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!

Tuesday, 14 August 2018

To save me from the Hell I'm in

I forced a conversation again. Please excuse the double posting of the song below (as in my last post) I have been finding it very helpful to focus work and not being depressed.

This is more for my records (and sanity) rather than anything else, so bear with me. Yesterday Tilly was 'joking' around in increasingly nasty commentary about what I was doing. I pointed this out. Initially she got shirty and angry about me attacking her, how it was all just a joke and how I was no judge of what counted as nasty or not. Then she tried to say it was hard to adjust from me being depressed and attacking myself. Finally, about three hours after the event, she apologised for being out of order.


Tonight, as I was searching for needle and thread (fruitlessly it turns out) I happened across a DVD, The Prestige. No idea where it's form, nor why it was crushed between screws and such emptied out from an old cupboard back in 2014 or 2015. Anyway, in the course of the back and forth on the DVD and where it came from, Tilly announced that my reaction was the same as with "that parcel" and explained that this is why she finds it hard to trust me, as I could be hiding anything and there was no way of knowing. I quibbled and she changed her statement (whilst not admitting that was what she was doing) to why she sometimes found it hard to trust me.

I pushed on this door. We got into cross-dressing. She has been loving me not dressing (oops, I stopped not doing it with my last entry, she wasn't given a memo) because it stops her hating me. She shared that simply knowing I was dressing at any point was enough to make her hate me, viscerally, and there was nothing that could be done about it apart from me obviously never doing it again. She could cope with me being a cross-dresser provided that I wasn't actually cross-dressing.

I pointed out that she had said, a lot, in the past that this was her issue and not mine, but that she was framing it very carefully about my decisions and my choices. Initially she refuted it, but slowly and grudgingly acknowledged that I could be allowed to feel that if I wanted. I note now and noted then the careful phrasing.

Again I pushed. I said we needed to talk over it again then. She expressed frustration, I would only be repeating myself and this was a primal reaction, an irrational one, and there was no unpacking it. Well, I countered, we need to train this part of her to not fear it so much through repetition or else end it all. Those are our options as I see them, and if we're trying to get better then we have to face it.

Tilly very reluctantly accepted this. She wasn't up for any conversation now though. I carefully pointed out that this would always be the case. The children could hear, she protested. They will be fine, I pointed out, like I was with my Grandpa's homosexuality.

Ah, she said, but that was fine because homosexuality is fine and she is fine with homosexuality. I gave a look. Okay, she accepted, fine.

We had the conversation. The ins and outs are not that relevant.  The main issues are this:
1. She maintains that she never knew about my cross-dressing and that finding out about it felt like a betrayal.
2. She does not like my gender expression. Why can't I be binary like everyone else? Okay, other people can be non-binary, but not the man she married, he has to wear man clothes (her emphasis). Simply thinking about me cross-dressing is enough to make her violently hate me and this has diminished since I'd said I'd stopped doing it. (No, I did not reveal my, ahem, gigantic 'fuck you' to her controlling demands).
3. I told her what was in "that parcel". She was unsurprised, "I don't see what else it could have been." I said that was an interesting response, she said she wasn't prepared to talk any further on that. "Fair enough," said I.
4. Her bisexuality ended when we married, she had a wobble (did I know that? - uh, yes, it was kind of a big deal, Tilly - and I repeated my position on it to her again. For reference: she can be attracted to women, do anything she likes with women and the only boundary is the one she sets for 'cheating'; I would respect her boundary and not judge) and then it was done. Why can't I do the same with my cross-dressing?

On point 4, I pointed out that the parallel was unfair. Her 'bisexuality' and 'monogamy' had been a little conflated there. She was still bisexual (she agreed) but married. Her sexuality was unchanged (she agreed). So she was talking about not cheating, my cross-dressing was not cheating. This caused the final epiphany of the evening for Tilly: it was to her. She would need to think this over and mull on it before I could offer anything. I accepted this, pointed out that I felt it was an unfair comparison to make but respected the fact that anything I said right now would just be noise.

We finished with a long hug, then she went to bed.

Friday, 10 August 2018

I hear their hooves

One of my aspie superpowers is to assert reality. That is, to live as if something were true and then not brook alternatives. An experiment then presents itself: let's see if I have self-esteem.

I shall attempt living as if I have, and we'll see what happens.

Seriously, how to people eat this? It stinks and it just looks...
wrong. Also, it makes me feel sick. No, others can have all of
these, I have no issue, but I ain't having them.
I went to the doctor and he told me that there was 'no relevance' of my 'label' of ASD on depression. Which is patent bollocks, but it didn't occur to me until hours later. ASD. Anyway, I ended up paying the prescription charge of £8.80 on some anti-depressants. And I look at them like I view bananas. I can't actually imagine putting them in my mouth and the more I think about it the more visceral my reaction. I don't want to take them. I don't want to try them. I don't want to take them and be influenced by them. I can't do that. Like I can't eat bananas. It's irrational. It's probably stupid. But I just can't. Increasingly, as time passes (as opposed to other definitions of increasingly), I just can't see myself doing anything with them.

Haunting. Sinister. Trans.

Beautiful. Inspiring. Invasive.

Clear. Yearning. Gender.
Tilly continues to remind me that I promised to try all avenues. She continues to seek to commiserate that my last therapist sounded shit. She suggests that I am unwilling to look up others and reminds me that Relate has a list that may be useful but that Relate tends to side too much with the ASD person and not enough with 'reality'. That's the key to that particular mystery. My last therapist agreed with me and not her.

On Quora, after the last big discussion with Tilly, I posted a question of the type I used to read a lot back when the Experience Project was a thing. It gained many responses that I used to see back then, mainly pitched without the depth and understanding that EP would provide - and a decided leaning to bacon-scented candles as a method of dealing with sexlessness in a marriage. But then there was a long answer that mirrored the kind of good advice that Leslie has consistently given on this blog. It made me sit up and notice anew. Like Leslie does.

Self-esteem. It all comes down to self-esteem.

It can be over-used.

I remember that once she claimed I was doing it to her not
long after I introduced the term to her. Were I to try and remind
her of the conversations had in 2016 and late 2017 to early
2018 I am certain I would be so accused again.

I keep records. I learned that in 2006/7 at work.
In short, and to repeat heavily what Leslie has been saying for years, the concept that as an ASD person I am somewhat vulnerable to having self-esteem destroyed. And that Tilly expected me to change and resents the fact that I simply cannot in many of the ways that she would like. That she is from an emotionally abusive background. That a child learns what they live. I was criticised and admonished, I learned to be criticised and admonished. She was emotionally brutalised and so learned to emotionally brutalise. She was gaslit so learned to gaslight. And my vulnerability is seen as weakness and she cannot stand weakness, it must punished and purged until it is no more. But I am a victim. So I took it. I take it.

When I am broken we have 'real conversations' but if I am a participant we have the truth instead.

Dr Luke Beardon, Sheffield Hallam University.

His blog

His talk on vimeo

He's really into triathlons and the smell of his own dog.
And Autism.
In 2016 there was the same cycle. It took longer. But I beat my depression into remission by logic. By having a spine. And in late 2017 I gained a hard-fought concession: the right to wear whatever the fuck I wanted under my clothes. A concession I threw away. I apologised for something I never said. For what Tilly wanted me to have said so that she could be the reasonable one.

I found the comment that reminded me of the video (thank you anonymous) about myths surrounding ASD by Dr Luke Beardon, who has a blog as well and a book on Amazon that I may buy, and it was a wake-up call. A reminder. My experience counts too. I am precise, I try very hard to say what I mean and I will amend my language if I am wrong. But what I am trying to say will remain remarkably consistent. My memory isn't great but, surprisingly, my emotional core is pretty consistent. That's partly why I keep this blog in such detail. It allows me to check back, to cross-reference, to confirm and challenge what I think happened. To temper the fickle memories with what I said about things at the time.

I had it tonight. It's brilliant.

Also fitting.
I asked her why she was so keen to stop me drinking yesterday. Immediately, Tilly got angry and defensive. She had said no such thing. She had barely even mentioned my drinking. I pointed out she had done so once a day since her parents were over. She spluttered, got red in the face, angrily decried my version of events. How dare I! She doesn't care what I drink, yes she did say I conflated relaxation and beer drinking, in an aspie way. I drink like an aspie. Do I not drink like an aspie? As soon as she could she changed the subject. Today she looked the happiest she has for years because we found a missing exercise DVD. I'm not even joking. Happier than at any point than I remember since the wedding. Tyhen and now, not at me, not with me, but with something else and in my direction. Happy at me.

But, you know, I count too.

Let's make that £8.80 the worst I ever spent. Let's return to wearing whatever the fuck I want. Yes, it IS a choice. But it is not my choice to find that so hurtful and irrationally destructive.

Tilly asked: why would I choose to do something that she hated so much. But this misses something: why does she hate it so much? Of what is she afraid? How does it really affect her? She rages at my washing when it dries, has she noticed that I stopped wearing knickers? No, I know she hasn't. Does she rage ineffectively at my boxers? Probably. She is not raging at cross-dressing, she is raging at it remaining outside her control.

I do not blame her. She is as much a victim as I. As much beholden to her past as am I. I make my offers - I am pleased to offer Butterfly treatment if she wishes, with no hope of anything in return, because I enjoy it - but do not expect them to be taken up. This is also fine. No, I do not believe any woman wants me, an ageing cross-dresser with ASD and three children, for a romantic or sexual partner. Or man for that matter - though I am quite cis in that regard and secure in that, so that doesn't bother me.

But I don't need to crawl. I don't need to beg.

I fucking count.

Tuesday, 7 August 2018


Been a bit delayed, this post.

15 Hours

I can't really deny this.
The day after the day after I got the chastity device I did a better job of putting it on. I took my time in the morning and applied it more comfortably and securely after a shower. I intended to wear it for 12 hours, so from about 8am to 8pm. Seeming logical as a test. And it did what I expected, but better. It was comfortable and rather easy to wear. It's plastic components were like what I imagine wearing a corset would be like. I took the smallest on a walk and, of course, a deserted pathway only became busy when I needed a piss and elected to go behind a bush, of course. However, apart from that, there was no incident. I have to say that the experience was almost enjoyable. Apart from an ill-advised look at fap-roulettes on the bog later that day, which was a little constricting if not painful, it was almost easy to forget that I had it on.

I noticed that it was harder to deal with my usual aftermath of going to the loo, that is dripping, but apart from that there was no real ill-effect. Wearing it on the hottest day of the year may have been a bad plan but if that is the worst it can get then all is well. Of course, this was to be the day that Tilly couldn't get the smallest to settle in the evening and so came down until 11pm to 'chat' in the dining room. This meant that I ended up wearing it for 15 hours. As a stress test I think it functioned pretty well and confirmed that the money I spent was worth what I bought. Not quite enough to balance beer for the same price yet but as I suspect this will be far from my last time wearing the device I think I'll hit value for money relatively quickly. The only real surprise for me is that since then I haven't really had the chance to wear it again. I will though.


Yeah, older than these and with some attempt at colour.
As hinted at after the big argument on gaining the chastity device, I have stopped wearing knickers. It's odd. It has reminded me that I do rather need to account for testicles, as I stated last post, and that has been... interesting. Also, most of my boxers are in sore need of replacement - which is why I didn't feel so bad investing in new knickers around Christmas time - and that is not an expense that I have planned for. So I suspect I shall be wearing scratty shitty things for now. You may well ask why I am doing this when I was able to derive some actual joy from the alternative, well, more on that in a moment. This just serves to mark the point at which a rash statement can be counted as becoming a reality.

Speaking of anniversaries and marking points, the second anniversary of our most recent dry patch passed sometime in the last month, so that's nice. Not much to say about that. I think it'll become immaterial in time anyway, so there's that. I won't claim that I am unaffected by its passing though, because I am, and I am a little saddened. I know, I know, it's ridiculous. It's sex, right? No big deal. And we've recently had a third child. Two years is nothing in the grand scheme of things.

I am, however, still planning to cross-dress a bit when Tilly and the children are off visiting her parents down south in a couple of weeks' time. Yes, this is how we roll now. I get time whilst they get holidays. Tilly actually gets a break when I'm not there as she doesn't have to worry about me as well as the children. That seems fair. I get friends visiting for beer and the chance to go for beers at other times so I can't really complain.

That concludes the normal upbeat section of my blog. For more you can click the line break or, like a sane person, abandon the post now.