One of the major themes in all that I have recorded is that I make mistakes that are difficult to rectify and that set things up incorrectly. I also tend to sell myself short and do things without thinking about them. I am spontaneous in all the wrong ways. Impetuous? Impetuous.
Last night was one of those impetuous moments. Spread over a few hours. I read huge amounts of commentary, articles, thoughts, stories... It was highly emotional and I couldn't react properly because I was reading a lot of it on my laptop whilst Tilly was in the room with me. She didn't know what I was reading, wouldn't want to know, and so my responses were composed quickly: when I was on the loo, ostensibly, and then very late in the evening after getting our pet chinchilla out and then clearing everything up afterwards.
After posting my blog entry last night I realised what I'd done in what I'd said. But I couldn't delete it, I was too tired and I'd already tried editing it without too much success. But I knew that people would read it and take it in. The problem with realising that I have an audience, I have discovered, is that I feel like I'm now having to self-edit as I go. People have been so kind and commented, they have read what I have written and they have taken me seriously and now I worry what these very kind people are going to think of this random anonymous stranger on the internet that they have never met and that they probably will never know beyond this blog. You'd think that the layers of anonymity (I use a different female moniker and male moniker on a forum I'm part of that deals with TG elements, a separate blog for my literary, non TG stuff and about six different e-mail accounts [not counting the ones I use for work, friends and business] to sign up to different TG related online forums that I don't even post on) would allow me to be honest.
Apparently not. So let's try again.
I have very deliberately not looked up GID. Like I deliberately avoided finding out what depression was until last year forced me to go into therapy (well, okay, Tilly did that, but you get the idea) and I was confronted with the truth of the fact that I was depressed. As in diagnosably, not just feeling the blues particularly badly. I have no idea if I have GID or not. I don't want to know just yet. Nor have I successfully come to terms with the desire to wear women's clothing. That is, not the materials or the colours or the cut of women's clothes but very definitely clothes designed for women. If I were living in Regency-era France I would be eying up dresses and eschewing platforms and heels or if I were living in Tudor times I would be eschewing corsets in favour of cinchers and skirts. It's not a fetish about the clothing, though I have used it in the past in that way.
I can take or leave the captions - they're very good and I like them but I can walk away and never see another and be fine - but I cannot purge feminine items in my wardrobe. I haven't worn my plaforms in about three months, but there they are, down the back of the sofa, waiting. I haven't bought the boots in ASDA yet, but I do keep checking that they're there in my size and still on offer for £15. Even throwing out a pair of knickers that I bought in 2004 because they had reached the point where they needed washing properly (stressful day at work on Thursday leads to BO) and because I couldn't just wash them was a difficult decision. One that I regret even as I type this.
So no. I can live without anarchy, indeed I kinda have to living in a state-dominated political system; I can live without sci-fi novels, again I haven't read one in a very long time; and I can live without the aftermath of a nuclear war, perhaps I'm better keeping that one a fantasy. But I cannot live without the potential of wearing clothing designed for women. Note that: potential. I can't do without the potential, let alone the clothes themselves, the potential. I don't know what I mean there, I was trying to clarify but I've just ended up muddying the waters further.
Since posting what I posted last night I have been stressed out of my tree and eaten away by, of all things, guilt about what I posted. My 'easy-going' swift style and what I said cheapens everything I read and saw. So I type this because it is too late to delete what I wrote. And to all those that read last night's entry, my apologies. I'm still not making sense. I'll wrap this up now and hope it obviates the stupidity of my statements last night.
I once went to a hairdresser's and got a poor cut - only I was too timid to say anything. I went to see my Mum, for I was a teenager at the time, and she said I had to get my money back. I did. The hairdresser was upset. I tried to make things right by saying "don't worry, I won't be back". It wasn't until I got about half an hour away that I realised what I'd said and what it meant. Like last night.
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!