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, 27 November 2018

To Live To Love

I was partially planning an update, all about where things are and what has and has not changed. To put my mournful style into context with ruminations on my lack of luck with love-related matters - perhaps my ASD has always preyed on me and my dealings with women to the extent that the current situation is, indeed, the best I can get.

But then Tilly actually brought it up. By going through the medium that my brother and I are both irreparably broken when it comes to birthdays and Christmas, and how hard that is for her and my brother's wife and how it is likely down to my mother and how angry that makes her; via a detour through how much I suck the joy from all gatherings and occasions, with a stop-over at how much I ruined last Christmas with our deep and meaningful about my diagnosis and subsequent decision(?) to wear underwear - not so named but hinted at strongly - Tilly admitted that she was winding herself up.

What if we couldn't kick-start our relationship again? What if we tried to be physical and she couldn't give a shit? That would end in divorce, so I had said, and that was terrible. It's not just the security, she says, but it is also is - because she wouldn't have that and asking for me to continue to support things would be unfair. Sooner or later she would lose the house and that would be the end of everything. I explained that my own planning was, if it came to that, I was prepared to work on the support so that she would at least have the house until the youngest was 14. My aim was 18, that might not happen, but I wasn't going to let decisions about our children we took together unravel because of that. Equally, I respected her too much to leave her in penury, at least until she had the time to find another relationship.

She hugged me. Said it was nice. Said it helped. She was winding herself up. Nothing more has been said.

Tilly is no closer. Sometimes she wants to end it all and sometimes she wants to make a change. She's scared of a divorce. That does rather suggest an overall direction, to be fair.

A Story

In the before times, when this blog was naught but a guilty idea existing in the future, there was a troubled young father. A child had been born and there had been ructions. He had been ejected unceremoniously from the recovery ward and his partner and new child, spending a fitful night away before being allowed back in only at 9am. In those hours the relationship between this young father and his partner had shifted in ways that the young father would only learn at his leisure many years later. For a start the partner, soon wife, had decided that she alone could shoulder the burden of the new child. She alone could be trusted. She was not supported, she was not respected. The young father was unaware of this.

Time passed. The young father went on a honeymoon and began to realise the extent of the change - no relations were enjoyed. His ideas were dismissed. Romance was dead. After a year or so the wife offered the chance of a second child, but both of them assumed that trying for a child would take maybe eighteen months. It took two days. Physical relations ended once more. Increasingly, the young father found that he could not devote time to his job. A search was mounted for a new one. He went back to the terrible Head of Department. So it was that the birth of the second child heralded more trouble and strife. Initially all was well, but the wife was suffering. Physically and mentally. On the birthday of the young father, now struggling with all of the housework in support, he assumed, of his wife, was met with a midwife. That midwife sternly told the young father that he must take time off work, that his wife needed counselling. Urgently. She needed him to "step up" and "take time off work" and "take more of a share of the housework."

The wife apologised, she didn't know how to ask. She was afraid the husband would say no. The husband was appalled, how would he say no to this? She was suffering PND, she was struggling, of course he would take time off. There were no extra jobs, he had been doing those, but he arranged travel to and from a place some 60 miles distant where the therapist his wife needed lived. It continued over summer during daylight hours, the father taking the children as long as possible on parks, walks, in the local church, playing hide and seek, stressing over his wife in therapy.

Work restarted. The therapy continued twice a week but not on weekends. The father was buffeted, his boss was unsympathetic. His evening disappeared in childcare and ferrying the mother to and from therapy on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On each journey back the wife quizzed the husband about his past and his upbringing. Attempting to psychoanalyse. The husband tried his best to politely turn these efforts down. The therapy was for his wife, focus on him was unfair.

He was accused of not supporting her: physically or emotionally. He was not washing the pots properly. The pet needed to be cared for, after the wife was in bed, for an hour a night regardless of issues. He had the eldest to care for from the moment he arrived home, no later than 5pm, until an ill-defined point in the evening between 7pm and 9pm. The husband began to feel the strain. He did not ask his wife about her day. He did not listen to her answers. He did not say enough in conversations, he was not listening unless he responded with potted summaries and agreement with new and different information. But not too much. The wife demanded he listen quietly, offer no solutions, not interrupt, but not sit in silence. Normal people would know what to do. Conversations flared and died. No one asked about the young father's day, no one cared about the work piling up. That he worked to midnight and beyond was simply further evidence that he did not care about his family.

Then summer rolled around once more. By now his Head of Department was in open warfare. The young father had struggled. Energy drinks were consumed at work. Stress caused him to cry in the face of his wife, who reacted with anger and disgust - what kind of man cried in front of his wife? She wanted nothing to do with it. He must understand that such behaviour made her fear for her children, this was not normal, did he want her to leave? It was scary for her.

The holidays. The young troubled father revealed his cross-dressing, knickers to a grandmother's birthday, to his wife. She explodes. She reveals that her therapy sessions had cracked the PND, were beginning to deal with the trauma of her childhood and the death of her grandparents. But now all of that is lost, derailed, because she has to discuss the father's disgusting habit instead. The therapist tells her that the father is unlikely to change. She is disgusted. Bible verses follow. Urging to get it sorted or leave. Reminders that if it is kept secret there must be a reason. This explains everything. His lack of support, his lack of love, his inability to respond.

The years of Hell begin. And the blog starts that December, using incidents from the October to November.

And thus, in this way, a story is completed.

Tuesday, 20 November 2018

A Record

We started the Discussion. We seemed to go a ways, seemed to be talking about physical intimacy again, how she was self-conscious, how we might 'roll-start' the engine of our physical intimacy. But. There was always a but. But, physical intimacy couldn't happen until we could spend time together, talk in an engaged fashion. Okay, how do we do that?

We don't.

Okay, but how do we do that?

Well, I must understand how hard I am to live with. How hard it is to try and make any kind of connection with, well, my aspie-brain.

Okay, what am I doing wrong, what do I need to fix?

That therapy she did, way back before this blog began, 2010-11, that was actually about me. About her frustrations at being unable to connect. About living with a block of wood. Yes, she was trying, cack-handed, to psycho-analyse me in the car after every session, to probe what it was that made me broken. She does not recall saying what she did then was to punish me, maybe that was her trying to hurt me.

Oooookaaay. So what do we do now?

Maybe there's nothing that can be done. We don't share interests. I have nothing to talk about with her. There's always something that gets in the way, always an obstacle.

But... you put them there.

Yes, because of how hard it is to live with different brains. She said she didn't want to end it, though she's thought about how maybe she should fifty million times since then, and since then there hasn't been any move to do anything.

What am I missing? What haven't I done? My mother was down, sure, but...

There's always something, see? Always a reason. She's tired, she's got work to do, the youngest has been exhausting, she's organising stuff for the children, my mother is down. We're as bad as each other.

Okay, yes, but what was she expecting we'd do?

How does she know? How can she be expected to know? Here, why don't we play a game of chess, during which she will complain about how she's not getting work done and try to explain how she can't win with two rooks (because that's not a combination you can win with against a king and pawn, why won't I ever take her at face value? Why will I never just accept what she says?) and how our youngest is now awake and how much time we wasted when she needs to do things for her online work. Yes, okay, fine, she'll take me up on my offer of looking after the child whilst she gets her urgent work done. Don't expect her to be happy about it. Long silence. She's sorry. She doesn't want the aspie-ness to be what ends our relationship. She doesn't want it to be like that.

Sleep comes. The morning. The second day.

Thursday, 15 November 2018


I love me a bit of battenburg.

Tilly is not a fan. She'd rather gouge out her eyes than eat it.
When I started this place in 2011 it was because I could not discuss things with Tilly. I wanted somewhere to explain what I was feeling, explore what I was doing and, if necessary, find answers. The initial question, where does this leave masculinity and me, was added after reading other blogs and to try and give this place something to chew on. Indeed, my explorations have always been less about masculinity and femininity than they have been about what I enjoy and why. They have been an attempt to understand things better.

Earlier in the week, Tilly said that she had come to the decision that she didn't want to jack everything in, not yet. She didn't know if there was a chance of things getting better but the lack of desire to end everything was a positive, right? She bought me flowers and a battenburg cake yesterday just because and has initiated more hugs since then than I think she's done since we last had sex.

Mt Rainer, like many things, casts a long shadow in an
unexpected way.
But the conversation, the need for it, hung over everything. Tonight she said she was aware of this, unprompted (though I was going to raise it). She does not see how that conversation can have a positive outcome and admitted that she was scared of it all ending. She always had been. The long pauses, the fact that we keep going round in circles, she was just very good at avoiding things. She doesn't want to have the conversation. I can understand that, but I don't think it has been healthy. Unlike her, I do not see her avoidance of it for the last seven years as in any way healthy or helpful, nor something laudable or praiseworthy - she does. Most couples, she said, when one partner raises problems last no longer than a year before either solving it or ending. She, she said proudly, had managed far longer than that. There's wiggle-room, but I think the problems were the lack of physical connection and I think the partner referred to was me, I may be wrong.

And so I wait.

Sunday, 4 November 2018


It seems as though, once again, Leslie was right.

 A series of difficult decisions now have to be made. The time has come, the crux of the matter is here, awooga awooga, this is not a drill etc etc. My marriage may well be at an end. We shall see.

Support has been sought, found, tested, and used. Discussions are taking place. Reality reversal is in full effect but we're moving, ish, toward resolutions.

I also took the time to re-read my first month of posts. Startlingly, for me, they set out very much what I still think. But more clearly and more eruditely than I have done for quite some time. They set out the very simple points at the heart of all of this. The most important were the first four - the ones written before I had a blog to post them to. The images may have changed, or have gone bad, but the text remains remarkably clear. I wish I could still write with that kind of clarity. Anyone reading this blog and wondering about my own take on gender should read them if they want to actually learn something about me and what makes me tick. Hell, I learned something.

And they accurately predict the last seven years of this blog, tellingly, as well as setting out what the topics of the discussions that Tilly and I are now having would be, along with some interesting points on how they would turn out. Not in so many words, but re-reading was illuminating for me, at least. It further proves that I am rather consistent, it is Tilly who is not.

My only direct comment is to share that Tilly told me that she was once more adventurous, before she met me, in the intimacy department. Even the early part of our relationship, but then there were my confusing responses and arguments. Now she's a middle-aged woman with three children. When I claimed on here that I made her boring it turns out that I was spot on. It was me that turned her off sex.