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, 25 June 2012

Standard Deviation

This is noddy differentiation, I know, but still it's the best
image I could find that was mathematical-ish.
When I was at school I was always good at Maths.  Never top of the class, always second or third, but always pretty good.  My crowning moment of idiocy came in GCSE when I was introduced to differentiation and failed completely to understand what I was looking at, I factored it out instead of doing what I was supposed to do with dy/dx=0.  Hey ho, I lived and learned and took it at A Level anyway, where I proceeded to do quite well.  The theory of it, proofs and whatnot, I wasn't so good with but applying the method, making numbers do what they were supposed to do, I could do rather well, if I say so myself.  I cared, and care, little for why the theories work but I am interested in how they work and interpreting data.  Alas, my Physics work showed that I wasn't so hot at collecting the data.  Somewhere in me is the perfect little data analyst.

Yeah, I know it's not what I meant.  However, it was the
best image I could get for illustrating lack of trust.
Alas, that isn't really helpful in my line of work.  Where data analysis is called for it is often under a set of conditions that demands an answer that may not actually be anywhere but in the head of the person requesting the data.  Methods of analysis differ so much that decond guessing becomes impossible and striking out alone results in being slapped down for getting it 'wrong'.  If there were trust then, of course, none of this would matter.

This also is not the point of this entry.  I heard the tale from my mother, confirmed by my father, that I was once accused of sexualising someone's daughter.  I was three or four.  Their daughter was slightly, by a few months, older.  Apparently we lay down in the ginnel near where we lived, between our houses (we were next door neighbours) and the local supermarket, and I proceeded to name all the sexual areas of the body.  I apparently urged this girl to remove her clothes, and I mine, so that we could see what we were discussing.  Now, there was no action alleged beyond this but perhaps that wasn't really necessary, I think I can see why this was such an accusation.  I, of course, remember not a jot or scintilla of this episode or its fall out so I must assume that my parents dealt with it and nothing was said afterward.  It does, however, raise a few questions in my mind:

Like this.  Modern sexualisation is rife and something people
really are on the watch for.  This is not what was being alleged
in my case.  I'm not even sure that there would be an image of
what I was accuswed of.
1.  Were these accusations based on an actual event?  That is, if they were true then that would beg some questions of its own.  More to the point, did this actually happen?  Was I, at that age, getting girls undressed?  This will have some relevance later in this record.

2. How the Hell did I know, at age three or four, what all the sexual organs were called in the first place?  How could I have known what lay beneath the clothes of my next door neighbour at an age when most boys are amazed that women don't have wee-wees?  If I did know about the difference then that would surely make me a tad abnormal, right?

3. How did next door's parents find out about the incident?  From both my parents I can be reasonably certain that it wasn't like we were discovered naked in the ginnel.  Indeed, as far as I understand my childhood at this point I wasn't even allowed out of the garden or house without an adult present so how would any of this have been possible.  Unless, of course, this is the reason why that stricture was applied for most of my childhood that I do remember.

I've already written in this record about wanting to be caught in a game of kiss-chase that I wasn't even playing in primary school and having a minor obsession with one girl in my class that lasted long after the move to another city when I was five - so I was a young stalker.  I also know that I obsessed ever-so-slightly over a girl at school (I sent her postcards from holiday anonymously for example) that turned out to have been abused by her music teacher around the same time and mistook my naive attempts to woo as serious sexual stalking.  Okay, my postcard gambit was not cool, I know that, but a simple statement of that was effective in making me stop.  However, who am I to judge: maybe this is what sexual stalking actually is.

All of this suggests, to me at any rate, that I was something of a highly sexualised young person - in the more creepy and odd way rather than the overt and baseless manner in which most teenagers talk in bald terms about sexual contact with no clear understanding of what it is they are playing with.  No, I have always been an intense little shit and this would simply add to that image of someone who is, well, dangerous and a little bit odd.  The kind of child that has the distinct potential to grow up to be Fred West.  Given my proclivities toward bondage and deviant sexual practices this does have me wondering though.  But for the grace of God would I have been the mad axe-murderer who buried his victims under the patio?

Tilly doesn't pair her socks.  She finds my desire to do so
odd and autistic.  She cannot fathom why I match socks or
pyjama tops and bottoms - why can't I just wear what's there?
Also, I have a habit of using matching pegs when hanging
out washing and putting the colours in spectrum order - this
is probably autistic.
I know that very autistic people sometimes end up being highly sexualised (or just avoid anything physical at all due to germs, it can go either way I suppose).  Remove the social conditioning from a human being and you have a lot of urges that are purely sexual in nature, non functioning autistic people do not see the point in hiding the bases of these urges in amongst social niceties and therefore simply display what goes on the brains and minds of most people when unfettered by what other people would judge them for.  Not to say that they are 'the truth' but the mere fact that I view things this way must mean something and I'm guessing that this 'something' is not terribly positive, desireable or good.

In Sixth Form, between 16 and 18 years old,  I ended up being quite violent.  But it wasn't the first time that I reacted wholly out of proportion with initial stimulus.  There were two incidents in Sixth Form that stick out to illustrate the point.  One was a friend of mine that was lightly winding me up in Physics, he kept prodding me with his pen and I warned him that I didn't want my new shirt marked.  He kept on doing it, so I stabbed him in the hand with my stainless steel ball point.  Then I left the room and waited for the end of the lesson to report myself to the teacher, who had not seen the incident or me leaving, to take my lumps.  Nothing happened.  The other was a young Year 7 (first year of Secondary, between 11 and 12 years old) mock-stabbing me with a compass while lining up for a lesson.  I warned him clearly three times to stop doing it and he ignored me.  I don't know exactly what happened next but I do remember seeing the hapless boiy bouncing off a doorpost about two metres from where I stood and then leaving me alone.  I reported myself to the Head of Sixth Form.  Nothing happened.

Most of the bullying I experienced was of this kind, the
comments behind the back and the not being part of the
group.  It seems more commonly associated with females than
males and there were suspicions that the key players were
somewhat homosexual (they weren't) at the time.  They were
male though and perhaps just as isolated as me.
In Year 8, 12-13 years old, I got so annoyed with a bully that I ended up making his face bleed, I don't know how, and had to write him a sincere letter of apology.  I don't recall how I got from being angry at him to making his face bleed.  He claims I dragged my nails down his face, another witness claimed a I smacked him in the face with a fist and still another that I slapped him open-handed.  I don't remember at all.  In Writing Club in Year 7 I threw a chair at a girl that was teasing me, it didn't connect, and throttled her on another occasion.  In Scouts, around age 14, I punched someone in the larynx, threw someone into some chairs and kicked at least one other person in the groin.  Their 'crimes' were to make jokes at my expense - not even particularly nasty ones.  By contrast, when I was 13 I got beaten up by three idiots because I stood in for my fat friend, who ran away and told no one that I was getting beaten up by three older people, and didn't react at all.

Throughout our childhood my brother and I fought a lot.  When it got really bad I would throttle him, or drag him hanging onto my leg down the stairs, or hit him really hard on his spine when he was bent double.  He would cling and bite now and again, but I believe now mainly through terror about what might happen if he let me at him unhindered rather than any desire to wound.  Neither of us would ever use weapons, but we fought dirty.  He went for the eyes, I went for the neck.  I can recall often plotting revenge and injury against those that would tease me at school and always plumbing for the personal approach, eschewing weapons or gaining any other advantage in favour of throttling.  On one occasion I did pick up another child, we'd both have been about 10, by the neck so that his feet left the floor.  In all of these minor incidents that I don't really remember but for the haze of the years I can also say with certainty that the gender of my target was irrelevant - I was as prepared to throttle, punch, kick or bite a girl as I was a boy, we were equal, right?

Like this.
What's my point?  I believe I am autistic on some level.  I feel no remorse writing about these incidents but, equally, I don't view them with any emotion either.  If asked to relive them I would probably remain detached and analytical, I cannot recall what the feeling was like.  I assume I was angry in each case but I can't really tell you what that felt like.  They are memories, and were it not for the fact that they are patently in colour I would say that they were in black and white.  It's like reviewing a film or... I don't know, I can recall no emotion.  This is the same as the sexual incidents, especially the stalking one, above.  It would appear that I fit the psychological profile of a rapist-murderer in many ways.  In terms of psychological attack I have noticed my tendency to turn it on my children too.  When angry I hiss at them, I use my eyebrows and make them feel isolated and alone, I don't shout or rasie my voice, but I will hold with more force than necessary or flash my eyes at them and I will make them upset.

All of this means that I am not a terribly nice person to know, possibly quite dangerous.  My lack of emotion even as I type this is also of interest.  This all stems from the psychoanlytical pyschotherapy questionnaire I was sent to fill in for my next round of therapy.  However, I'm out of time to dwell on it for I have work to do.


  1. When you write a post like this, I get this urge to reach out and try to save you. However, I'm helpless to find words that would comfort. I guess I just want to say that I'm reading and I care.

    1. Thank you. It means a lot.

      Sorry I took so long to say so this time!

      Not sure what you'd save me from but the sentiment is well received.

  2. "Not A Fighter"

    Which troubles you more, Bex? Not currently having recollection of any emotion about these incidents, the recollections of the incidents, or not currently having any emotional response to the recollections?

    When my father died, I don't recall having any particular feelings or emotions about the plain fact that the man whose seed from which I sprang had ceased to function upon this earth. It was a year, roughly, before I had any emotional outburst, and that stemming from an elder brother harping me about washing the dishes. I was well into adulthood before really trying to address the lack of emotion I had displayed at the passing of my sire, and even then, it was more on the order of troubling over what a callous prick I must be at having failed to cry or carry-on in an 'appropriately grievous' manner at the time of his passing.

    But, then again, I was never much of a fighter. Even in response to the times that the 'rednecks' would pick on the 'long-haired-hippie-faggot' (yes, I wore long hair, indulged in herbal euphoric explorations, and listened to The Who, The Moody Blues, Rush, Led Zep.; but as for the latter accusation, the only foundation at the time -grade 3-4, 9-10 years- was, as far as i could see, not behaving like a macho, misogynistic bully,) by wrestling me to the ground, pinning me and threatening to cut off my hair with their Buck knives, and this, as far as I recall, without provocation on my part. (unless it had something to do with their failure to understand English and having thought me to belittle them by some slight or another, which, I assure you, was not the case!)

    Even becoming, at about the same age, the plaything, well, one could also say 'the compensated whore' of a gay adult male, who plied me with the cannabis for which I had already developed an affinity, in order to fellate the young boy who, absent the father since his departure for points west, had little or no other adult male role-model.

    Neither on-going situation brings an emotional response to me in excess of 3 decades since. The questions of whether I loved my father, and what would possess a grown man to prey upon a child in that way, seem little more than exercises in theoretical moral philosophy. While I turned out to be neither an abusive parent,(as was my father to my elder siblings), nor a homosexual or a pedophile, it is reasonable to conclude that both experiences had some formative influence on my person. The marriage of these situations could, reasonably, and rightly I believe, be contributing factors to my long-suppressed transgendered nature, and my very long-running addiction to porn and sex.


    1. "Not A Fighter" cont'd:

      All this toward trying to make a point. While the possibility that you have some degree of autism, while not entirely impossible, may not be the root of what you describe. I posit that, in light of the fact that continued and frequent release of L-dopamine and related neuro-chemicals is known to have the effect of desensitizing the brain to their intended effects, and that having indulged our proclivities for extended periods of time, thus inducing the release of said 'opiates' into our brains at a higher than 'normal' rate, we have dulled our capacity for 'peak & trough' emotional responses to situations and concepts to which others tend to react more viscerally, or vehemently.

      While a reasonable theory for our (lack of) reactions does not lessen or lift the 'there, but for the grace of God, go I,' element from our lives, but does it impose the possibility that, in His infinite wisdom, we were brought through some early trials so that, as grown beings of the human kind we might find restraint from certain outbursts of emotion, or at very least, possess some understanding or sympathy for those who have trodden paths from which we were held?

      I'm not sure this brings any warm-fuzzies to the content of your post or character, but I think it presents the concept I intended.

    2. You remind me that my own experiences are rarely as extreme or as large as I make them out to be and that my own journey rarely travels the roads travelled by others. That I am, by nature, one of life's complainers. But that's no bad thing. It is helpful to see all things in their proper context.

      Certainly, in your journey, I see Him upstairs at work and using what you have said and experienced to provide furtherance of His own ineffable work. I know that there is a Plan and that I am as much a part of that. I guess I hope that, one day, I can operate to further that plan rather than be the one around whom the plan is worked.

      Thank you as well for feeling safe enough to share your story here. It means a great deal that you do so and that you feel that you want to.

      *bows head* Always at your Bex and call, ma'am.


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