Boring Old Boy

So, after regaling you with my depressed feelings at the weekend – sorry about that.  Today, well some of today, was better.  First things first, thank you.  Becca and Karen – your kind words were so appreciated at a low point.  I'm really grateful that you took the time to encourage me.  I don’t get upset that often, but when I do, it can be spectacular!

Work was mad today.  As usual I am trying to do much in an unrealistic timeframe.  But that’s what I’m like really.  But I got back late today from work and just was in the mood to do the whole works. So I shaved, put on my glad rags, took ages to put on my make up and really enjoyed doing it.  Ate pasta and had a nice bottle of wine.  Whiled away the time watching TV, responding to a few emails, chatting to friends.  Vacuousness alert: friends are really fantastic, I really love them!

Anyway: at the risk of sounding schizophrenic – sometimes being Rhiannon is the best thing in the world.  Challenging and in many ways difficult to accept.  Always hard when the look isn’t completely what I want, but its still better than being a boring old boy anyday.  And feeling normal in a dress is priceless.  I wish it would be more than a few hours at a time.

Who am I trying to kid?

I’m getting this funny feeling that somehow trying to be a girl is not all its cracked up to be.  I guess for me the issue stems from what you want to get out of it.  What I seek, seems unattainable.   I suspect that there are as many motivations for doing it as there are people who try.   In my case, I want to be what I can never be.  For a long time I’ve swept the fact that I look more like Homer than Marge under the carpet.  So what if I’m quite a bit big, ungainly and never in a million years passable.  But tonight the ‘so what’ has come home to roost and hit me like a hammer.  

What is my motivation to do this?  I find it hard to say it out loud for fear of being mocked.  But its not dissimilar to others I have read about: its being able to walk down a street with minimal fuss with as few people as possible turning their head.  It’s that someone who I love sees only the girl that I could be and would love me back, even knowing that.  That they would ‘get me’ in a way that no-one else does and that as well as everything else they would make me feel like the most pretty, beautiful creature in the universe.  I know that its stupid romance and many, even highly attractive real girls don’t receive that precious gift.  But against all circumstances, against all logic and against all realism, I’ve spent a long time hoping for it.

I’ve been going through a difficult time with my wife to the point where we could split over Rhiannon.    Being able to be me, really me, has been such a precious aim that I’ve been willing to sacrifice everything to follow it.  Willing even to give up a family for it.  But then sometimes I look through reality’s lens and feel that I’m never going to get my dream.  I know that looks are superficial, but how I look stops me in my tracks.  And even though on the inside I feel differently from the outside, I can’t see how anyone would ever spot it.

This is neither a plea for help, nor a self-pitying statement.  It’s a rambling that wonders whether a sacrifice is worth making if you do it and you still don’t get the thing you sacrificed for.  If all you end up doing is hurting the people you love and still being alone, then what’s the point?

Today I read a book.  Probably a mistake, but I found it heartbreaking.  A week or two ago, someone had blogged that they had really enjoyed and been moved by the book, ‘Almost Perfect’.  I downloaded it last night and finished it this afternoon.  It probably is designed to be uplifting and I’ve missed the point.  But truthfully it terrified me.  It’s a story of a t-girl who actually passes, who actually finds someone who sort of accepts her, who started their journey young enough to be a long way on the road to transition before puberty and nature ruins their body.  But even that wasn’t enough to stop her life being wrecked by this seemingly impossible dream.

Don’t get me wrong, I realise it’s a fictional account.  But in the context of my motivation and my dream of going out without much notice and finding someone who loves Rhiannon, it might as well be true because it feels like it is the reality.   I’m not sure that this post will see the light of day as I don’t want to piss people off or put people off.  And I could certainly do without any abuse from offended people.  But I wanted to honestly track my feelings here and if I can’t do that, then I should stop.  On some levels it feels like I’m just taking myself too seriously, but it goes back to your motivation for doing it.  For me it was never an easy thing to do, a passing phase, a turn on.  It’s always been much more and as much as I try, I can’t escape that.

But to cut to the chase – it has honestly made me wonder – who am I trying to kid?

From the sublime to the ridiculous...

OK, so some progress made on the decision.  It’s a bit of an all or nothing situation, but I think I’m nearly there.  As usual, blogging is is a great catalyst to my thinking.  Even if it is just telling myself that I’m useless at making decisions!  Its really odd how that works with me.

But that’s not the thought that grabbed me this morning.  The thought instead was one of pleasurable experiences.   This one may not be something that most people actually enjoy. In fact, on reflection, this also might have the effect of making you think that I’m weirder than you already do, but there you go.  The point is that I love shaving off my body hair!  There I’ve said it.

There is something really fun about the both the process of doing it and the result.  Lathering up with nice smelling shaving foam and therapeutically concentrating on removal.  Its really enjoyable.  I think it may lose its edge at some point, but I have been doing it for quite a while and not got bored yet.

Sometimes I Veet. Nothing wrong with that, my skin takes to it very well.  And the effect is long lasting.  But it feels a bit like cutting the lawn with a superfast mower instead of getting a perfect job done with scissors!

I’ve never been for a wax before, but have some back hair that is fluffy, non-gorilla like and completely impossible to reach without some kind of unachievable contortion.  I am contemplating booking in because I hate seeing it every time I get near a mirror and it ruins the effect of a backless frock :-).  So any advice on that would be appreciated.

But however I do it, the smoothness afterwards is just the best feeling ever.  Its not fair that for so long that sensation has been the reserve of girls, swimmers and cyclists.

As a final point: (a disclaimer) please accept my apology if this was far too much information to share.  Especially this early in the morning.  But as I said before the thought grabbed me.  And sometimes, for better or worse, you just have to go with it.

Its been a while...

Not ages, but a while.  

I guess there are always lots of little things that occur to me and sometimes I think that I’m missing an opportunity when I don’t post something that other people may find interesting, moving, eyebrow-raising or even humourous.  Except that I have found in my 36 years, I am a very poor judge of funny.  In the UK, there is a TV programme called ‘Shooting Stars’.  Every week, one of the hosts would tell a joke and the whole studio would come to an embarrassed silence and the crew would waft tumbleweeds across the stage to emphasise just how bad the joke was.  I have more tumbleweed moments than even I would care to admit.

But this week, no thoughts have struck me in a way that galvanised me to blog.  You know the ideas.  The ones that make you think, “I must share this with the world” and out of my fingers, tapping furiously across my MacBook, pours literature.  

Instead, all my waking time has instead been preoccupied with two things:  the busyness of work and trying to make a decision about my future.  

I’m not naturally one of the most decisive people in the world anyway.  Where the decision doesn’t affect anyone negatively or even enhances someone’s life its dead easy for me to make.  For example, ask me if I prefer pink, red, blue, purple etc nail polish and I have no difficulty at all.  If you want to know whether your bum looks big in something, I can very quickly give you an answer.  I don’t even mind too much if its what you wanted to hear.

But the decisions laying before me at the moment feel too tough to make.  So I’ve put them off.  In fact, my ability to procrastinate on these decisions is so good that I should be reclassified as legendary – I should be a legend in my own lifetime.  But now the window is closing.  Whatever way I turn I feel like I'm going to disappoint someone and I don’t have a strong enough feeling in me of what I really want to help guide me.  Or if I do, my mind is hiding it from me right now.

Obscure film reference: ‘Wimbledon’ (the film).  There is a scene where the tennis player’s manager is asked to chose which of his children he prefers.  He has a boy and a girl.  He responds incredulously saying, “how would you expect me to chose between my two children.”  Then with very little prompting and as if it’s the most natural thing in the world he says, “my daughter”.  

Why can’t I be like that?

Give me a choice between two dresses instead any day.

I want to dance...

So. Imagine the scenario. You're all dressed up in your nice closet where no-one can see you - which is actually quite sad really. But hey, honestly, that's where I dress most of the time. Not literally in a cupboard obviously - but anyway. What is it that you would like to do most of all in the world? If you could be transported anywhere looking great, dressed and lovely where would you go and what would you do there?

Clearly based on my previous post you would assume that for me it would be walking hand in hand with someone down an empty, warm beach. Small floaty sundress flouncing in the gentle wind, strappy sandals in hand, feeling the sand crunch beneath my feet. Actually that does sound very appealing. But truthfully, there's something else...

A lot of times recently, when I think about this situation, all I really want to do is to go dancing. Not in a 'Strictly Come Dancing' ballroom extravaganza type way. More think cheesy disco. 80s music. Crowded. People mainly tipsy, not really drunk. A vibe of togetherness in the air. That's where I want to be.

You might say to me: well such a scenario is easily obtainable - and it probably is. I guess my concern is twofold: I look like a heifer and I dance like a heifer. Before anyone objects (please at least one person object, please...) I am heavier than I've ever been. Whilst I am beginning to tackle that for the millionth time in my yo-yo diet history, it still puts me off. I have only strayed outside my door dressed twice. Loved it both times, so not against the idea, but lack the bravery currently based on the heiferishness factor.

The other issue is the dancing. When I dress normally, Rhiannon takes over. Not in a kind of weird possession kind of way, but subtly I change: I become softer, gentler, kinder, more patient, I listen more carefully and intensely to others. I'm not some perfect girl, but I'm different than my boy self. The question I have is whether the same works for dancing. As a boy I can't dance for toffee. Uncoordinated, unsure of what to do and which bit to shake when. Girls, even ones who can't dance, manage to look good on the dance floor. They really do: I've always assumed that there is some innate confidence there. Truss me up in my favourite party dress, put on 3 inches of heel and see what happens. Ugly ducking or graceful swan? I wonder...

Either way, I can dream and my dream is to dance.

A very British blog...

Since becoming a blogger, I have to say that my interest in reading all things blog has increased even more.  I was fascinated before, but now I can happily spend hours perusing other people's stories.  In some cases wishing that they would blog again soon because I can't wait for the next installment.  I was going to go for another obscure film reference there, but I resisted.

But in reading these blogs, two things seem to stand out to me.  The first is that they are often deeply sad, moving or 'depressing' due to which, the second, is that the blogger feels the need to somehow weave in a very self conscious apology for glumming down the blogosphere.  I too feel the temptation to do the same.  Having started writing my blog at somewhat of a low point for me personally in my life, there is an inevitability that some of the content is going to be less than upbeat.  Its an outpouring of my feeling when I don't have anywhere else to outpour.  When I examine my motivation for blogging it is not (probably wrongly) to entertain, but instead to just cope.

Last week when I was really low and sad, I went out and bought shoes.  I actually felt better.  I wondered why I'd never done that before - its a well known tactic.  They are really cute too and go well with my jeans and have a 4 inch heel.  Sorry, distracted by shoes...where was I?  Anyway, blogs, that's it.  I realised, (having parted with cash for shoes and understanding that if you are shopping you can't just buy shoes and that there was a nice top that I needed - oh and some very nice underwear - oh, and I must have that nail polish, I don't have that colour) that being sad could get expensive.  A blog however, is a reasonably priced way of getting all the emotion out.  And therein lays the issue.

The trouble is that when you let the emotion out in the words of a blog, there is a danger that it will be very un-British.  It might be messy.  It might say things that one shouldn't in public.  It might open me up to be thought of as mad, a bitch, a weirdo, a less than intelligent specimen, a freak.  But if I preface it with "I'm a bit upset today", "sorry for the depressing theme" or some other self-deprecating line then the madness seems less mad.  I've managed to save some face.

So what's my point?  I am really willing to read blogs where people are talking about how unhappy they are, where they are feeling a bit down, where they wish that they could be more cheerful.  I know that over time that I too will get more cheerful and I'll get things back on track and my blogs might even be funny sometimes.  But while you're miserable and upset, you shouldn't have to apologise for it.  I want to read the sad blog as well as the happy blog and I want to celebrate that you were frank and candid in both places.  And I want you to be able to be you.  We often have to hide so much of our trannyness away from those that judge us.  Surely our own blogs are the one place of sanctuary where we can let our full, multi-coloured outpourings outpour.

Inside I'm Screaming!

The boy version of me is not particularly either camp or even that femme.  If you look closely you may spot the odd thing - and, upon hearing, some of the people I have told have not been surprised.  But that's mainly after retro-fitting the evidence.  They wouldn't have naturally arrived at that point of realisation.  So what's my point?

This is probably just me, but as a wannabe girl being viewed by the world as a boy, I feel so excluded by women.  In reality, I completely understand why.  Apart from the fact that I am mostly dressed as a man and in fact am really a man.  Bypass that in a million years they would never think I would be interested in being included anyway.  Ignore that on the surface I feign disinterest.  Its a pretty compelling picture.  But inside I'm screaming.

Recently I had a conversation about cars.  I can pretend with the best of them to know things about cars.  I try not to reveal the fact that I only really notice the colour of the car and how many doors it has!  As an aside, I have perfected the ability to talk, albeit shallowly, about football as well.  But anyway, to the point. In this conversation I was told, "you're a man, so you should know about cars."  I felt really glum for the rest of the day.  Why can't people realise that I'm not a boy really, I'm a girl.  And its not that girls shouldn't know about cars, some do.  Clearly.  Its that I'm stereotyped in a stereotype that I don't want.  It made me scream inside and to want to escape.

Then just yesterday, a facebook status arrived about a woman who's perfected a new method of attaching false nails in a way that doesn't cause as much damage to your existing nails.  In the status she said, 'girlies, you'll know what I mean'.  This blog is making me realise that I am far too sensitive to these things.  But I realised again that my real reply of 'not just the girlies' or 'that would be perfect solution for the cutically challenged' or 'just give me some now', would have been misinterpreted as a joke at best or made me appear weird and pervy at worst.  Inside I really wanted to scream, why not me.

Maybe its just that I need to get over myself and be even more open about who I am and be more 'out', but I'm not ready yet and am not sure if I ever will be.  But resigning myself to being on the outside looking in, is really hard.

Obscure film reference, but I was always struck by one of the scenes in the Gene Wilder version of 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory'.  It is when poor Charlie Bucket spots the other children eating lots of sweets in the sweet shop and puts his nose to window wishing he could be with them, enjoying what they have, but knowing he'll always be too poor.  Clearly he doesn't realise that all the chocolate is really going to do is make you fat and that many of the children inside were probably wishing they didn't have to be there.  But the grass is always greener over there isn't it?  And while I think that and won't do anything to actually scream out loud that 'I am girl, hear me', I'll just have to carry on screaming inside.