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, 2 December 2013

Blog-based therapy?

Way back when there was therapy and it was CBT. And, on the weekend I was clearly being a tit. I should clarify that I did not deliberately set up any viewpoint, much less Tilly's, as being "bloody ridiculous". I did, however, set up multiple methods of viewing transvestism and transgenderism and challenge each and every one in a Devil's advocacy. That is, knowing that unquestioning support for trans* is contentious I set up the views against it/them in their various guises and offered challenges to each one. Some of those challenges were what I would consider sensible and some were not. At no point did I seek to denigrate any opposing views nor the central tenet. My aim was to maintain debate and to get some good challenges in return. I was not disappointed, but my audience seemed politely swayed (that is, they were too polite to challenge me without knowing more, it is a topic that may resurface).


So, tit-ishness clearly a part of the weekend and the memory of CBT Chair Work combined when trying to the Boy to sleep on that Saturday night to create an internal conversation. I intend to record this, and see where it leads, on here. However, to avoid being so boring that people have aneurysms, I shall post it behind a line-break thingummyjig.





In one chair is my desire to cross-dress and, in the other, is my inner critic.

Inner-Critic.

No pithy name, just a function, thank you.
We're back again then. It's been a while, hasn't it, fuck-face? You know, it's largely down to your tit-wank festival that we have any problems at all. We have everything we ever wanted out of life and we're still held back and made depressed and generally unhappy because you won't let us deal with stress outside of behaving like a fucking sexual deviant. I mean, indulgence of your desires means that we lose time, amongst other things, and so we don't even get all the fucking work done that we need to get done. No, instead, you sit there and think of looking 'pretty' and feeling 'liberated'. You look like what you are when you do that, a fucking tit in a fucking dress.

Joanna
I have a name, you know, it wouldn't kill you to use it.

What? Twat-features? Fuck-face? Shit-cunt?

Joanna. My name is Joanna, you really haven't mastered this politeness thing. Anyway, yes, it's been a while and the record hasn't changed in all this time has it?



Change the record? Ha! When you decide to actually deal with any of the complaints then I'll consider changing the treatment and the way of dealing with you. I mean, look at the facts: you get stressed and then, rather than eliminating the problem by working at it you prance about like I don't know what. You waste time, fucking about in a bath, shower or whatever it is this week, and then get dressed and... it all wastes time and avoids the real issues. Heh, look at the fact that you're so fucking up yourself that your own wife won't fuck you. You know that this is due to the fact that you can't do the fucking decent thing and just drop the dressing. Come on, I mean, it's not like dressing does anything to change the fact that you're fucking ugly. You don't wrap something that looks like it should be hanging out of the mouth of a shark in women's finery and change the fact that it looks like a prehensile cock. Body hair in all the places one would expect of a boy entering puberty and a stench that could be described best as 'off-putting'.

In all fairness there's not much related to the issues that you claim I represent.

Oh, fuck off, Joanna! Joanna? It's not a fucking name you useless twat, it's an affectation that you've picked up for yourself. And it's all part and parcel of the same thing anyway. The depression, your excuse to indulge and flex what hold you have, the way in which you smarm your way across the psyche and then take root. All those new terms and the holier-than-thou arguments that you construct to support what you do whilst ignoring the plain and simple fact that it's all a fucking sham, you tit.



Scientifically and statistically there are three people in every thousand that are biochemically in the wrong gendered body, implying that there is no actual choice in-

Oh fucking hell, really? When this all started, with Toby and all that carry on, you weren't suggesting at any point that this was anything other than a sexual perversion. You at least had fucking honesty going for you and the excuse that Toby seemed to like the idea. Hell, it looked like the whole bloody charade was a way of getting some, were it not for the fact that you hid behind the biblical precept of marriage, that I note you dropped like it was on fire when you met Tilly, to avoid actually having sex. Oh yes, I remember how you wielded that fucking piece of shit to make Toby feel that she was less than you. Same sort of thing you used to do with your Mum come to think of it. She was afraid of your fucked up morals based on the worst aspects of Puritanism, you priggish twat.

Now, come on, that's not fair. That was more you than me, besides, it has nothing to do with a desire or wish to dress in clothes that are socially associated with the opposite gender. This, in itself, fails to address the fact-

Denied mother-fucker.
Historicism? Fuck off. You've got words for every selfish thing that you do. The whole historical clothing argument fails, as well you know, because the issue isn't the style or even the cut of the fucking fabric, let alone the type of fabric that is used. If that were the case then you'd be fine with a fucking kilt and some satin-y feel underwear. No, it's the bloody societal construct that you're chasing. It's all about choosing to identify societally as the opposite gender. You pursue this with your interests, with your outlook and the lack of responsibility. It's all about fucking sex and domination. Being forced to do things that you want to do and, in the process, conditioning your brain and sexual responses so that you can't even get it up at the thought of your wife wanting sex. Fucking hell, all you have to do is behave like an actual man - yes, societal role of a fucking male, fuck off, and get on and actually behave in a way that she would find vaguely alluring. No. Like the selfish twat you are you want it all your own way. Claim it's all someone else's fault, deny your own responsibility, you useless shit-stain, and then carry on as you were. Blow it all up, publish the random parts of various conversations in a passive aggressive show of strength and self-aggrandizement. Mince off and do whatever it is you do when you feel down, you useless waste of fucking space, and feel good about your little sessions with hand, image and your fucking dick. Go on, get off on the thought and the feel of female clothing and let the rest of your life wither on the fucking vine. Then feel that you are the hard done to one. Champion the cause of those with whom you identify and denigrate and undermine those that you do not. Get taken as a chump and become the tool of the oppressors. Revel in your petty triumphs, the victories over those weaker than you and hide your failings behind the screen of arbitrarily decided boundaries whilst claiming professionalism. You make me fucking sick. Turn this into a feature? That was the plan, wasn't it, put this out there so that more people would come and read this pitiful excuse for truth. Vomit. Now, if you'd be so kind as to either face up to the issue or fuck off and die, I'd be obliged.

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