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!

Monday, 30 April 2018


Not sure what I'm doing posting, to be honest, but I feel I need to type something.

Image result for teacher
Yeah, alright, this'll do. She looks far more in control of her
words and stuff than I am right now.
It's not death that is needed, no suicide, it's some way of stopping things. It's some way of trying to get away from all of this. Work is hard, obviously, and I'm not catching up on my marking at all. I'm falling further and further behind whilst watching other things burn. My colleague has presided over students who have totally failed coursework because, and I quote, he didn't do well in his coursework and still got an A. Fucking hell. So I did some marking for him, some student support for him and have wasted hours of my life trying to get him to understand a markscheme he then failed to use at any point with his students. I spent hours talking him through exemplar material he failed to share with his students then hours trying to catch him up with the sodding marking in the final bit. Also, he too is failing to mark. He is not depressed. He goes playing football and lives at home and has meals cooked for him and goes out with friends regularly. Basically, fucking hell.

Related image
Oh, yes, obviously. Like this. Why the fuck not.
Okay, I do that too often. I state an issue I am having and then immediately seek something to ameliorate it. Truth is, if I were less shit I would be up to date and getting up to date. Issues such as the above would be annoying but fine normally. I have been through worse. Hell, I had a colleague go off mad in my first year and took on an extra four periods of teaching of a course that I had no idea of the fucking content. I spent three hours a night genning up on the content and the examination. I'd go to sleep reading the sodding specification of an A Level course I was making that year, spending hours (16) in one week making a new database of students. I'd spend three to four hours marking before and after lunch on a Saturday and fit in shopping. Sunday I'd go to Church and then mark all afternoon. I'd sit in my classroom and mark and plan lessons for two hours at the end of each day before going home for tea and then planning lessons... The point is, I'm not doing that.

Image result for screaming baby
A screaming one year old child.

Because, whyever not.
Mandatory amelioration: we have three children and I get tired. But, then, I have been ignoring them. My Boy asked to play cards this weekend and we did not play any cards. I had the opportunity and the time and I chose not to. I chose not to. In the week I get back so late on an evening that I don't even get time to see my children. This evening is a good example, I came back to a screaming youngest and a flustered Tilly and our elder two on the trampoline. Arguments abound twixt Tilly and the Girlie, the Boy was upset he couldn't watch a video with me before bed, then I hold a screaming child for a bit. This is why I stay at work as late as I can. But I can't focus on work, I can't.

This is what I want to stop. I want an end to the stress and the disappointment I feel at myself for continuing to be a lazy little cunt.

Image result for maid curtsey

Wednesday, 11 April 2018


Several things, all at once, but played out separately in time. However, there are connections.

I am minded of the opening narration to the TV film Threads

Huh, here's an image of them from the internet!
Back in the now finished holidays I bought myself some new trousers. My old jeans, always on the baggy side, have become... too baggy. I'm fatter but the waist is too loose and there weren't enough belt loops to use a belt to effectively hold the waist up enough. It has been annoying for a long time. I got some time to go out and seek out new trousers. Alone, I ended up trying on a couple of female jeans and trousers because I damn' well could. The reasoning being twofold: why not and if they fit well enough I could maybe even get away buying some. Well, none fit. And no, I could not get away with it, my body would make such a decision a little too obvious. However, I enjoyed trying them to find this out. So it was that I ended up settling on 'hunting trousers for small game in dry conditions' from a sporting shop. In brown. Pleased with my purchase I showed them to Tilly.

Here's an image of the Armani jeans (women's)
that I tried at a bargain outlet.

They felt lovely, were a tad long on the legs, a
bit too tight fitting on the butt and a cool
£50 to buy. If the first issues didn't put me off,
the price certainly did!
I ended up baby-wrangling so sort of threw them at her with a request to share her opinion. I don't buy new clothes often, still less deviate from the script as much as I had done here. She had a look at the washing instructions and scrutinised them far more than, in retrospect, trousers warranted. However, me being me, I noted nothing untoward, I had asked her opinion. She asked a few questions about where I had bought them, which was odd, but I answered as fully as I could. She then quizzed me on the washing instructions, which I hadn't seen yet, but I did what I could. Finally, after about an hour or so of on-again-off-again conversation regarding them she asked out-right: "Are these women's trousers?" I was taken aback. No, I responded, what makes you say that?

"Where you got them, were there women's trousers?"

"Uh... probably? I don't know. They're hunting trousers. I didn't know they made male or female versions." This is true, nothing was suggested on any of the signage, it had been on jogging stuff, running stuff, swimming stuff, badminton, football etc, but nothing on these. I had assumed they were male-oriented, for sure, the only label I did see was for 'men's hunting shorts' and there was no female corollary. I shared this. I asked why she wanted to know.

"Because I'd rather know if so."

I appreciate the sentiment, I do, I just don't
actually believe it to be one that Tilly holds.

Or, thinking of it, that most people
actually understand or believe.

I think maybe Depeche Mode had it right
with Policy of Truth. The vast majority
of people have no idea what it is that they
mean when they say this.
At the time I didn't really question it, but I felt something was awry. It came to me a few days later, as such things are wont to do, and it was in two parts (as always). First: why would it even matter? If she couldn't work it out having read the label and the washing instructions and inspected them closely then what difference would it make if they were tailored any particular way? How would it make a difference to me? Second: we had not agreed any such thing, she wasn't trusting me.

Temper that second point though: I looked. And, if I thought I could have got away with it, I would have bought feminine cut jeans. So, sting: she can't trust me.

But, and I will return to this point in self-justification, what difference does it make if one cannot tell? I do not believe for a moment that her knowing would be for her benefit. Tilly has made it abundantly clear that she does not want to know about any of my cross-dressing and would sooner I did not partake in it. Despite The Concession (made without realising what she was conceding it would appear) she rather does want to control my clothing so that cross-dressing cannot take place of any kind. Her kidnapping (with approval) of a hooded top of mine is not, of course, cross-dressing. And, in fairness, I'm not sure such a description and distinction exists, so don't assume I'm pointing out hypocrisy so much as suggesting that it may not matter. All this is academic.

The confusing part was that she offered me the compliment when I wore the trousers the following day that they "look good" and I "suit them". Forgive me, and I'm probably going to Hell for thinking it, but I suspect these compliments were disingenuous - they would not have been applied had my choice of tailoring turned out to have been feminine rather than masculine (I am assuming some misogyny on the part of hunting clothing manufacturer labels) and so were not based on the clothing at all so much as they were given because she feels I expect or want the appearance of compliments. Tilly is, of course, correct, but it did rather sour the potentially positive effects of offering such complimentary language.

It's very nice, but perhaps not the greatest
The second incident to relate is when I went out with an old friend of mine, possibly my oldest, Jeremy in the local urban conurbation for a few drinks. As is usual I waxed lyrical on my low mood and, because he is an old friend, Jeremy knew how to get me to talk more. In the course of a long-ranging conversation he shared that he had thought of suicide at the age of 18 whilst in University (this being the spark that propelled him into the Navy rather than finish his course first before doing that) but not since. He shared his upset at not having a girl child (he has two boys) but I missed that hint, Tilly informed me later that a discussion with Jerry's wife revealed that they can have no more children, I didn't ask. I should have done, but I did not. Anyway, beside the point, Jeremy said that if I felt suicidal then I could talk to him.

Here's the confusion. I'm not sure that's what he meant. It's what people say, it's what is expected but, and here's the rub, there's only so many times one can go over the same issues (I've been doing it on and off since 1994) with people before they quite understandably stop caring and move on. I kinda used Jeremy up when we were at school together when it came to talking, though I appreciated that he listened as long as he did, and that is sort of illustrated by the fact that though I knew he was having a hard time at University (and I advised him to jack it in and join the navy he loved, based on his explanation of his options, I can't claim any credit for either the idea nor his decision to take that route) I was unaware of how deep his despondency had hit. Because, even though we talked (via letter), Jeremy knew better than to engage me in conversation on such things lest I dominate. As I did when we were out. Luckily, there were beers and different pubs so I managed to shut down the conversation soon after and return to beers, gardening and child-rearing tales.

In order to explain why she found me boring, Toby once said
that I would never ride a bike into a lake, just to ride a bike
into a lake.

I think, in her far greater experience and understanding of
emotions, she rather hit the nail on the head. Okay, the
specific example is ridiculous (and I totally didn't get it
at the time), but the point is very sound.

It is an accurate and, I feel, relevant comment to bring to
mind here.
Basically, I find it hard to trust the idea that people really mean the support they say they are offering. My experience is that it is something people say, something that is socially understood to have limits that NTs simply 'get' and respect. I have never known what the limits are, seem incapable of learning (or more likely unwilling to learn) what those 'socially acceptable' limitations are when it comes to discussing depression and suicide. As a consequence I used to take people's offers of support at, well, what I consider to be face value. Now we know why, of course, and we also know why it's not actually what people mean. Or, rather, people don't mean what I take the offers to mean. It is I who is in the minority, and thus I who is in the wrong. I over-share, go on repeat and end up exhausting the person offering to do the listening. However much I bash Tilly on here it should be borne in mind that she bears the brunt of my hard-to-follow and self-wallowing rants more often than not. Truly anyone faced with that barrage of verbiage would resort to vague disinterest as a survival mechanism. As Toby said, not as a hurtful thing but as an observation (I now know), I am a very boring intense person to be around.

If you know the series you now perhaps
understand why Tilly thought, correctly,
that I would love it.
As an example, back on that 'date-night' visiting my Mother one summer Tilly had expected us to take a meal and then have a spark of something romantic. She was waiting for me to enthuse her like I had when we first met, waiting for my enthusiasm and bounce to infect her and thus end up doing something romantic. Instead she was treated to an architectural history lesson using my home town as exemplars on the Borders and building styles in general. In detail. For three hours. QED. I am a boring and intense person. It never occurred to me to behave any differently, I found (and find) that very interesting and, on that night, found some new things that I could slot into what I already knew to augment, improve and expand on my existing understanding of how the town developed, why it developed the way it did and how that, in turn, affected future development and direction of travel. Even down to the lanes on the main bridge or the use of traffic lights on a roundabout. Because, well, yes, put like that: I am boring and intense. It's, well, what I do. The concept that I had got it so wrong and missed out on an opportunity to rekindle romance was not something of which I was aware until Tilly pointed it out maybe a month ago.

With that lengthy (and self-exemplar) anecdote one sees why it is that I treat Jeremy's offer with gratitude but wariness. And some confusion. He has enough going on in his own life, he cannot be expected to shoulder any of my bleating and dark thoughts. That's one of the reasons this semi-anonymous blog exists - it is easier to listen to and offer advice to someone who is semi-anonymous and easier as a semi-anonymous blogger to scream into the void - people can choose to read, skip or even respond at their own leisure: there is no pressure. Nothing is expected on any side. Hurrah!

Finally, line break time.

Monday, 2 April 2018


I shared my feelings with Tilly. She got a little angry and upset, were her concessions worth nothing? Was it not worth something, at least? She wasn't going to be made to feel guilty over things she wasn't doing and there was no point discussing sex again, it was so far from either of us that there was simply no point. The day afterward she opined that this was my version of meltdowns, I'd asked about this a few months ago, and my behaviour was simply a meltdown. I said I wanted to know. She told me.

Luckily, I also had Leslie's take, which, forgive me, I believe to have been a little more helpful.

This wasn't it. I am rather looking forward
to it though.

This is what I had on cask. It is amazing.

It smells and tastes like, well, hazelnut
praline. It is 6.5% but it is so worth it.
Anyway, yes, I went out on a trip and then played (of all things) netball that evening. It was fun. I gained many compliments for my game from people who could actually play - actual PE teachers. I think my only compliments from PE teachers ever. I'm not complaining. I enjoyed the experience. I even had a beer on a schoolnight because fuck it all, y'know? The next week happened, I even managed to shift some marking, which was nice. I also got many compliments on the Parents' Evening the previous night to the netball which was also nice. Then term finished. I had some ales. I went to my local ale shop and got talking there and got given a bottle of beer free. Not complaining.

I wrote a nice review, the place deserved it, and since then I have been treated almost as a friend. It's... nice, but off-putting. Still, I now get a 10% discount randomly (and generously) applied and even got a free beer glass thrown in the other night. I also know the guy's name, which is significantly better than how I usually approach these things. I do need to learn how to small talk better though, now I know why.

It's a good album.

Buy it.
I also went out on Wednesday last week with a friend but stopped off before meeting them and had some rather heavy brews. It made me... introspective more than usual when I met with my friend. I shared the suicidal ideation. It hasn't really gone away. I have heard nothing since. I may have over-shared, I have that tendency. Not sure what to make of that, don't want to push too much, obviously, but I think that is the sort of thing that kills prospective friendships.

I have got some work done though, nowhere near as much as I should be doing (natch) but some. Which is better than the half term back five or so weeks back. I have had a lot of ale (and that's been fun) and I have a cold again, so light-headedness.

Movement. Upward movement. Stagnation, certainly, but movement.

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.