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!

Friday, 30 December 2011

Tales from a sick mind

So, my youth was fairly misspent.  I had an inordinate amount of time spent studying the girls that were my peers so that I became one of those horribly creepy little boys, you know the type, but at the same time I remember noticing that things were very different for boys and girls of these ages.  In primary school I remember realising that girls got it better in terms of expectations, they were expected to have behaved better and so they recieved the benefit of the doubt in cases of unclear wrong doing.  Boys, on the other hand, had guilt assumed.  In maths the girls were praised more and I remember one teacher memorably saying that girls did better because they had better brains for it.  I never really forgave her for that though, if I'm honest, the data would support that assumption.

The oddity of this is its longevity.  This is the sort of scene,
with different hairstyles, that I remember from my own school
experience.  It's a powerful thing that, look at the gender identity
in the clothing.
I guess I felt hard done to on some level as a consequence of my gender.  Yes, I know, a male in the patriarchy complaining about treatment at the hands of other people.  But there was something to it all, the girls had more interesting forms of expression in terms of art and in terms of clothing throughout my youth.  They had access to more styles, it was assumed that they got poetry and could sit alone in fields with flowers.  Colours were a girl's preserve and empathy and understanding seemed to be showered on them from all adults in authority.  I, on the other hand, was not understood, no one really wanted to hear about my inspirations or my hopes and dreams.  Honestly, I suppose I didn't really feel confident in sharing them eiether, some part of me was fascinated by girls and all of the attention.  Some part of me wanted to share that but I lacked the vocabulary to put that into words.

So, seriously, not the logo of the writing club at my school.  We
only had three members, so I doubt we warranted a logo.
It wasn't until my first year of secondary school that I was able to present some of the thoughts in my head in a coherent fashion, combining that, appropropriately enough, with the onset of puberty.  I joined a writing group after school and, in the course of other violent formative moments when the teasing by the girl there reached the point where I did stupid things like throw furniture and start fights, I wrote a fairly tame story entitled 'Boy to Girl'.  In that one short story of vague shitness I had articulated what was actually going on in my head, and it had taken until I was eleven years old to do it.  We'd moved house by that point and I can remember even then being fairly cagey about the story.

Most of my useless screed and novelisation attempts I shared openly with my family.  It was usually the same sort of progress.  I'd write some rather poor prose, my mother would read it with thinly veiled incomprehension, tell me all the spelling mistakes and grammar errors before pronouncing that it wasn't really to her taste (in fairness I would push her on this, to get a comment beyond proof-reading) and then it would be forgotten.  If I showed a second draft then it would be dealt with in the same way along with protestations that I was showing her a piece I'd already shown her and what else could I expect?  Anyway, the point is that despite these rather negative associations I would nevertheless show my work to my parents proudly each time.  Regardless of topic, regardless of how long it had taken I was a whore for commentary on my work and the only people I could really guilt into reading it were my parents.  My father usually took three or four weeks to read anything, it still takes him a while to read stuff, and so I usually plumbed for my mother who could at least read at something approaching a pace.  I always showed her what I'd written.  But not this story, not 'Boy to Girl'.  I showed it to my Dad, once, but never my Mum.  And I did not ask my Dad what he thought about it.  I simply asked him to read it.  He read it.  I then took it back and hid it in my wardrobe.  Dad made some kindly remarks about the way it was written and then I simply... left it alone.  I knew it was there, burning away like some dark secret, but I never did anything with it.

The cover of the copy I bought had
a red head in a red corset.  She was
clearly older than she wanted to be.

So what's the point?  Well, I suppose it's that this story marked my earliest realisation of my addiction, the earliest point that I knew what I was about.  The behaviour in hiding it and keeping it from view tells me that at eleven I was aware of what I was doing and that I attached some shame to the whole emotional roller-coaster that it brought on.  The onset of puberty had the effect of combining this realisation with other aspects of growing up, the more physical ones, and that too brought with it some amount of shame and guilt.  These were not things that I discussed with my parents, with anyone, and they were yet the closest I'd come to what made me unique and me.  Indeed, it was planning this post that brought it all to mind and clarified things in my head.  It would be several years until I bought a copy of Forum from a newsagent in the shopping centre in town and read a story about cross-dressing in there - where I traditionally marked my realisation that cross-dressing was a sexual act that I was interested in - and so this would be from somewhere else.

And that's a pretty big bombshell (thank you Clarkson) to end with.

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