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!

Thursday, 14 September 2017

Rant rant rant

As I said the last time I used this image,
I rather think that it is.

But how?

At the moment I got few ideas.
I was hoping to find the time to set some records straight on this here place where I strive to be honest: changing my references to Toby to, uh, well, Toby rather than my 'Mad-Ex'. Part of the exercise in retelling events on here has shown that, despite appearances, it was I who was her Mad-Ex rather than she mine. I'm not saying she was entirely balanced, but I am saying that her characteristics are precisely why I ended up having a relationship with her and that I didn't exactly treat her well. In short, blaming her for my responses to her is a tad disingenuous.

I also wanted to come on here and update on my search for a diagnosis. By now the Boy has been diagnosed officially with ASD (and would have gained an Asperger's diagnosis were such a thing still available, so sayeth the professionals making the diagnosis). We have begun the process to gain a diagnosis for the Girlie, despite Tilly's initial reluctance to pursue it on the grounds that it would make parenting her more difficult, apparently, and she would blame her bouts of PDA (Pathological Demand Avoidance) on that rather than... uh... just being PDA or something. And, now, my own 30 month wait for a diagnosis session is at an end. Next Wednesday is my date with the doctors (or whoever) for a chance to be tested.

Yes, this face. The 'ah fuck, this again' face.

The worst bit is, the move of job and the consistency of the
feeling rather suggest that it is not just in my head and it is
not 'Imposter Syndrome'. I'm just actually as shit as I think
that I am.

No, I'm wrong. I'm shitter than I think I am.
Also, this is the time of year where I usually come on here and bleat about being stressed at work and how difficult it all is. This is all still true but at least my results aren't as bad as last year. I had it confirmed that I was being 'gunned for' last year and believe my immediate boss has actually, as he stated, shielded me from most of it. I know he is a 'Smiling Assassin' but his method of telling me, off-hand and in the middle of something else, suggested it was truth rather than a mind-game. This is worrisome but not unexpected and I was aware that something was up. We'll see if my results actually make any difference in this regard this year, but I know that my ultimate boss, the Head, is not terribly hot with facts once he has formed an opinion. In other words, better results may not provide much armour against an already formed opinion that I am a drag on results. I mean, in that, I don't think the Head is all that wrong.

No, instead all of my thoughts on such matters are truncated snippets.

Oh, to be that useful and effective.
Today I got a text, an angry one, from Tilly. I hadn't dried the pots this morning. I also didn't dry them on my first proper day back at work last week (Wednesday). This constitutes consistent inability to get things done. She warned me that the failure to have the pots dried was "messing it all up" as it was hard enough to keep going with the "meals thing" (we have a whiteboard now on which Tilly writes what meals are on what days). She was "not being stroppy" and "not moaning" but both were followed by inevitable 'but's. Of course they were. She was at pains to say that it was "it" messing things up, not me. But as the "it" in question was me not drying the pots I am uncertain as to what difference that apparent clarification makes. I suspect none at all.

I didn't, and don't, know how to respond to that. Last night, as Tilly snapped at me tonight, she had asked me to get the pots done. But I ended up marking some papers (as I said I was going to) having got back from work around 7pm, looked after our youngest and made my own tea, starting work at 9.30pm and retiring to bed around 11pm. I did not find the time to wash the pots last night. This morning I really needed a bath, I haven't been able to clean myself since Sunday evening (itself something of a compromise that was reluctantly made by Tilly). I also had to make the lunches and sort out the chinchilla. I did wash the pots. I got up at 6am (my own fault, I intended to get up at 5.15am) and had completed the lunches and had a bath by 7am. I washed the pots until 7.25am. I had to get into work early-ish today to finish up some resources for colleagues. I did not manage this but I did get in early enough to get some reports done for the Governors and some urgent reviews of other things done (I'd forgotten they needed to be done, deadline is tomorrow). After that I managed to get planned for the day and then it was teaching. I digress.

Well, yes.
But Tilly told me that the pots needed to be done last night, for cooking lunch and tea and both children needed more input and she can't do that and dry the pots whilst looking after our youngest. So why weren't they done when she had specifically stipulated that they needed to be done? It's the difference between the Girlie doing maths and drying the pots and it was a consistent problem. Frankly, she told me, it would only have taken 15 minutes last night for me to dry the pots and I could have washed them this morning (the feat of drying pots that were not washed was not an issue apparently) as I did and all would have been fine. So, you see, she wasn't being stroppy or moaning but she was snapping and being angry as it is a consistent problem. My pointing out that she didn't have to make lunch and tea was another source of irritation, yes she did, not necessarily on the same day, of course she used the "shitting lunches" that I made but it could be lunch or tea, so that was clearly both. And she needed the stuff I'd washed and why couldn't I just dry it? I keep asking how to help, well, she said, this is how to fucking help.

So, Aspergic twat that I am (or just a twat, we'll see on the first bit) I come on here to plead my case. And what a fucking case, eh?

See, burying head in the sand is a valid tactic if, like
me, you are, essentially, a lazy cunt.
Once again, Tilly started ranting about not having the place tidy (but she can no longer blame my work stuff as I stopped bringing it home) and heavily hinted it was my fault (it really isn't and can't be any more, and I do have to tidy downstairs in order to sleep each night, so it's not like I don't do anything there). She also repeated the claim, as I recall from 2010-13, that washing up only takes 5 minutes as well as drying not taking longer than 15 minutes. For reference, it takes 15 minutes to fill the sink at the moment because the hot tap is knackered in the kitchen, but who's counting? She didn't want to end up snapping at me, but I was goading her into it by not having things done and, in fairness, I did raise it this evening.

Oh, I'm sorry, is it obvious I'M FUCKING FURIOUS!?
I want to say "I told you so" but there's nothing to be gained by that. There was a fucking reason I didn't want us to have a third child. Tilly has a book to write, we have to support two ASD children who are fucking difficult to properly support and a fucking drain emotionally and in all other ways. We love them but by fucking God they can be hard work. And we have gone down a route of home schooling. I knew all of this. So did Tilly. I fucking knew she couldn't fucking cope with another child any more than I could be fucking arsed to offer any more fucking support. I am a fucking failure of a supportive spouse, I am very fucking aware of it, and I fucking said NO TO A FUCKING THIRD CHILD YOU STUPID BINT!

But here we are. We have a third child. And no, Tilly cannot cope. And she is snapping at me and I can't do enough. As I predicted and as I remonstrated. For all the fucking good that did.

For those keeping track, it's been over a year now. I add this simply to be an arse and somehow garner sympathy for my cause and ranting. It's a cheap shot. When it's been two years maybe, maybe, I shall have a reason to feel aggrieved. Mind you, as I've said, frankly: I can't see us having sex ever again. I don't get anything from it and I can't provide what Tilly wants in terms of the emotional connection so... Poor privileged white boy over here bemoaning first world issues. What was it Bill Wurz said? "Some people don't have enough friends, some people don't have enough food." I think that about sums it up.

Yeah, done now.

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