Words of warning and welcome:

This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. Obviously it started out as a blog about my cross-dressing but it has developed a great deal since then. It is a place where I can be anonymous and honest, and I appreciate that.

It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the New Readers' Page above this and the tag down there on the right. Although there's nothing too bad in here there will be adult language, so be careful. If you think this needs a greater control, please let me know. Thank you!

Saturday, 17 March 2018


It looks so peaceful.
Today, as it becomes clearer that I am drowning, Tilly suggested that I look into spending a couple of weeks away from home to catch up with work and get back on an even keel. It's tempting but financially impossible at present.

On Thursday, unbeknownst to Tilly, I went in and confessed the fact that I was drowning to a manager I trust. It is getting ridiculous. I can barely gasp for breath at the moment. I don't help, of course, in the fact that the more stressed and under pressure I get the more down-time and rest I need. Being sick this last weekend and having the family all sick has really taken it out of me. I have not had any time to work before 8 or 9pm since the snow-days. Staying at work doesn't help as people tend to use me as a sounding board. I am now telling my children that I can't play with them as I need to work on an almost daily basis.

I want to call bullshit. Girls and Boys on the ASD spectrum
are generally the same. However, society expects girls
to behave in ways that are a tad masculine more than it will
allow boys to behave less masculine - ergo, ASD females
will mask more effectively as they adapt to expectations.
Males also adapt to expectations, to act out and to be harshly
treated. Girls have it far worse, by the bye, but I call busllshit
on the graphic, which perpetuates the situation where ASD is
under-diagnosed in females.

Oh, and vocabulary. Sorry, but fuck you, graphic.
My ASD, now we know why, is the cause. No, other people don't find this sort of thing difficult. Tilly is not getting angry about the fact that I can barely function on what 'should' be done and then have to fill time with videos and just having 'time off'. Other people don't need to spend time on a lunchtime alone with youtube whilst at work, away from other people. Other people don't find trip-organising stress removes their ability to think in a straight line. Other people don't find that they can't plan more than a week ahead so that decorating destroys their ability to catch up with marking. Other people are able to function after helping a sick child in the night. Other people are able to work around dance shows. Other people get ill and recover so that they can keep up with work. Other people do things automatically and don't need to recover from doing the pots in a morning. Other people are, well, normal and get to enjoy conjugal relations with their partner because their partner wants to spend that sort of time and effort with them rather than feeling pressured so much that they can't be doing with it. Other people are able to be romantic, and most choose not to most of the time, but can turn it on when required and be guided by their partner. Other people do not have ASD.

If I could find a reliable and painless method then I suspect I would indulge in the most selfish of all acts - suicide. Selfish because it solves nothing except for me, as I would be removed from the equation. Everyone else would suffer a bit, and possibly a lot, because I do the earning and the paying of the bills. My children would be very very broken by it because they use me as a support. My colleagues would be hugely hit because they would, in the short term, have to shoulder a lot more work and effort and, in the long term, deal with my replacement.

But, as Harry pointed out a few weeks ago, suicide would sort things out for me. And I would no longer care about the consequences.

I won't, of course. I am too logical, too driven by duty and addicted to being a martyr. I also have a healthy fear of pain and mistakes. Time is a great giver of opportunities to fix mistakes or at least let them dull into insignificance. Ergo, the longer I am alive the more chance I have of outrunning the stupidity I inflict daily. It may not be logically coherent, my ASD tells me it works. As a consequence, I shan't be ending things any time soon.

To be this useful

Sunday, 4 March 2018

Snow Day

Yeah, this could have been local. Not sure where it is.
Thursday was the worst. School could have been open on the
Friday. I'm glad it wasn't, I ended up sleeping in, but it could
have been open. Things weren't that bad.

Meant I got the shopping done on Friday, I guess, which gave
me all of two hours to work during the day on Saturday.
Last week was a bit of a bugger. Sent home at 4pm sharp from work without warning due to a forecast of snow and a lack of site staff meant that I did not wrap things up as I would have liked, I arrived home with little that needed to be done. Then, on Thursday, school was closed due to blizzard conditions. I did manage to get some marking. However, on returning home I was on child-care until 8.20pm, where I got some time to set work for the following day, as school had been cancelled again and work needed to be set (I doubt any of it will be done, but this is electronic and more about checking up on staff). That took until 10pm, then I went to bed. Having a cold and having had a beer meant that I woke late the following day and from 7am, when I woke, to 9pm I was on childcare and household duty, doing odd-jobs and looking after one child or another. The family had no plans, you see, so I was being used to keep things going. I got some shopping done.

Eh, I was typing, but you get the idea.
On Saturday I finally got some work done in the afternoon, I got two hours to work, whilst being chatted to by Tilly with an attendant third child, and then was given from 9pm to work again. I managed to get some reports done and finished them in the late evening. Today I actually got up slightly early, 7am again, and got some marking done whilst watching the Boy for about two hours. I have managed two tasks (reports and marking a set of work) that I could have got done amongst my normal duties at work.

Basically, I got more childcare.

I love me a good definition.
Tonight I have attempted more of the book, but I have foundered. I have not managed to set up, let alone keep, a compliments diary nor have I managed to list examples of me showing my personal qualities. Where would I have the time to do these things? Certainly not over the last few days. Tilly has a problem with me doing anything that she perceives as being 'less important' - so watching a video whilst eating is right out as that is irrelevant ("I don't know how anyone could do that if there were other people in the room" and "I feel as though I'm interrupting when I speak to you, and that you just want to tell me to leave you alone" and "I wouldn't do that myself" - you see, I'm the one with ASD). Equally, when working, she will inevitably ask me to look after our littlest or set up cooking for the evening or go on an errand for a bit or even just have a chat.

I don't do much on the shared family labour, but what I do,
I do badly enough to make everyone wish I hadn't.
It's that thing from back in 2011+ - if I ask for an hour I'll get about 45 minutes, if she asks for an hour she'll take about two. I even timed it back then. I haven't bothered this time around.

Oh, and doing the pots in the morning means there's a markedly lower quality of cleaning done, apparently. I say apparently, I'm sure that's true. I take longer of an evening over it and tend to be in a hurry in a morning.

The book also requires me to discuss some aspects with someone else. However, Tilly has made it clear that she lacks the emotional space and the time to do anything like that - this is my duty and my issue, she's giving me time and space - and there isn't really anyone else. I lack the financial wherewithal to spend £60 an hour getting a professional to talk through it with me, nor can I really spare the two or three hours needed to get an hour appointment in a week. Everyone at work is busy and friends are a tad far flung. And there's a trip.

Me, if I were capable of tears.

Or human emotion.
Suffice to say, I dropped the ball on this bloody trip, as I always do when entrusted with the organisation of trips, and I hate planning trips. It'll run, just, with all the usual panic and chaos and confusion that cause me headaches whilst people do as little as possible within the framework I set. And then it will be over. For another year. Sooner or later I'm going to fall off the bloody tightrope and get bollocked, or there will be another parental complaint, or a student will complain, or there will be an actual lapse of something important. Failing that the shitty organisation that I do will result in poor results in the summer. The other shoe will drop, I'm just waiting for when and how.

Right, early to bed, early to rise. Trip tomorrow. Such fun.

Saturday, 24 February 2018

Wall of Text

On the advice of the follow-up session I bought a book this half term because I have the money and why the fuck not? I bought Exploring Depression and Beating the Blues because, well, it was a recommendation and specifically deals with ASD and depression. I figured maybe I could do my own therapy to me, or at least learn more.

Alas, it is a workbook. I am not good with workbooks. They ask you to write in them, something I hate, and they also ask you to, well, do things. And, well, I'm not good at the whole doing of things - something that this blog does rather attest to. Anyway, I read the introduction, lots of slightly condescending but on-the-nose stuff about ASD and depression and why it may be that things that come naturally to NTs don't for ASD. It dove-tailed with some stuff that I was intending to write about here but never got round to (natch) a while back - the "Useless Eustace" thing.

A brief aside: as a child my mother often used to call me "useless Eustace" when I couldn't do stuff (like tie shoelaces or if I was particularly clumsy) and I would get very agitated and upset, crying "I'm not useless useless" because, as a child, I couldn't pronounce 'Eustace'. Naturally this became something of a family joke that persisted long after I learned how to say 'Eustace' and long after the events. I cannot really recall any of the actual events, but I recall the stories.

So, back to the tale, this is something I have clearly internalised, along with all the negative things that were said by bullies at school. I have long been aware of this. That and the stuff from my HoD back in the day (when I started this? Can't recall) about my teaching and about who I was. The stuff that Tilly has said, the stuff that Toby said... You get the picture. What I was not aware of was that, apparently, NT folk don't internalise these things as easily or, if they do, can be brought back to equilibrium by compliments from trusted friends. Now, not being NT, I can't vouch for this but that's what this book said and so I'm going to take it at face value. I was unaware that NTs had that capacity or that it was an ASD thing not to have it. Maybe that makes sense, maybe that's more condescending bullshit, I don't know.

I don't want to do any kind of course or whatever but I spent about £14 on the book and Tilly kind of flashed her eyes when I raised doubts about the efficacy, so I guess I shall give it a go. It also asks you to take an online test, and you know how much I love online tests. I got this.

The first section asked me to do a relaxation thing. But that just made it hard to sit still and did that thing to my waistband where I feel really uncomfortable to the point where I lasted all of about 45 seconds and had to bail out because I felt so horrendous. It's the feeling I used to get when my mother cut my nails as a child or I had something fiddly to do like thread a needle. I'd get all 'fiddly' and then have to hyper-move my limbs for a bit during or afterward. In extreme cases I would be physically unable to complete the task because I had to move and flap. I didn't quite get that far but... hold on, I'm going to do it and come back.

That's... better. Ish. I took a drink too. Anyway, yes, the stuff. I bailed from the relaxation thing, then it asked me to list abilities that I'm good at. So, initially, I confused this with personal qualities (which came next - always read the questions before writing anything, kids) but I got a little way. It then asked me to consider how they might help in making friends, in employment, self-esteem and self-identity (weee, fun) and, finally, in enjoyment of life. I mainly went with analysis, obviously. It asked me to provide examples of compliments I have received and so I did a couple - about abilities (eh, not easy) and personality (harder) - and how I felt about getting them (very uncomfortable, wanting to hide etc). How did I feel recalling them: less uncomfortable, but still a bit... 'fiddly'. Did I accept, enjoy and give gratitude for them at the time? Non, no and yes, of course, rude not to. But with self deprecation and reflection, duh. That is, I reflect compliments back to the giver of the compliment - it is a handy-dandy way to be polite and to prevent the flappy feeling making my skin itch and my trousers uncomfortable.

Then comes the block. I have to ask someone about abilities and qualities of personality that I may have missed. Bit... well, stinks a bit of fishing for compliments, if you ask me, and that's kind of a no-no. Maybe that's a cultural British thing but it's not something one really does in polite company, and no, this is not my way of asking either. I don't like it, I don't like it and I don't like it. I'm  probably not going to pursue it.

I am then supposed to identify qualities in a family member I admire (hmm, not sure I admire a family member) and a fictional character (they, uh, don't exist, they are, well, fictional characters. Most of them are pretty badly drawn, ifyouseewhatImean). Yeah, this could be impossible. I'm not certain I really admire any family members that much - maybe friends? And the fictional characters thing... I get that ASD people in particular are supposed to really get into fictional universes and such but, and I'm being honest here, I've never really got into the whole character thing. I liked plots and world building more than I ever really got involved with characters. I sort of tolerated Jack whatever-his-name-is in the Clancy books but... Yeah, one of my favourite books, Q by Luther Blisset (read it), had two main characters. One who is known by many names, none of which is his own, and Q, whose name you never discover and who never really goes by another moniker. Soooooo, yeah.

Then it says to make a binder with qualities as headings to record stuff under each plus a compliment diary to maintain a record of compliments one gives (and receives, but I'm not so certain I shall be any good at that). I suspect a slight focus on adolescence over adults here, and a penchant for the 1990s, which is understandable given the age of the author.

Don't know why I'm recording this here, but there you go.

Friday, 16 February 2018


I learned to type on my grandmother's typewriter. I had long
assumed that this was the reason that my typing was so heavy,
loud and hard. However, coupled with my handwriting (the
"stabby pen of doom" style) it is likely that the real reason is,
of course, my ASD and lack of sensation.

Now we know why.
In the mists of time, before the now, I used to try my hand writing fiction. However, so much of what I tried to write was like, to quote people who read it, "reading a headache" so dense was the prose and so involved the thought. Not to mention the convoluted sentences. In that phrase that I suspect I shall be repeating enough for it to be my epitaph: "now we know why". Reading the work of people who can write (as opposed to just reading books by published authors) shows that there is a command of the art that stems from characters rather than plot, from knowing these people and making these characters relate-able.

I had characters, I used to have large numbers of them residing in my head and telling me how to write them. They were people, they had emotions and they functioned in the world but one of the biggest criticisms of my work was the lack of character. I always reasoned that I preferred to write plot but I did a tad despondent about being unable to crack what it was about my characters that people seemed to think was missing in my writing. So it was that I took another look at this fine piece of niche erotica on a whim, to try and confirm something that has been nagging at me since I found out for certain that I am ASD. Sure enough, it confirmed my analysis over the last few months: here we have a writer well in command of their craft. They take a subject, in this case a blind woman, and capture something of what it is to be a blind woman in the word choice - look at the descriptions of colour and style - and they do so in a way that I would wager that blind people would recognise. The emotion is felt, it radiates from the prose so that it can be seen rather than read an inwardly digested. No prizes for guessing that I am a visual thinker.

It's always the watch, isn't it? Rarely the person.

Read here long enough and you'll know I have a thing for
and theory about watches. How one can make judgements
based on the choice and style.

Now we know why.
Compare to the writing on my other blog or even further back on this one and you will see something. My characters are flat in affectation, they are driven by internal monologue, feeling, touch and a sense of logic. They are not real people. They are uncanny valley people - close enough to humans to lose the cute factor but not close enough to elicit sympathy and understanding. They are, like most characters conjured forth by writers, aspects of their creator separated only by degrees of research and understanding of others.

As an empath, I understand emotion. I know how it can be displayed and I can describe in detail the kind of body language that takes most people by surprise, but this is a laborious process and leads to the density of prose to make it more like reading a headache. What I cannot do is empathy. I cannot predict how emotions are connected nor how best to respond, so it is with my characters who feel without knowing exactly why or where it will go next. Hence the navel gazing and the monologuing as they look inward and try to ascertain what they are doing. The kind of useless inward analysis that I spend my life doing as I had always assumed that other people did as well. Now we know why.

Stout or ruby ale?

Don't care. I want her eyes.
When an idea strikes, like utilising this dice dare on faproulette and augmenting it with one of the earliest fantasies on this blog here to turn it into some sort of short fiction, I get excited and start planning in my head. But I do not write it. I cannot write it. I lack the ability to communicate what it is about the situation and the characters that make them so real in my own mind. That I cannot bring forth in my words or my prose. I can't even do that in real life with my own emotions and real-ness, so being unable to do it in fiction with not-real characters is unsurprising. It's why the coping strategy had to die, it no longer serves the purpose of coping, it is yet another source of alienation and distance.

Solace can be taken in beer. It often is.

This pack is my favourite.
The chinchilla's teeth are too long. It could be fatal. Again. Cue Tilly getting emotional and crying a bit. My daughter, broken and bruised by misunderstandings and distant from inattention from me, barely able to cope with the thought that there might be something wrong with our beloved pet. Of course, I find myself dispassionately weighing the options and, like last time, coming to the conclusion that it may even be better if his life were snuffed out - humanely and professionally - and that makes me something of a monster.

I haven't worn boxers, except for twice, since Christmas. It has been nice. The boxers I wore yesterday were crap compared to my now normal underwear and, frankly, I see no reason not to wear knickers all the time. Not even the apparent correlation between boxers and attention from Tilly. It's almost impossible to imagine us resuming carnal relations and, to be honest, I can't actually imagine me getting what I need from sex with anyone else. I think my porn addiction, and it is kind of that, has finally robbed me of the ability to physically react to other human beings in an immediate sense. Eventually, Tilly will have the emotional energy and eventually I shall convince her to find what I cannot provide with someone who can. There is every reason to expect that she will stay in the house and will hang around - companionship will be maintained - but it is time for me to prepare to give up hope for anything more for myself.

Tuesday, 13 February 2018


I had the appointment requested by work. It was an hour long and offered... nothing really. Work incidents were shared and the advice was that I could be inappropriate without realising it - suck it up - and be aware of red lines that will shift and change over time. No, there isn't anything that work could be doing to support me in that really, it was something I would have to work on and be ready to make mistakes in. Be in a union, be prepared and be ready to get it wrong again in the future. Maybe pause before doing anything, take time to consult colleagues before acting - sacrifice speed and decision for safety. And dial back on my humour, share less of myself generally, actually. Huh. Well, professional opinions.

Tilly has bought me flowers, a week back, on a day when I was observed getting dressed and so went with boxers and applied male anti-antiperspirant because not in view. I was, of course, pushing it the other day when I thought Tilly was asleep when I was getting ready for bed and took my knickers off - she wasn't asleep and decided I was punishing her. I digress, flowers were bought with a beer. It was gratefully received. And followed by an admission that we shall never do couples therapy because, locally, therapists take the view that ASD people are not going to change and so the world must adapt to them. And if Tilly were to be told that everything were her fault she might explode, she's adapted enough as it is, frankly, and ASD people can all just fuck off. Huh. Okay then.

This weekend and Tilly bought me some rather up-market beers for Valentine's as it's a sexist annoyance (I think she thinks it's my view, I have never expressed any such sentiment, I'm something of a lover of the day and the sentiment behind it, actually, so there) and I don't drink on a weekday and I have a beer festival coming up in the half term. I'm not complaining, I'm not, just confused. No, she doesn't want me to get her anything for the day either - I did ask - maybe a bird table(?). I will, of course, get her a bird table.

Still behind with work, still struggling to keep up, still waiting for the next parental complaint. In amongst reports and mock examinations and counselling students - there's bound to be one soon. Who knows from what source or over what. I shan't see it coming.

I believe the phrase is: and so it goes.

Friday, 19 January 2018


A short entry methinks.

The lines were for chewing gum. To fill a line, and because
the sentence ended with 'chew it', I added: "I am not Godzilla"
and, because the child was likely unaware of the reference,
explained to them about the Chewit adverts - with a large
lizard eating and chewing.

Silly me.

As Tilly pointed out - a parent won't get it and is likely to
get mad. As the Head tried to argue: it mocks the student and/
or the punishment.

Of course I disagree. Of course I do, I have ASD.
I let my work know about my diagnosis as ASD. I kinda wish I hadn't. Complaints from parents have stepped up recently and I have received a few. The latest two alleging racism (no, seriously) and being sex-obsessed on my part. In both cases senior leaders did investigations, counselling me thus: "don't worry, it's nothing to worry about yet" - which wasn't at all ominous - and resulting in a nice chat with the Head this afternoon where he tried to tell me that getting a child to write lines (our school policy, I know) involving "I am not Godzilla" was potentially racist because I was comparing a "monstrous creature" to a student of Zimbabwean descent. Colour me confused. The other incident was not up for discussion, I was warned not to try and make friends with students and not to try and "be down with the kids". For information: I erect barriers between students and me, I tell them stuff that is not about me dressed up as me - because no, I have no desire to be "down" with the kids. Oh, and keep in mind that a member of staff who was recently 'let go' had had affairs with students. No, this wasn't the reason for them being 'let go'. The Head knows about these affairs and said, to the reporting staff, "it's nothing to worry about". So that's alright then.

Bear in mind the history of results.

Pun intended, but not funny.
They interviewed students about the incidents (not me) and concluded that I am in the wrong. Don't worry, said the Head, as long as there are no further complaints in the next six months everything will probably be fine. The time frame and the 'probably' have me concerned. Oh, that and an off-hand remark about what I write on student work (note: not the subject of any parental complaint of which I am aware). The Head linked this to my diagnosis and sought to suggest that my seeking a diagnosis was evidence that I was under strain and pressure and thus in need of a 'support programme' much like the one I left behind when I moved job. I refuted that.

He asked who had referred me to get diagnosed, only people with problems and issues get referred, he said. I said I'd put myself forward and waited thirty months. He was taken aback. What problems was I suffering that I would do that? I said, politely and in different words, that it was none of his business, thank you, and no, it wasn't because I was suffering problems.

Secondly, the weeks leading to this. I saw my therapist and said it was the last time. I was not in a good place. I believe that it is called suicidal ideation. Again, standard, I am not going to top myself, but I wouldn't mind being dead.

I already owned these.
Tilly dropped a bomb this week too: she feels that I manipulate and 'hide things in plain sight' and twist things to get what I want. I set things up for later exploitation. She gave examples: I said my fingers were too fat to wear my wedding ring, was this a set up for never wearing it again? I said I wanted the opportunity to wear women's underwear, this was carefully phrased because she thought 'once in a while' and 'only knickers' but I've been wearing only knickers and have added camisoles (she's not checking my washing basket, she's just checking it because it's pretty obvious). I raised a conversation at work about roll-on deodorant and she noted that I am using female deodorant, this is an encroachment upon her territory (cf. documents shared years ago about women living with cross-dressing males who feel that cross-dressing encroaches on their space and territory). I hadn't been honest. Frankly, all she wants is for it all to go away, for me not to cross-dress at all and not wear female deodorant and if I want to have an affair to admit it.

The reading she's been doing on ASD suggested that ASD people say they are truthful but "wouldn't know truth if it punched them in the face" and lied to manipulate. Many ASD partners watch porn, have affairs and cheat on their partners. They are too open with others, she reminded me of having to tell me what I wasn't allowed to share with my mother over the phone and an e-mail I sent a friend about a dream sometime in 2006 that she considered was too much detail and tantamount to propositioning (a dream where she claims I told a female I knew that we were about to have sex - if it's the one I think it is, I was sharing a dream in which we were getting married but I ran off with Tilly instead). Basically, this was manipulation and whether or not that was my intention was irrelevant, it was how she felt and I had to be aware of that. No, she wasn't going to walk back The Concession, but she did feel that she had been duped and misled about it and that I had done it deliberately. Oh, and she added that she would continue switching violently between "yes, that's reasonable" and "no, that's disgusting" vis a vis my choice of underwear - tis the lot of the partner of a cross-dresser.

Apparently both. Hurrah!

Not a child though.
There are many truths and the truths I hold may be lies. Often, she reminded me, ASD people do not follow social rules and that was wrong. Her reading suggested that many NT partners despaired over ASD friendships where ASD people shared too much and in ways that were not normal. I must understand that ASD people are a minority and, well, that means we have to conform to NT rules, sorry, that's just the way it is. My slightly irritated response merely proved her case.

I wish I had never sought a diagnosis. It has not brought any of the positives I thought it would and brought all the negatives I feared and more.

Behind in work again, moreso than I can recall ever being, and, frankly, getting less and less motivated. I can't do anything other than teach, job-wise, and the events of the last few weeks prove my time is limited, my days numbered.

Saturday, 6 January 2018


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

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!