt to try and be compassionate. Compassionate to myself, to my children, to Tilly, to other people, to family... you get the idea. My CBT therapist said that if I was unable to be compassionate to myself then there was little hope of being truly compassionate to others - something I absolutely wanted to do and felt that I failed to do for most of my life (and, indeed, most of the time generally).

I once said I could never feel like this.

Well, I don't mind admitting that I was wrong because
I have. I did. This weekend if not before. Right down to
the hair. This... this is the future isn't it? The feeling, not
necessarily the look.

Keep this in mind as I get into Thursday.

First of all, I was asked to talk with a colleague - don't know if I ever gave her a pseudonym - we shall call her Pauline. I've spoken about her before, new child, everything seeming hunky-dory on the relationship front, she has been interested in my, in her words, "strangely accurate and nice" takes on parenting and, especially, motherhood. Gee, wonder why? She was the one who guessed when I was 'coming out' to people at the start of the academic year. "We don't get to talk nearly enough!" she opened.

Her child, it turns out, is likely autistic and she just wanted someone who understood what that meant to talk about it. As it went on though it became apparent that she is having a hard time of things generally and, amazingly for me, that she trusted me to listen. My listening, in fact, was active enough that she not only felt heard, but validated and strengthened. Several times she remarked that I was really helping and really good at listening properly. She kept saying that we needed to talk more often, that as bad as she was feeling I was making her feel better. I'll be honest, this took me by surprise. Firstly that we had such a friendship in the first place and secondly that I was actually being told that I was compassionate. Imagine that! And, as bad as everything seems to be and have been for her recently, I'll admit that it was a really empowering(?), affirming(?) hour-long conversation for me. I mean, at the end I'll confess that I was teary eyed at what she was going through, but I also felt as though she was telling the truth when she was saying that our conversation was helpful and I felt like I had useful things to say. Second of all, there was not even a hint that there was anything other than friendship here - I wasn't being off-loaded on as one would societally expect a woman to do with a man. There's never been a hint of that, and, well, I guess now I know why but, also, it was very apparent.

Speaking of the future, here's another old image
from this place that might be attainable. The suit,
not the woman in it, because the woman in it would
be me, not her.

On the Friday I came out to my Head of Year too. She started smiling about halfway through my explanation, "You know where I'm going, don't you?" I asked. She grinned, "Yes, but I know you need to say it." So I did. And she just gushed. I mean, it was surprising. She told me that she really valued my friendship (news to me, we're friends?!?) and that she recognised just how kind I was with her and all staff, how much she welcomed my compliments on hair and clothing over the years as she never felt that they were creepy or given with ulterior motives. She said that I should always feel free to come and discuss anything, she was so pleased that I had trusted her with this information, and she would welcome further conversations about anything - but, obviously, for me to choose when and on what. In fact, she said, she'd always considered me one of her female friends and now she had confirmation of why. Reader, I don't mind admitting, I had a bit of a lump in my throat. it wasn't until later, though, that the enormity of what had been said really filtered through. She, we shall call her Gemma, was essentially saying that I was a compassionate person and reflecting that compassion.

And, you know, this could also be the
future. In a positive way.

I already felt a little like that this morning
if I'm honest, and I wasn't wearing eye
make-up today.

As agreed with Tilly I came out to the children. First the Middlest was with me alone. We'd attended the switch on of the Christmas lights and Eldest had got a bit anxious about the crowds (she's not slept properly for a week) so had retreated to bed at home, she was thus not with the Middlest and I. Tilly and I had also arranged for me to have the Smallest alone on Sunday, as Middlest had a club on the Saturday that I was accompanying him to after dropping Eldest off at her Saturday thing. Anyway, yes, I came out to the Middlest, who seemed largely uninterested. I made sure he understood the ramifications, he did, and then wanted to watch another youtube video together, play some Pokemon and then go to bed and snuggle - like we always do. Sure enough, in the morning he was utterly positively uninterested in me wearing a stuffed bra and with full eye make-up and far more keen on having a shower, watching a video together and then going to his club.

Coming out to the Eldest, Middlest was sat in the back of the car grinning all over his face as he realised he had been told ahead of his older sister, and she... Well, she squeed in gfangirl mode and, if she could have exploded in a bang of glitter and Pride, she would have done. Eldest had many questions, ranging from silly to serious, but all well-meaning and delivered with breathless excitement. Honestly, if she could, she would have painted my walls in the transgender flag colours. It was a positive experience.

I do love the top, to be fair.

I was wearing my cat-eye glasses most
of the weekend too. These are not they.

At the club, held in my vegan gaming favourite cafe local, I mentioned to the owner, we shall call her Misty, that the Middlest now knew. "Oh that's great news!" she said, grinning from ear to ear, "I guess we'll see more of you when you bring him!" And, then, "You know, I really like your top. It really matches your complexion, skin-tone... You've chosen that well and with care. And I love the colour anyway!" Dear reader, I was unaware how starved I have been for compliments like that in person until, after saying thank you and turning away, I realised that I had to collect myself and got more than a little bit teary again. I'm not even on hormones or anything, I've apparently just been this emotional.

Evening with the Eldest was spent watching One Topic on YouTube - worth a look if you like memes - and dealing with her questions. "So, can I technically have two Mummies now?" Alas, no, I shall always be her Daddy, no one said they had to be male "Aw" and "Wait, you're on Team Girl now! Make the requisite sacrifice of a mean bigot online, special two-for-one offer to get in the Council; we meet on Thursdays!" to "Are you wearing a bra? You are? Cool! I knew I'd seen it, it's like a girl superpower. Oh! You'll have those too!" and "Yes, I'm nervous about it all, but I'm also really excited! No, don't hold back, it's hard to wrap my head around but I'll get there and it's easier if you do it... all at once, so I can get used to it." She's only thirteen. Again, hugely affirming. This morning was more of that, all positive, and then it was the Smallest. I remained dressed, stuffed bra, and he just wanted me to play cars and watch snow with him and sit by his side whilst he played a computer game. Oh, and mash cars into the stuffed bra as "that's what I do with Mummy's milks! Oh, Daddy is like Mummy but with duz rather than muz, I can read that now, Daddy!"

Why have realistic transition goals when I can
imagine myself like this in the classroom. Only
not teaching integration, because... well, no.

Also on Saturday evening, dropping off the Middlest, Tilly had a conversation with me in the doorway. She had a friend over, going through some stuff, and had been supporting another friend whose partner had recently died (they'd been living together for fifteen years, but he had two ex-wives who were unaware of Tilly's friend until she had to organise the funeral, and Tilly's friend's parents didn't know about the relationship until about an hour before he died) and had had a glass of wine. She was slurring, upset, and then... splurged. It was like the conversation with Pauline again, but less warmth I guess - all mixed up about how she should have told me to 'fuck off' and how, three weeks after she had tried to split up with me, I'd set an ultimatum for her to decide what she wanted from our relationship as she caught a bus home - I don't recall this, but I'm sure it happened. How she had always felt lonely and now she knew why because she wasn't a lesbian. Thus we had wasted the last fifteen years. Yes, my top did look lovely, was it from Gap? It was the sort of top that she loved to wear. Was that why I wore it and was I offended by the fact that she had similar clothes? No. Also, yes, of course I had felt teary after a compliment, because she had never given any and now she knew why, because she wasn't a lesbian and she had been mean, a dick, cruel even.

Another image once used tngue-in-cheek but, now,
increasingly within reach.

But so had I. I was shit, all that time, because I was miserable and unhappy and not myself. I had been shit because of her, because she wasn't a lesbian. And now... now here was I living my best life, supporting friends and even her and she was trapped and lonely and stressed and sad, keeping it together for everyone else but struggling. The kids were doomed, they would never be able to look after themselves and she couldn't keep supporting them forever. I did pitch in here, as I don't agree with this assessment of our children: our children are much better than this conversation was suggesting, far more mature, and perfectly fine with being independent in ways that the vast majority of students I teach are incapable of being (or, perhaps better put, seemingly incapable of being). Whatever else I think of Tilly, she is primarily responsible for how good our children are at being fully functional human beings who are keen to help and keyed in to how people are feeling in a positive and compassionate way.

I honestly find myself thanking Him Upstairs a fair
amount these days. Will I be dressed more like this
the next time I'm in church?

C'est possible.

Tilly now had to face up to the fact that most of what she was doing was for a dopamine hit and had been an attempt to just avoid me and the problems in the relationship. Now we were apart, she had to face up to what she actually wanted and she'd never had to do that before, hiding behind just doing things to avoid being alone with me. She missed my parents, her family was shit at support - she always ended up supporting them - and she always felt that my parents were able to support her. She had deliberately stepped back when we split, they were for me, and now she regretted that because she missed being able to talk to them. To talk to actual parents as a child. Hell, I was even making her feel awful now because I was being so nice and accommodating when she was being entirely unreasonable. Besides, my hair looked good and I looked so happy these days and she had never been good enough because she wasn't a bloody lesbian.

It was a rough hour's conversation, but also... affirming and empowering again, maybe? I felt more or less positive anyway, even if I was a tad irritated that I'd had to leave the Eldest alone for longer than I would have liked. She, by the way, was fine - having had time to empty her bag of litter (as directed when I left) and find some things she thought she'd lost in there and read loads of memes about Pride and K-Pop (her two favourite things).

And so, after that mammoth text-dump, that's been the weekend. And, you know what, like Abigail Thorn said of herself: "I ask myself: do I feel like a man or a woman? Mostly, I just feel... happy."

Decency

The watermarked site no longer exists, alas, but there
is a Facebook page that has collated all the problems.
They were surprisingly germane for the most part, not
exactly me, but many were close enough. This is one of
them.

At the moment it's Rawhide by Frankie Laine.

An eventful week back at work - mainly because I am ever-more snowed under with things to do and simply not doing them. Not like I'm being slow or anything, just not doing them. I got a fair amount done on the Tuesday and then went to my therapy session, so far so good, that overran.

I'll be honest, I have no idea how therapy is supposed to go, still less if it is actually helpful or positive. When my therapist said she was deliberately running over because we'd gone down a number of long tangents about home-education, feminism, word definitions and books, I thought that was just good manners. In the end, it was I who had to state the session was done because I needed to get home. An hour's session had lasted nearly two. Upon my return home Tilly was slightly perturbed and pointed out that such behaviour by my therapist was unprofessional. After all, she said, her therapist had always been very strict with time and it just wasn't right that a therapist was so easily side-tracked nor so keen to give extra time. I hadn't thought of it that way and, well, I don't know.

This blog stands as testament and monument to this little
number, does it not? Don't worry, I shan't have all the images
in this post be these little meme-lettes.

My therapist did say that most of the time I seemed to think issues through and come to conclusions, including strategies, before I raised anything with her. Furthermore, anything we did discuss I seemed to know what the issue was, have thought about it and the solutions, when suggested, were either already in motion or I reached them fractionally ahead of my therapist. I thought that was a compliment, it may not have been, but Tilly suggested it was more likely unprofessionalism because that shouldn't be the case, or I wasn't telling her all the salient points. She was... unhappy about my late arrival home. Which is fair enough, it had been a long day with the children and I was back late.

Well, I don't wear no bra. But, apart from that, there's an
element of truth to this.

The advice from my therapist regarding depression, by the way, was to 'yield' a bit. Like getting out of a seat, one has to sink back into the seat in order to stand up, so it was with depression, she said, one had to sink into it, control that sink, and then stand up out of it. On Wednesday morning I tried that with getting up, hitting snooze but knowing I was doing it. It... well, I got up late. Thankfully I had done the dishes and made lunch the night before, I dried the pots and went to work late. I then had a full day. A student had complained before the end of last year that I wasn't giving her credit when she knew more than me about the course so I had to meet with said student. She suggested that I was too defensive when she pointed out errors and that my notes on the textbook, my lessons, weren't entirely helpful as I followed the textbook differently to her. I did point out my notes came from wider reading than that but, as I am me, I didn't think to point out that she was being enormously arrogant (and the example of 'error' she pointed out was a case where she, in fact, was erroneous). So... that was fun. Bear in mind this meeting was held with my boss in attendance and he sort of let it continue so it wasn't like I could smack her down when she was being, well, so arrogant. That was fun. Anyway, after that it was a full day and then I did some training after school.

There's less a 'fantasy' vibe here than 'wish-fulfilment'.
And that is instructive, because it reaffirms the idea that these
are made not so much to be hopeful, but in recognition that
this sort of thing does not, cannot, happen in real life.

The training was bollocks, of course it was, and half-arsed. It took up time and that was... well, about it. Then my colleagues and I had a joint moan that was quite therapeutic actually. My Department and I get on quite well and are usually of one mind about things, so it was a bit comforting. It did mean another late night home and then I had to go and charge the car because there was no space outside the house to plug in. The Boy was also upset because he was missing me and wanting to play card games (he has been sucked into Pokemon as well as Magic now) but there wad nothing to be done. Tea, then baby wrangling, then car charging, then pots and lunches and bed.

Thursday was worse than Wednesday, I didn't even notice my alarms. I had intended to have a bath, but I was far too late to have one. I dried the pots and then went to work even later than the previous day. Most of the spare time in the day was spent running around trying to sort trip paperwork for later in the year. Then, after school, I did some tutoring. I can't complain, I get paid extra for that and use it to fund my therapy. It meant another late night home. This time I had to baby-wrangle again so that Tilly could get washed and do some work for her web stuff, but it meant another evening of the Boy getting upset that I couldn't play with him. I then had tea, at 9pm, and washed the pots and made lunches for the following day. I even dried the pots in the hope I could save enough time to have a bath in the morning.

I mean, as if.

Seriously, I cannot imagine any woman would do this out
of love. They may do it as revenge, maybe if they were
paid, maybe if they were forced. Maybe they may even do
it positively but reluctantly.

But no woman, I suspect, would behave like this in real life.

Which is why, of course, this is pure fantasy. And why it
is so compelling.

It was not to be. Friday began late again, somewhere between the times of Wednesday and Thursday, and the chinchilla got loose, which ate about ten minutes. I managed to wash my hair but not to have a bath. A colleague had an ill child and so I had to juggle their cover (as well as take some lessons) with my own teaching. Then Alice wanted to talk shit at the end of the day, enjoyable shit to be sure and needed for Alice because they were so whacked by the busy week - it's part of what I see as my duty as Head of Department - before Henry, of ill-childness, came in to grab some work and also to talk shit at the end of the day. A late finish again, not as late as other days, but still late. Home, baby-wrangling, anger that baby fell asleep on me (Tilly needed him to stay awake until bed so she could work, with him asleep he gets up in bed and removes all chance of Tilly doing anything), late tea, pots but some beer.

Proof, if twere needed, of what I said on the last image.

And so, to today: Tilly breaks after lunch and bemoans the fact that she feels lonely. She's felt lonely for ten years. She's not saying it's my fault, just the outcome of me being autistic. She can't talk about that or my cross-dressing with her friends because then we'd become the topic of conversation, the couple that makes others feel a bit smug that they're not us. And it's hard. She's so full of anger and resentment so she can't even support me when I'm depressed. She didn't mean to suggest that I should stop seeing my therapist, she is just angry and sad that we've ended up the way we are. I didn't change, she assured me, it just became clear after she moved in what I was really like and it was just very wearing living in a house where everyone was autistic. She was obviously the problem, she should just move out and we'd get along better. No, actually, we'd argue and hate one another but we'd be aspies together and she wouldn't have to deal with it. She just wanted to be able to fix everything.

I find it most intriguing that there are a few outlets for this
and that they resonate so very particularly with me, and that
it has taken me all this time to find them.

It suggests, once and for all, if I had any doubts, that I wish
for the impossible.

She wasn't taking back The Concession but she just found it hard and she knows it is her problem. But she can't deal with the fact that I am wearing knickers and it's not because of the watch (she'd noticed I was wearing the watch I have previously posted about) but it's just hard. Talking about this to other people would simply have them talking to their partners about it, adding to that smugness that they would feel, and she just wasn't able to deal with that. There were tears. No, she didn't want to talk about it any more. No, there was nothing I could do, nothing that she expected from me. She hates the fact that our children are a mess, that they will stay a mess, that they will never be normal, that I am such a mess, that I shall never be normal, that we shall never have a normal relationship. She doesn't have the emotional energy for solving it, no energy to have an affair or anything like that, she's just left with the bitter realisation that the cost of looking after our children has been, well, everything else.

Continuing the theme...

No, there was nothing I could say or do, she's happy that I'm getting the work done around the house - she assumed I was having baths and was upset when I said I wasn't, but only because it was an attempted compliment and I was essentially ruining it - and that is all that she wants from me. It's all that she can expect. I am an uncanny valley person - not close enough to normal to pass as NT but too close to normal to be as sympathetic as something like a pet or someone with more problematic ASD. I wasn't as much of a dick as some people you read about with AS, who literally don't give a shit about others, but I was unable to give a shit about others in a way that didn't make people uncomfortable. Like our children, there was always that air of "what's wrong with them?" And she can't fix that. She just wants everyone to be happy and no one was. Well, okay, maybe the children were (my suggestion) but at what cost?

Did you hear about the Duran Duran tribute band?

They're called Duran Duran Duran Duran. It's really sweet.

Their lead singer is called Simon le Bon Bon.

Indeed, so much fantasy here.

As if any man in this clothing would be able to carry off that
look. Of course it is impossible. And the text is not written by
a woman, it never would be.

It's now too late to work again. I mean, it probably isn't, but I really can't bring myself to try. Tilly has gone to bed. I tried to start the conversation again, to help with her loneliness, but I failed. She doesn't want to talk about it any more, she's going to continue to try and ignore it, as she has done for the last ten years or more (her words, not mine), so she's pretty adept at it (my words now).

Depression, said my therapist, is healthy inasmuch as it suggests that things need to change - it provides an impetus and will lift when the changes are made. Like a block of wood that is unyielding but is dead and rotting - it gives when the right pressure or shock is applied and everything is better for that change. Even dead wood, the dead weight, is changing. One may not move it but it may rot away under its own weight. So it was, she said, with depression.

And it is the unreality that makes these so compelling.

That allows them to encapsulate the yearning.

There is a site, this site, that is a fantasy caption site that I found over the holidays and have been regularly checking because of course I have. All the captions on this post are from there. I am struck by the fantasies, because they are fantasies. There is no attempt at realism in them, they are as much fantasies as magic captions. And they are fascinating to me. The very fact that this site, and others like it, exists suggests that the sort of relationship I would be happy with does not actually exist. Each caption is filled with illicit thrill and yearning, deep yearning, unrequited and raw. And it updates regularly.

I know what I would like to change, but I don't believe such change can, realistically, be made. I don't want to walk away from my family, I don't want to have to rent another place (financially that may be impossible, emotionally I think it would break our elder two and psychologically it would muck up our youngest somewhat!). I can't have an affair either - no one would have one with me. I cannot expect Tilly to change - she's made her stances totally clear, and my choice to accept The Concession puts paid to any opportunity to have sex (as well as conveniently making it my fault and my choice, of course). I know what I need to change, but I cannot see it changing.

Welcome to ASD!

Sight

Oh I wish I looked this good.

Dark and cold, late in the evening, it was time to meet the counsellor. I, of course, arrived significantly early - which resulted in me standing in the cold for a good half hour before gaining access. A dog, removal of shoes, much trepidation, and Tuesday evening was a go. Long conversation on the situation, mainly surrounding the long and torrid history of cross-dressing. The therapist was hard of hearing, had an aid, and I'd had a couple of coffees so I was talking rather more quickly than I usually do. She also made some howlers on ASD and how "we're all on the spectrum" which... *sigh* Anyway, yes, she also applauded, as in literally, the points where I got me a wardrobe and where I attempted to let Tilly know about that part of me when we were getting together. She inquired if I understood her expressions, I did, but I shall be honest, I thought explaining was more important that reacting - I guess I came across as a tad cold.

One pertinent point in the session was when the therapist said that my relationship with Tilly must be pretty strong because the combination of autism and cross-dressing was hard to manage. I said my reading had suggested that such a combination was the "kiss of death" to any relationship. The therapist agreed. I thought a moment, no, our relationship is not strong. It has survived because we choose to have no relationship. The therapist agreed. It was a throwaway moment, fleeting and barely noticed, but nevertheless there and, on reflection, entirely accurate.

Upshot? How long does one give a therapist? How does one know if it works? I mean, it was nice to ramble and be listened to and I'm not knocking the fact that I was applauded over cross-dressing a few times. She even wrote down a few of the more feminist quotes I deployed (especially the one about hormones and males) which was... well, different. Clever strategy or genuine? Probably the former, I am under no illusions that I actually have anything she hasn't heard a million times before. The session overran, by just short of an hour, and then I forgot to pay on the way out. Still, that was rectified within ten minutes so that was fine. I have another appointment in two weeks. She would have preferred weekly (and at £60 an hour/session, I can see why) but I can't quite justify that kind of outgoing on such as therapy. I know that I have barely scratched the surface and, in some areas, I clearly wasn't clear enough (she thought having a forum was great, but I was referring to a discussion back in 2005 on a forum that is now defunct) but... Well, I have another appointment, we shall see.

Yeah, something like this.

Bloody busy evening that.

Frustrations with my family being rubbish at using gift lists leading to issues where both parents buy their grandchild the same sodding thing (agh) and thus I have to act as go-between because neither of them will talk directly to Tilly who keeps the gift lists (and who sent them the lists in the first place and who has chased to find out what they bought so she could keep those lists up to date, no, both of my parents must go through me. By the way, I have no idea what is on the gift-lists for the children, I am not privy to that, they wrote them with Tilly). It's a recipe for disaster. Couple it with my usual inability to organise or follow through on things and, well.

Yeah, getting up at 7.35am was a bit of a rude shock.

I managed to get in to work on time but...

Yeah.

Parents' Evening on Wednesday. Late night. Slept in on Thursday, a day when the family were out trying a new route to do stuff and getting someone in to sort out the fireplace in the dining room. Obviously not having pots done on that day of all days was shit. Tilly had to stay back and wash up and dry up before going out on the time-sensitive day, which changed plans and resulted in much ruction, even if the day passed off without too much incident. Factor in the lack of lunches made (eldest did the do by making sandwiches for the children, but nothing for Tilly) meaning that Tilly had not eaten by the time I returned that night meant a grumpy Tilly and then a friend came round. It was good, I guess, for Tilly but I did rather feel like shit about it. Tilly was careful not to assign blame to her credit.

Today has just been very long. I have finished with a beer.

Oh, and yes, my mother has informed me that her husband's chemo has failed. His tumours are larger than before, last ditch effort will complete in the new year after they have a potential last holiday in Cardiff. This came after the snafu earlier in the week where my stress peaked and I ranted with plenty of choice swear-words at both parents over the phone about how shit they are and their insistence on going through me, the weak link. Basically, my self-loathing boiled over into familial loathing ("are you having a go at your family?" asked my father in what he assumed was a threateningly quiet tone, "Yes, Yes, I think I fucking am" I returned with a matter-of-fact voice, "unless it's all my fault, and, as you both go through me and I know this but I let Tilly tell you guys the lists anyway I guess it is my fucking fault. So, you know, no, I'm having a fucking go at me.") and that was... fun. Now this and... yeah, I'm really good at my timing.

I am a Stegosaurus

Not pictured: me

In the office, I am the one sweating like a pig under the brown suit, stifled by the atmosphere, babbling about something only tangentially related to the question asked. The interviewer, busy and over-worked, scribbles down notes, attempting to appear innocuous but mired in judgements, numerically noted on the paper as inscrutable as it can be done. Of course, I catch the parade of zeros and twos, occasionally a one, and can see the words going down but, for once, I am unable to read the writing upside down. Either the handwriting is carefully created to be unreadable or it is an accident of happenstance, no matter, my usual trick of keeping tabs and responding accordingly is lost.

Me as a child

The discussion covers childhood through to adolescence, taking in sojourns to my adult life, always searching and probing for specifics that, as usual, desert me. Whole words, phrases and ideas flit away like mist when I grasp at them, though there is no pressure but the fact that the window won't open and the cold autumnal weather has cleared for a moment to allow the summer temperatures in beneath a leaden grey sky. Now and again, in the six hours, there are bursts of sunshine beyond the small window behind the interviewer's head. We cover the creepy behaviour of that cold child in school, the one that pretty much stalked the objects of their affection through classes and between home and school, the one that never received that which was sought simply because, like Neiman in Camp Weedonwantcha, it made them look wrong, out of place, and just plain weird. Questions were asked about development and academia, it was noted that there had never really been a struggle, how no learning difficulties were really present. It was noted that arrogance was a constant companion, unwarranted but still there, and how reactions to some of the less academically rigorous tests (like the fucking eyes one) were somewhat extreme.

Me in my head. But brunette.

He was a not nice boy, I said of the strange youth at Scouts that would physically assault others because they bullied or broke rules in games, no mention of the titanic rage or the fact that this boy just didn't fit in with the masculinity on offer. The affectation of being blase about it all. As an opening gambit - what would I wish for if there could be a swish of a magic wand - was itself an attempt at shock and awe, the arrogance of youth still there in all its tarnished turd: to die. What should have been said was to be deleted from History.

Had this cold child not been born then maybe the sister would have survived, being a first child she would have been closer to the parents, not in a crib outside the bedroom as had been learned with the noisy bastard who preceded her. Had she lived then the stresses that followed that death, made worse by the ever-accusing glare of that strangely quiet little bastard with the stare and the insistence in the grunting that would eventually become speech, would have been avoided. A marriage may have been saved by the affairs that never happened and, with that, the move that would never have become necessary to attempt a new start. The brother would not have been as extremely 'favourited' and so, if divorce did come later, would not have had so bruising a fall and so nasty a punishment from both of the parents as they strove to come to terms with the realisation that they had a favourite and it was the same child. Without that little shit there would have been no up-ending of friendships in the primary school on the hill, no brooding jealousy from a young boy with largely uneducated parents bombarding for so many years with the horrendous phrase, insidious and evil: "why can't you be more like him?"

So much easier.

No one to threaten people by being so different and strange, by being not of this world, by being a little less than human. No whiny little runt sapping the will of the Form Tutor to deal with their charges in a humane and supportive manner and thus no turn into derision and sarcasm as the go-to when faced by those who were upset. No victim to feed the bullies. No one to hit that girl with a chair in an after school club that had strangely no repercussions. No one to send those post-cards years apart to some poor sod who had no idea, but a sick inkling, who sent them nor how they got her address. No one to corrupt the girl at University looking for her first romance with 'dry runs' and pressure to conform to what amounted to sexual assault but for the poorly given consent from someone who didn't know better. No one to foment the divisions in a social group at University, to feed the petty squabbles out of a desire to interact because they did not understand human interaction.

Tilly would have stayed with Scrabble Boy, empowered when she dumped him and had children with someone who would not have introduced the genetic coding for ASD, thus preventing at least two more autistic children from entering the world. A boss who would have kept his choice for a job, created that person rather than having that resentment at having been wrong but being unable to place why eat away at his soul. No constant reminder to slowly drive him over the edge and into the abuse of trust in a relationship with students nor bullying of his staff. From that, no departmental issue for an incoming Head of Department. No quisling who went to another school only to return. Toby would have calmed earlier, found a secure relationship quicker and perhaps enjoyed herself more, maybe even stayed friends with those with whom she shared a house rather than employing a little entitled shit as a means to sow discord.

That was the real answer.

It was a six-hour appointment. I didn't realise how gruelling until I tried to function today and found my ability sapped. Until I realised just how much I couldn't give a shit and how little enthusiasm remained. Will it end with a diagnosis? Probably. Maybe not. It's another three months until I shall know. Were I deleted from history my interviewer would have had a better Wednesday, that much I am certain of, or at the very least helped someone who might actually benefit from the interaction rather than the piece of shit they got who will most likely undermine or subvert whatever comes from it.

Beer, but not as we know it

No, not at all, but look at those shoes. And the dresses. *sigh*

I ought to be writing a post up for my blog about beer.

First pub, first ale, it's a stout.

Always a dangerous game to play as the stouts
are generally the best ales. How to follow up?

Already there are discussion points within this post. Let me explain: a good friend of mine was up yesterday to sample the delights of the local beer houses and to have some time as, well, friends. Primarily, however, the early hours of the visit were taken up with playing with our small people, which is fine and dandy. My good friend is rather good at this game - bringing Exploding Kittens to play, which the Boy is now obsessed with (and even though Tilly neither played it nor really saw it, she too wishes to gain a copy) and the rather awesome Pirates of Pangaea comic book/graphic novel (is there a difference?) that enthralled the Girlie this morning. Anyway, yes, time was mainly spent entertaining small people in a way that only my friend can manage, I will confess to being slightly jealous of that ability, and was thus ended when confusion reigned.

Ah, no, more explanation required. Tilly had booked in someone to come and help declutter the house. Not because we need someone to do that but because a friend is setting up a business based on that (so achingly middle-class) and they bring their daughter for ours to play with. Basically Tilly is happy to pay her friend a nominal fee, call what she does work and they both have a sweary time together that is mutually beneficial and happy. Much like my friend and I heading out to pubs and me buying in rounds, I guess, so that probably explains that one.

Clearly, by going to another pub and having
a golden ale suited to the summer in the
middle of a heavy downpour whilst discussing
Grayson Perry.

I mean, obvs!

Back onto the opening point: the word 'ought'. Now, many people will have their own unique relationships with this word (its stable-mate 'should' often rears its head too) but, for the most part, the self-help manuals and psychologists tell us that the word can be somewhat dangerous when employed by people who use it as a stick to beat themselves with. All of which, of course, serves only for me to show you that I fully appreciate the power of the word, the importance of its deployment and then to continue on having used it as if I do not know either. Make of that what you will.

However, I am not updating my beer blog with my thoughts on the ales that were imbibed and I feel that I should be because the weeks ahead will be busy and the ales will no longer be anywhere where people can have them. I suppose that calls into question the point of the blog about beer - the point could be about me sharing my thoughts or about me trying to help others with their choices on ale, either way, the purpose is not served well by my writing this blog rather than the other one and yet that is what I am not doing. Of course and quelle fucking surprise. Which is a delightful variation on a phrase I over-use that I must use more often.

Point, what? Oh, yeah, I had a point.

Thence to have a lovely porter at a third bar.

I think I rather like this porter, I rave about it.
I don't know precisely what it is that makes
it so nice, but it did the job nicely.

Over this offering was discussed identity and
how it can be stripped out but not immediately
replaced and what this might mean.

My friend and I had a good conversation, across several bars and locations, interrupted by stormy rain and darkness, curry on Indian time and strange looking bars with old men that did not bode well, decent ales and thirties decor. But it was frank and it was full. I suspect, also, it remained unfinished as we were both rather prone, indeed we are rather prone, to tangential remarks and rabbit holes. But I shall summarise the points most relevant to my thoughts here in this blog - the rest, well, that's not my business nor mine to reveal and discuss. And there is no real order to these thoughts nor, as is my wont, much in the way of answers.

First and foremost there is the over-thinking aspect of my potential (and just unconfirmed) Asperger's. I have been amazed in my reading to discover that NTs don't have their brains turned on for full analysis all the time. I mean, I knew that people tended not to think about things to the same level as me but I did not realise that literally no one who was NT thought about any given thing nearly as much as I have to in order to stay sane. More to the point, most NT people tend not to be thinking about things nor turning them over in their heads all the time in order to reach a clearer understanding or for any other reason. Now, this revelation was not had in my discussions on Saturday night but the ramifications of that were discussed and did become apparent in the way I approach the recent news and where that leads. I cannot turn off my thoughts on over-population, environmentalism, society and how Tilly and I interact. I can weather them, but I cannot turn them off. I guess an NT would call the turning off something like 'moving on'. Simply put, I am going to struggle.

Thus to a bar that was designed and built in
the 1920s and has gone back that way with
the decor, to have the lovely Affinity.

A good hoppy number that is warm and inviting
and soft, like good company and good
conversation. The rain had increased but, as my
friend put it, we're not soluble in water.

On Friday night I was sent out to get some take-out for the evening meal. I had a list. I am provided with lists to stop me trying 'something clever'. However, I wanted tea too. So, finding an option that seemed to provide what Tilly wanted along with something for me prompted me to go 'off list'. On returning home there wasn't one of the things that Tilly wanted. She got upset. No, she would not warm the food up if I got what was missing. No, she did not want me to go out and rectify. I should eat what I'd got and she'd have nothing. I ended up storming off and getting her the bloody meal again (for free, the mistake was not mine this time, apparently). And it made me angry. How bloody hard is it to follow a bloody list? Yes, she was being unreasonable because she's bloody pregnant. And that summed up this whole thing for me. I saw this coming, I know what her being pregnant entails and I am fully aware of my own proclivity to fuck up the most basic instructions through trying to be 'more efficient' or 'clever'. You'd think that, by now, I would know better but it appears I simply am unable to turn that part of my brain off. I'm not just spotting patterns but I am constantly trying to pare them down or make them better. If there isn't a puzzle to complete then I am apt to make them up - maths puzzles or geometry or word games - so that my brain has something to do. Just now, having the pet out, I found myself working out work puzzles and rhythm for poetry because this is what I do all the time.

My life not being entirely pintrest, I did not
take pictures of the curry nor the accompanying
half of Cobra. So, instead, here's the last
half of the night at the first pub all over again.

Ruby Red, this one, which seemed like a decent
stab at ending the evening out, and so it was.

The second major theme was masculinity. Now, given my blog and my behaviours, you'd be forgiven for thinking that I think that masculinity is defined a particular way. However, the more I write this blog and interact with people who are trans and who aren't, the more convinced I become that the only differences are what we decide as a group they ought to be. That is, society really does dictate what masculinity is and ought to be. And yet, it does the same with parenting and political thought. In both cases I have long opted out. So has Tilly, for that matter, and we tend to move in the same direction in both of these areas. Reading that Aspergirls has also unlocked a method of my realising that I do the same with gender and, well, have always done so in some small part of my head. The difference here is that, for many years, I fought against myself to stay in the socially accepted norms of gender behaviour.

This is why, at University, I spent most of my time pushing on the bondage front (self) rather than the cross-dressing front (which you could argue was more pressing). Bondage is socially accepted as a fetish and a 'thing' whereas cross-dressing, at least the way I do it, is less so. Now, bear in mind that trans was becoming a thing and there were some movements around the place on that score - I did not immediately recognise what I was doing as being part of that umbrella because I did not know the term and assumed, therefore, that it did not apply to me. Thus I wasted many years where I could have been defining my own masculinity and identity on fighting those very urges. One of the conversations that was had on Saturday was all about identity and masculinity and the pressure to conform one's identity to one's masculinity or femininity. And, in the course of that, I came to the conclusion that I, perhaps through autism, have essentially decided that if we get to define what being grown up means now that we're the grown ups then it means we also get to define what masculinity and femininity are too.

See, would have that hairstyle and that face.

It looks great.

Now, is that a woman or a man in the image?
I suspect I know, but how can one tell?
Do want.

To that end, I am happy to define my masculinity as a desire to wear clothes designed for women, an eye for good clothing on others (mainly shoes, watches and hair styles though) and a command of my academic focus. Parenting is something that I view as being masculine as well as feminine, or, rather, as androgynous. Increasingly I am working up the courage to ask the hairdresser for the most androgynous style my face can carry off when I next get a haircut. Basically, my concept of masculinity is what I suspect people may term androgynous simply because I'm not sure what the differences are despite being keenly aware of what the differences ought to be. That word again.

The third and final set of thoughts was when my friend raised the oddity of having tease and denial as a fetish, along with the idea of masturbating to chastity. That is, getting off on being unable to get off. It is something of a paradox and something that is thus a little strange. By this point in the evening, on our sixth half pint, I confess that although I realised it was directed at some of the things that I have said on here I opted for evasion rather than frank honesty. Come the morning, and sober reflection, I realise that this was somewhat disingenuous on my part and unfair given the frank nature of the discussions we were having. No, it is strange, and yet it is alluring. It plays into that whole thing of the magic pill - the thing that allows us to lose control and thus absolve responsibility and blame in case things go wrong. Be in hypnosis, magical captions or technology and conditioning, the literature and captioning on TG tends to hit this one hard. It's as if many people, mainly males struggling to come to terms of with Default Man masculinity and its ubiquity, want something that will allow them to step outside of themselves and and their desires to 'let them have their way' and thus cry innocence... later. This even chimes with femdom and all that this entails. And it makes a great deal of sense, in that context, to get off on the thought of being unable to get off as it fetishises the concept of loss of control and power over something that, by dint of masturbating to it, is pretty damn' fundamental.

Aaaand, we're back here again.

Fitting? Well, I should hope so or
it's going to chafe that willy.

Yes, I am quoting Robin Hood: Men in
Tights, so? You have some kind of
problem with that?

I have, after all, said on here that I dislike the idea of a vasectomy simply because I rather like having my penis and the ability to make it do certain such as ejaculation. I cannot conceive of having my penis and being unable physically to make it ejaculate. This is, on one level, extraordinarily selfish but, on another, very much inkeeping with my AS. Now, a corollary of this is that I cannot suggest that my wife have anything done surgically on her to prevent pregnancy either - I suspect that she, too, likes her innards kept relatively pristine. This would thus suggest that my ability to ejaculate is something that I view as being fundamentally part of my identity in a way that is more than merely unthinking and has simply been unexamined. Now, what does this mean for the whole chastity fetish? I guess it means that chastity implies that the ability to ejaculate has been temporarily removed and simply placed in the control of another and thus is a method of exploring vulnerability in the presence of someone else - that is, something that society says is typically feminine. I have been known, vociferously, on here to say that I should like the 'damsel in distress' role for parts of my life, so, in my case, the chastity thing sits there. It's why I'm not that huge a fan of tease and denial as a masturbatory aid (though, let's be brutally honest, pretty much anything can be used as a masturbatory aid when the mood takes me).

This feeds back into that discussion on identity and masculinity and this is why I feel it is worth the over-thinking treatment.

The curry was really nice though and the whole night, curry included, came to the price I paid for the curry at the beer festival I went to a fortnight or so ago. That is something that pleases my tight as a duck's arse style of budgeting.

Strange Highs and Strange Lows

I do not have the same luck as other people. Back in the mists of time I had a chance to mix more exclusively with women whilst clubbing. At the time I was dressed and it seemed to go well., I remember it well because, at the time, I was newly in the world of work and had a decreasing social circle that would eventually culminate in seeing people about once a year. The conversation I had that night was actually an eye-opener and left me wondering about whether I was better hanging out with men or women.

Today we had a lovely family day out and I was the only father present. It was an interesting mental exercise then to compare this with previous experiences of being the only male in the place, so to speak. Like much of the time since having children in this situation the women banded together into a group and used me to make sure the children were fine - my role was essentially guide and teacher with the females being used as ultimate authority figures who sat at the periphery of events. I did not get much conversation, obviously the children preferred one another's company and the women did too. A couple of brief conversations were snatched but I found I did not really know what to say and, with no guidance forthcoming from the other participants (positive or negative) I tended to flounder into silence and then wander off as I do.

What conclusion do we draw from this? I'm pretty crap at small-talk.

That's not my point.

It's an angry TMI post. Look away now.

Recording

It has been rather a while since I last posted and my last posting was one of those entries that I write intending it only to be top of the blog for a short while. However, I got distracted. This post is also intended to be hidden, I shall be updating the narrative of my life (ooh, I can practically feel your excitement) tonight as well in a very deliberate attempt to bury this post.

If you don't want to read on about my recent escapades on the sexual front, then don't hit the 'read more' below. Check out some of the other themes in my links section or, better yet, go to one of the lovely links on the right there and leave some comments. I have been really poor at that lately so, as a salve to my conscience, I shall direct your attention that way.

Oh, What an Atmosphere

I never knew that this was sung by Russ Abbott! It's in the background of an old tape I made as a youngster, recording myself telling a story I made up on the spot (I did that from time to time when very bored, so I know that I had about an hour an a half of uninterrupted bored time), the recording quality was a bit shit on my father's tape thing and so this song fades in and out at the beginning of the second side along with me attempting to ramble about something or other. No idea, I have never been able to listen to myself since recording it. Anyway, it was a tape being thrown out by my father.

When the flames are burnin' hot they take you higher.

Russ Abbott is not the reason for this post, of course. No, I have been mulling over issues surrounding the re-emergence of the pink fog and the increase in desire to dress, underdress and generally move toward feminine things. I have been perusing several new websites and these have fueled the pink fire (if I may mix my metaphors on this subject) to an all new intensity. I have also played football and buggered one hand (my left) by making a save badly and the other by picking up the ball funny and damaging the little finger nail quite badly. Because I am no sportsperson.

Anyway, as ever with such self-serving ranting and whatnot, there's a line break to save you if you want to quit now. My thoughts are perhaps less incisive than Calvin's comments here. It's the penultimate comment there (number 7 at present), I think he sums things up more succinctly than I bother to these days.

Conversation

When I failed at therapy last year it came at the end of a conversation with a therapist that I did badly in. I was asked how I felt and I avoided the topic, instead talking of orchestral stabs of emotion where a lot happened at once but where it was over just as quickly. It wasn't until much later that I realised that I had used the wrong analogy and should have been using a metaphor. What follows is how I wish that conversation had gone.

Analysis, courtesy of 750words.com (you should go there):

Feeling mostly: Affectionate
Concerned with: Religion

Rating: PG-13 due to sexual content

Mindset: Introvert-Positive-Uncertain-Thinking
Timing: Present; Primary Sense: Touch; Us and Them: You
_____________________________________________________________________________

"When you're dressed, in female clothing, tell me: how does it feel?"

"Feel?"

"Describe it in your own words."

"It doesn't feel sexualised, if that's what you mean. I mean, I know that there is a connection, no denying that there is an element that leads to and aids masturbation. You know?"

"So you would say that you get turned on by the act of dressing?"

"No. No I wouldn't. I would say that there is a connection but I could get the same sort of feeling for masturbation from most things, pretty much anything really, the dressing is primarily associated with other feelings. I don't really have the emotional vocabulary to describe that fully. It's orchestral. It's the swelling of the woodwinds and the brass at the same time as the overture played by the string section, heavy on the violins but supported by the double bass. Somewhere you can trace the drums and the percussive accompaniment but this is slight. A piano takes the lead, coupled with some of the stronger elements of electronic music.

"It is liberation, it is freedom, it is me. I feel like me. In a way that I usually don't feel anything. In a way that there is usually a hole where the me lives - an emptiness and a longing for something is gone and replaced and sated. The best way I have to put it into words would be to liken it to Divenire by Ludovico Einaudi, where the piano rises against the looping rhythm in the background and there is a vision of a woman in a white dress running through a field in the middle of summer. Bright blue sky, scudding white clouds across it in a stiff wind and the crops still green in a wetness that follows a storm. She is running, arms out and running her hands through the wheat like fingers through a lover's hair. Her eyes are closed, her mouth smiling and open as the music swells around her and the camera pulls back to show us the openness of the world. It is the end of the film, a happy ending, and the credits are about to roll.

"The physical sensations are powerful, they are real in a way that normally life happens at arm's length. In day to day life there is a distance between me and what is happening, like a barrier or a wall that I erect to keep myself safe. When dressed there is no wall, the sadness is diminished and there are other things. It's not as if I am incapable of feeling when not dressed but when I am, or when I am in the mindset that I have when I am dressed, then the emotions are more real and more tangible. I laugh more easily, I smile more, I am open to people being open in return. I can feel happy without doing anything. There are still problems and issues that I am aware of but in being aware of them I can lay them to one side and concentrate on the moment and on the now. Analysis ceases, or is faded and turned down, the world becomes softer and the light becomes less glaring. Everything is less sharp, less harsh, more manageable. It feels as though the world can be weathered and understood, accepted as a friend and taken for dinner."

"I think you are drifting from the point. You mentioned masturbation. Do you find that dressing means that you are excited by your own appearance? I mean, is your sexual desire based on visual stimuli?"

"Being male, yes, I understand that my arousal is aided by having something that I can see, yes. But, no. No I do not find visions of myself any more a turn on when dressed than I do when I am not dressed. I mean, I avoid mirrors at the best of times. The only times that I really look at myself in a mirror are to shave or to do my teeth or to check that my tie is straight. I have been known to sort out my hair in a mirror. But no, I have no real desire to see myself, in a mirror or a photograph. Looking at me is the opposite of stimulation, it is more likely to cool any arousal than it is to bring it. And that is much the same for when I am dressed.

"My wife, now, she is a turn on for she is beautiful and she looks the part. There's something about the way she wears her glasses and looks at the world through them. She has an intensity that seems to cut through everything around her to focus on the main points of whatever is going on. I love her for her analytical nature. But, at the same time, she has a warmth and softness about her that I know I lack."

"And it is this that you try to capture when you dress? You wish to be like your wife, perhaps, to project as a woman?"

"I'm under no illusions. My features are nothing like feminine and what I look like or present as is irrelevant. Put it another way, projection can be done just as effectively without clothing as it can done be with clothing: how it is worn and what one does with clothing is more important than what it is one is wearing in the first place. Two women can wear the same clothes but have completely different outfits because clothes no more make the woman than does the weather - the reaction to them is what does the job. If I wanted to project as female I could do that more effectively online, where there are no physical pictures to get in the way, or I could simply behave more effete in public-"

"But in that arena, do you not feel under pressure to conform to what people expect of you?"

"Exactly! Yes. So if I were to dress in public then people would have different expectations. But they would still have expectations. I would feel no more free in public dressed than I would do if I were in male clothing in public. Man is born free but is chained from cradle to grave by convention. So I would feel constrained to behave a certain way, to behave a way that would be more to do with the people around me than it would be to do with who I am inside. When I am dressed, in private, I feel freer and I feel as though I can do anything. It is why the now is so immediate and accessible when dressed."