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. 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 "Story So Far" Page above this and the "New Readers" 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!

Friday, 13 April 2012


I've not been posting like I thought I'd be.


One: I've been mulling over what my Dad said.  Harsh or not, it doesn't matter, the point is that he is right.  He also made the remark "maybe therapy isn't for you".  And I think he was right.  I don't understand therapy, I don't get how it is supposed to work.  As a consequence I find it very unlikely that it will work.  And, as part of therapy is the fact that you want to change, I don't feel that it can work on me right at the moment.  I don't want to change.  I am a bit of a lazy bastard who rather knows where he is and is comfortable, not happy, with the way of things.  I know what things look like.  And I am scared by change.  Terrified.  It leads to the unknown.

Two: I've been reading good fanfiction.  I know, I didn't think it could exist either.  But it does.  http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5782108/1/Harry_Potter_and_the_Methods_of_Rationality  It is awesome.  And scary.  And I feel like I'm emulating it as I write.

Three: I dressed yesterday, full regalia, and I felt whole.  I didn't feel like a woman, I didn't feel the need to have people accept it, I felt like me.  I even applied the term "honey" to myself in my monologue, which shocked me a bit.  And it didn't even hurt at all to wear the heeled boots, rather, they felt... right.

And I don't understand.  Perhaps I don't even care.  I'm losing my relationship with my daughter inch by inch because I can't seem to stop playing favourites with my son; I stand to lose much more at work and financially; eventually Tilly is going to walk away (we had some wine, she got talkative, none of what she had to say was anything other than awful, but she meant well) - and, no, I don't care.  I don't want to live alone.  But I cannot live with others.

When my time comes, I don't wish to be remembered.

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