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, 3 February 2014

Cowardice or Confessional

Yeah, kinda like this.
Virtually all of my posts on here are confessional, right? Well, only so far I suppose. Mostly I record what's happened for the purpose of recording what has happened and not a lot else. Tonight I have another purpose and tonight I do wish to confess as to why I feel like a poor parent again. A spectre from an earlier age returned and I saw my father in myself very clearly.

The cowardice is easier to explain. Twice in this blog, recently, I have said that things feel 'right' when I do things. I have explained at length how wearing full briefs tops wearing boxers; how I enjoy the feeling of a camisole on my upper body so much that I have bought four of them. I have shared how a feminine watch with white leather straps and a pink face feels more like my own watch than the one that I have worn almost consistently since 2008 (and it feels very much like my watch, let me tell you). And, in both cases, the very sage advice has been "go you, you have discovered something that makes you feel good that you enjoy - why not do that more and embrace it?" And, again in both cases, I have immediately demurred, dissembled and then moved on from trying to do it more. Out of fear more than anything, I fear being so at home with myself that I would likely challenge others. I mean, what I should do is broach it with Tilly - say I'll wear camisoles for example, but promise that I shall clean and dry them and make sure she doesn't have to really see them but explain that I like wearing them and it's not sexual nor the start of me transitioning. Or the watch. I mean, for Heaven's sake, I can't see how that could be anything other than wearing a watch. Tilly doesn't even wear one!

But I am a coward. So, when Tilly feels a bit 'icky' I stop pushing anything. Given that she's felt 'icky' on and off now for about four years this has made it rather hard to raise anything. Don't get me wrong, we've hopped on the good foot and done the bad thing once recently but that was when she was three sheets to the wind and after watching a TV show that made its focus the sex-lives of horrible people. It was a nice experience but, again, the PIV part was mainly mechanical. I know that it's not really a 'thing' for her but she won't have me not do it (and I'd better finish my job too) even if I would much prefer some heavy petting. I've said before she's not up for touching me much - turns out even drunk she's not either. I am a coward.

Then there's the parenting thing.

Ah yes, swimming underwater. I miss doing this, I'm a bit
too tall these days. Oh, and my hair has always been too
short. And, well, I'm male.

Yeah, there's that.
On Sunday we went swimming. So far so good. But I know that I don't deal well with the getting ready and the getting dried up at the end. I get stressed (a childhood of being needlessly hurried on these parts of the experience I guess) and I know that I get forgetful (once, at age 7, I walked into the pool totally nekkid as I had completely forgotten to get trunks on - I was distracted and just... forgot). I also find it hard to deal with our Boy sometimes because he is very like me. I find it hard to 'control' him and to work around him as he is so stoked at going swimming. It is hard to get an excited boy into swimming costume and then to get him through the showers and into the water as he just wants to run off, with his Daddy, and then go mental in the pool.

We went with some friends whose parenting methods usually get Tilly and I bitching afterward. And I was already in a spiky mood.

Close enough.

Close enough.
As we got changed, despite my best efforts, the Boy decided to pee himself just outside of the cubicle and cover the floor in urine. Flash-point for me. I manfully suppress my anger (and manage too) to get the locker filled with different piles of shit (I like everything in a single bag, packed right, not in various bloody piles of shit) and then get him into the pool. By that point my initial flash and flush of anger is gone. I switch with Tilly and then get some of my own swimming time (Tilly can't swim and our company isn't really into swimming either - I miss being able to swim a lot like I did many years ago, I'm not anywhere approaching decent, I just like it - mainly breast stroke and a racing dive, bit of underwater swimming, you get the idea).

Those who cannot learn from History are doomed to
repeat it. And those who do not know their own
history are worse than wild beasts. History is bunk. The
only History worth a tinker's damn is the History we
make for ourselves today.

And I create History but not necessarily create it
as I would wish.
At the end Tilly and I switch again and I get the Boy dressed. I notice that I am missing my coat - the one with house keys, my car keys and money in it. As the terrible realisation dawns that I cannot find it the Boy decides to pee himself again and I lose my shit. I don't yell at him, that's crass, no I shout about my missing coat and having to mop the floor so we can get dressed. I swear in front of the Boy rather than at him. He responds by standing very still, doing exactly what he is told with downcast face and then sits on the floor, head hung in shame. I get irritated by that and then march him to the edge of the changing rooms, pass him on to our friends, so I can return to look for my coat. He is thus scared and upset and now abandoned by his Daddy. When my coat is returned, later, I lack the ability to calm down and remain hyped up. I do not apologise to the Boy. By the time I am able to do so it is too late for it to mean anything, he has moved on.

But I know (from experience) that this is not forgotten and that it will remain. It will remain in the fear that the Boy will carry of my temper, the feeling that it is his fault and that somehow he could have acted differently. I am recreating the worst parts of my youth for my Boy and I am doing it with my eyes open. I am doing it because I can't stop. I am doing it because, fundamentally, I am a coward and so I am piling stress on myself in a place where there is no stress and where I am actually happy.

So, yeah, a confession.


  1. Joanna,

    I'm so sorry to hear that you had a bad day... but at the same time I have to say that it was just that; a bad day. Yes, the boy will probably remember this from here to forever. But what he will also remember is that his father is human. That his father is not perfect. Hopefully this will be part of a bigger lesson; that nobody is perfect.

    You are very good at calling out and listing all of your flaws, but in my eyes that makes you a much stronger person than most. You are not perfect, nor will you ever be perfect. Even knowing that, you still strive for it and that above all else is admirable. There are so many people out in the world that either believe they are perfect, or accept that they are good enough. They don't sweat the details and they don't mind the occasional screw up. They don't look upon themselves as flawed and consider any error with a flippant 'What can be done about it? It is as it is.'

    Those are the people that I save my pity for. Those are the people I feel sorry for. Yes, they won't ever know the pain of struggling and not attaining something that is impossible, but at the same time they won't ever improve themselves. You? From what I know of you you'll use this situation as a learning experience. You realize that it was wrong, and you'll use it to learn from and hopefully never experience again. You will probably fall down again, but you'll get up, dust yourself off, and learn from it.

    You probably know how much I loved my own father. How I put him up on a pedestal and worship his memory. How I strive to live as he did. But what I'm remembering is all of the good things, and as much as it pains me to say this, my father wasn't perfect. He had his flaws... some of them glaring. But that doesn't change how I feel about him... it doesn't change how I love him. How did I get past these errors in character? I did so by following his example... he knew he wasn't perfect and acknowledged his mistakes.

    The very fact that you can make this confessional shows me that you are fundamentally a good person. Thank you for being you!

    1. I'm having a wordless patch so thank you.

      Thank you.


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