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Thursday, 8 December 2011

The Guilt Arrives

28th October 2011
A short entry.  The guilt has finally arrived with this whole thing.  In two instalments: one, handing this record over to my CBT professional for some reason that I can’t really fathom (I’m fairly certain that’s not why I was writing it) and two, I own the dress referred to above, at the cost of £8.



I so own that dress.  The heels,
not so much - can't find them.
On the first; I don’t quite know why I wanted to hand it over, I know that I did or I wouldn’t have done so.  In the event I quoted from this record to help explain a point and then handed the whole damn’ thing over before I had time to think twice about it.  I’m not sure what reaction I’m expecting but I don’t believe that any good will come of it.  I read a little of my last coded attempt at a diary as well and have discovered that, yes, I’ve been circling the issues here for a while now.  The only difference being that back then I hadn’t dressed in any female clothing, I just fantasised about it.  I guess I’m living those dreams, but what will the cost be?  I’m sure it won’t be cheap, apart from the monetary cost (of which more in a moment).  No, now that I have passed this record on, and ranted about how no one actually reads anything I write, I’m going to have to deal with the fact that someone else has read it and will have read it carefully.  I may have to face questions on it.  And that’s not all, is it?
No, today I’ve had a major trigger and I’m back in the stressing zone again.  I haven’t dressed.  I want to, but any time spent on that (or this) is, of course, time I am not spending being productive for work.  Another day spent being a taxi for my wife and her magazine, another day of family stuff that is necessary, is good for my spawn but another day in which I can’t actually focus on work.  And a day in which I receive an e-mail asking for more from me in terms of work.  I’m not sure what it is that I do wrong at work, why it is that I cannot anticipate such demands and actually have everything done that I need to have done.  The fact remains that I never am prepared enough and that I never do have all the things done that need to be done by the time they need to be done by.  For that reason I find such extra things and reminders to be exceptionally difficult to deal with.  Especially when it is my job and all and there is no getting around the fact that I ought to have done more.  When I was in the place of the colleague who complained I would have done the job, regardless of whose job it was supposed to be, but this colleague is doing the right thing by shunting it upwards.  And I care.  Which is, of course, the problem.  Also, the consequences of not doing more have been spelled out, my worst fears have been realised and they were just as bad (worse in some cases) as I feared.

And we know that he
looks better than I do
dressed.

So, to sum up, I am freaked out by handing something this personal on to someone else to read (someone I have referred to in the record no less) and I’ve managed to do this just before some other major stress hits my life.  To compound the stupidity of it all, there won’t be another session for two weeks.  Great.  I have lots of time to invent scenarios for how this will all turn out all the while doing nothing toward actually setting up an experiment that may actually begin to tackle some of the stupid issues that I need to get under control or otherwise deal with.
On the second, I’ve now spent £13 on female attire for myself.  My one and only fully and truly and undeniably (more importantly the last one I suppose) selfish act.  There is no greater good to be served by my buying of heels and a dress, even the dress that I pictured at the end of the last entry.  There is no greater plan to be made from owning these items apart from wearing them in secret and planning how I can get out and wear the dress, tights and heels for a walk longer than the length of the house.  There is nothing to be gained from that, nothing but my own perverse sense of pleasure mingled with eroticism.  I claim it’s more than the physical but I can’t deny that every session has ended in exactly the same way.  Nor can I deny that I’m extending the scenario every time, like a drug addict who has to keep upping the dose to get the same high, and that I’m now adding handcuffs to the whole thing in my head, plotting out where to leave the key so I can walk away and come back to it unmolested and enjoy the feeling of being trapped.  Yeah, that’s right, a summer dress in the depths of winter alone.  That’s a recipe for disaster if ever there was one and I’m still planning it and liking the idea whilst accepting that it is quite possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever thought of doing.  What is wrong with me whereby I plan this out and actually consider it as a conceivable course of action?
And then there’s the finances.  I’m skating perilously close to the edge, I’ve already had to borrow one thousand pounds from my wife in order to avoid financial ruin.  Read that again: £1,000!  I only get paid two thousand a month.  We pay £677 on the mortgage.  £1,000!  How am I ever going to pay that back to my wife?  Or the approximately £900 she’s already subbed me in previous years.  I must owe her about £3,000 now.  Looking at my finances, I can’t even pay back the £24 she fronted to pay for a bloody magazine subscription last month.  But somehow, magically, I can afford to spend £13 on female clothing that only I will enjoy, in secret, with lying becoming part of the bargain.  What the Hell is going on here?  Thing is, all of this was a known factor before I got round to buying either of the fuckers and I still did it.  I’m supposed to be creating a situation where I feel better about who I am and about living in my own skin.  Instead, I’m sabotaging this and creating a situation in which I’ll stew in my own juices.  Owning the clothing is better than borrowing it (which is vile and a form of theft let’s not forget) but not insofar as it is costing actual money that we simply don’t have as a family.  Clothing theft is one thing but I have literally stolen £13 from my children and my wife.  As surely as if I’d broken into the piggy-bank and taken the small change, I have taken funds that were for all of us and then used them to lubricate my own shameful desires – the sort of thing I even find difficult to talk to Him Upstairs about.  Indeed, the root of why I’m avoiding church and all things associated with it – because God doesn’t deserve to be sullied by me doing this and then turning up and offering worship.
It’s not worship when you’re selfish, you’re no living sacrifice is you don’t actually sacrifice anything.  I’m not a proper Christian because I can’t ask forgiveness of the sin when I do it in the first place not only knowing that it is a sin but planning the next time I do it as well.  How does that even work?  Where does forgiveness and repentance fall in that line of reasoning?  Why must I type is rhetorical questions when I tell my students that they are crutches for poor analytical skills?
Yeah, he's more convincing than me.
The worst part of it all is that I like the dress.  I do.  When I get round to wearing it with tights and the heels I will probably really enjoy it (though the initial try on suggested that a stuffed bra might be in order to help the hemline fall correctly) and I probably will find a way to walk out for a long distance without arousing too much suspicion or running too much of a risk of discovery.  And I also know that at some point I will spend £9 on some more heels.  Why?  Because I’ve opened something up and, despite everything, I do enjoy it.  And I’m an addict.  Unless there’s a form of rehab, unless I want to end all of this, I not only won’t end it, I will ramp it up.  Until it goes into remission and I wait for the next time.

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All comments are welcome, I have a thicker skin virtually than I do in real life!