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!

Tuesday, 24 September 2013

Totalitarian Love

A few points of record before I go on.

Ah, if only.
I have spent more days en femme, well, evenings, in the last three weeks than I have in the last three years. I do not doubt my luck, my fortune or how much I've been given a chance to enjoy myself. And I have, I have enjoyed myself and embraced the opportunity. This has been unmotivated by stress, unaccompanied by bone-crushing guilt at what I have done or how I have done it. I have milked the experience and not found it wanting.

I have been, well, at peace. Peaceful. Happy. Content. I have been me, liberated and free, and I have enjoyed the experience. I have revelled in trying new names. I have remembered how much I enjoyed being called by those names. I have remembered how my life used to be. And I have seen just how it could have been.

Oh, you know, I do envy teachers who can look like this.
I do. I don't want to be female, no, but I wish I could look
like this. I do.
I have been enjoying my new job. Sure there are false notes and bits that are jarring but it is much less pressured than the one I left. In fact, I actually like what I do again. I am enjoying being a Head of Department. I am enjoying supporting a new colleague and I am enjoying working with two other colleagues who are professional, erudite and enjoy their work too. It has been lovely being able to make new things, offer them and have some used and some not. There has been no judgement, no belief that I am not worthy or emulation and, importantly, I have had thanks for offering resources. Genuine thanks. It means a great deal.

I have spent a lot of time chasing people to try and get moved. Alright, it has not dominated my every waking moment, but much of my freetime at work over the last two weeks has been spent phoning and chasing and trying to get things done. I have met frustrations and been fobbed off most of that time, but I felt that I was getting somewhere. I managed to get some movement and I managed to beat my way through several brick walls, much was positive.

Tilly or I? Both?
In the last week Tilly has been ill. She has been sick and not sleeping well. She has been getting steadily more frustrated with both of our children. When I went home at the weekend she spent much of the time in bed, so I was left with the children. She surfaced to shout at them a lot, which was fair, and gave me time to pack down a wardrobe and pack some boxes into the car. We went to a friend of the family's and the children were largely off on their own on the Saturday. I spent time on my own too. Tilly chatted with the family and I watched our children on and off. In an evening she pootled a little on FaceBook and then would announce that she was ill and tired and retire to bed. I get this. But it's not an illness or a bug, it's stress. She's been so stressed that she's been having mini migraines and finding it hard to see or sleep or relax. This is down to us not moving yet. It's now a month overdue.

Another bloody text? Seriously?
That's more than I got before she moved in!
Today, Tilly has been feeling better. I know this because she texted me to make sure I was chasing the solicitors. Fair enough. But then there were a grand total of twenty-two more texts. And five phone calls. All about the moving. And each time she was a little more stressed, a little more angry, a little more sweary. I'm not sure if she's angry at me or not, but there was an undertone of frustration, anger and stress in every word. In the final phone call I was supposed to be saying good night to the children. Instead I had more rants of stress from Tilly, a bizarre conversation with the Girlie, and then much waiting whilst Tilly shouted at the children to be quiet because she was on the phone to Daddy. You know, a phone call to say good night to the children. I love her and I love them. But I find this very hard.

She finds this very hard, I know, none of the people involved in the moving process will talk directly to her as she is not the buyer and so she must chivvy them through me. I get that. But I do not respond well to chivvying. And the pressure today, and yesterday, and over the weekend from home reminded me of the worst times in the last three years. It reminded me that work was a problem only because home was a problem first. My inability to deal with family life led to me first dropping balls at work as I tried to do more at home and failed to satisfy Tilly or our children. As I continued to try and help at home, and failed to make any difference, so I began to get frazzled and failed to keep up with work stuff.

Today was a reminder about that. It was a warning. Hopefully not a herald of how life will revert when we finally move.

I have no personal connection to what went on here.
What I know is somehow... worse.


We understand the camps. On some level, we understand. It's why we find
them so repulsive and terrible, because we can understand. And we fear. We
fear the guards because we could have been the guards. And so we despise
them and say that they were evil. Because it is morally satisfying to do so, and
in so doing we absolve ourselves because we are not evil.


It is worse than that.

And my connection is to someone who was not at the camps.
To make matters worse, I am watching the Reader, loaned by my newb, and it is... well, sexually charged historical thriller with psychological overtones that has the Third Reich prominently in the shadows. It's basically mind-porn for my love of dark subject matter tinged with sex, forbidden aspects of life and the looming spectre of ultimately doomed totalitarianism with a woman who never learned to read. It is... odd and beautiful. It's a powerful film and it reminds me of a story I know about a person that I knew. He was kind. He was old, he was... a lovely old man by the time I knew him. He was well liked. And then he got Parkinson's disease and I learned things. Being a historian I put more together than did the rest of my family who knew him. But that is not a story for tonight. I need to be careful how I tell it. It needs some time. Before I share it here. Before I tell it as honestly and truly as I can. Truly. Not as I heard it. Truly. It is a separate issue to this post. The film is powerful because of what I know.

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