Intention Deficit

I'm looking at my recent wave of posts and thinking, "How many different ways can I say 'I want to come out, but I won't, because I'm considerate and selfless?'" followed immediately with "Could I just shut up and pick another topic?"  Obviously, the self-sanction/self-denial contradiction has been weighing on me this summer.

It probably started last month when Erica, completely of her own volition, broached the subject of me taking a "girl day."  I actually faltered (in shock, mostly), demurred (because I'm soooo selfless, have I mentioned that?), and gradually relented, since it's been entire years since I've had spouse-sanctioned permission to switch wardrobes, much less when it's her idea!

The time was delightful.  Erica insisted there was no problem spending the day with me "as friends," and we even tackled downsizing our full-to-bursting closet together.  I made her try on every outfit she owned and did the same with mine, and we gave each other feedback on what worked and what didn't, what to save and what to donate.  As women do.

Later, we binged TV shows and ate junk food
in pigtails and pajama pants. As introverts do.

The process of rummaging through my clothes showed me an unprecedented premise, regarding the kinds of clothes I've been collecting over the years: dresses, skirts, shoes... naturally.  Also: tops, pants, sweaters, shorts, overalls (long and short), assorted lingerie, including underwear, bras, legwear, nightwear, & *ahem* playwear.  In short, my wardrobe doesn't reflect someone who obsesses with dressing as a woman, so much as it indicates the thoughtfulness and thoroughness of someone building their female identity.  If I didn't know any better, I might say that subconsciously I was taking steps to transition from one life to another.

I'm not, of course.  And I realize that sounds like denial, and many readers are shaking their heads and placing little bets with themselves that I'm about two years from announcing my full, legal abandonment of all male entitlements and privileges.  It's because I really want to, yes.  I admit it.  But still, I won't.  Because I don't have a good enough reason.

I've definitely got reasons to come out, though, you betcha! ... Shall I list them?  You betcha.

1. I like being honest.  If there's one trait I possess that's both a virtue and liability, it's truthfulness.  Don't go thinking I'm all pious, because I know how to lie, and lie well.  (It sorta goes with the closet life.)  My issue is that I want to proclaim truth.  This makes me trustworthy and dependable, while at the same time completely annoying to my Facebook friends who constantly post stupid inaccuracies in the news and with various memes.  Usually, though, I pair my truth with tact, for maximum effectiveness.

Put another way: when a relative of mine once said he could always count on me to tell the truth, this was less of a compliment and more a way of pointing out that I always tell on myself.  Truly, I find intimate personal divulgence romantically idyllic.  People close to me have no idea how easy it is to get the truth out of me, if they try.  Although, maybe they don't want to.  Which brings me to...

2. Hiding my femme identity is exhausting.  As I've mentioned before, there are loved ones who know of my secret feminine self, but most of them don't want any part of this world.  I make the effort to keep them shielded from it.  And then there's... the rest of the world, basically.  For half of them I'm good, since I really don't care if the men catch on (in fact, I prefer it).  My problem is the distance between myself and other women.

I could (and might) write an entirely separate article on how agonizing it is to know women, to have them as friends, and not be able to explain how deeply I relate to them... more so, to withhold the opportunity for them to care.  It's indescribable, the heartache of socializing with women and knowing they still see me as male, being the only one who can see the invisible wall between us.  At least if they knew, there could be an informed decision.  Of course, once or twice the wall has fallen, and the response was... less than optimal. Leading to...

3. I hate the idea of getting "caught."  It's only funny in sitcoms.  The old "It's not what it looks like!" routine followed by a laugh track, or the wail of a sad trombone.  In real life, there's shock, anger, a tragic lack of adequate vocabulary, and wild ultimatums.  In the best case scenario, there's still debris to clean up, left over from the world everyone once knew but is gone forever, a sense of loss, the pain of change.

It's the concept - "caught" - that highlights the difference between asserting oneself and becoming a victim of circumstance.  Basically, you can't get caught at something if everyone knows you're doing it.  Feeling guilty because someone learned about your secret, outside of it being your decision to let them know, somehow suggests wrongdoing.  In moral circles, they say that whatever you practice in secret must be immoral, if you don't want anyone else to know you're doing it.  Truly, if I were to out myself as transgender there would still be judgment, but I believe that might be easier to endure than this gender purgatory I dwell in now.

They also say the grass is greener, over there. That could also be
because there's more fertilizer to step in, if you know what I'm sayin'.

As I continue my journey, I notice another trend that hasn't quite caught on yet, but may impact events in the future: I'm less concerned with secrecy.  It's become more a job than an obligation, to the point where I should classify it as "community service in lieu of jail."  Except that I've been serving time as well.  And I still don't see how I'm guilty of any crime.  One of these days, I may just blurt it out in a flash of blind rebellion, just because I need to evoke a reaction.  At worst, I'll get sideways glances and hasty exits from the rooms I walk in.  Maybe that kind of treatment doesn't worry me anymore.

Social norms.  Can't live with 'em, can't leave the house without 'em.  (Although if I decide to try, I've got maybe two weeks' worth of outfits before I have to come home to use the washer & dryer.)

-- HCP

Moniker Business

Don't fall out of your seats, because when you read what comes next the revelation might make you a bit dizzy with disbelief:

Holli isn't my real name.

It's not even my first not-real name.

Uhh... good job handling the news?

As I'm confident that your fannies are still comfortably secure in your chairs, I'm also probably right in thinking that most people who stumble across this blog have toyed with the idea of fantasy cross-gendered names in their lifetime.  We're all at least a little curious, what our parents might have named us if the "gender reveal" dial was flipped.  For me, it's kind of a burning question... and for lack of a satisfying answer, I took it upon myself to christen my unidentified feminine side.  A handful of times.

This entry doesn't move forward without me admitting information that's a bit more revealing than anonymous bloggers ought to, but I'm intent on getting this down.  So here it goes:

My given name is Kris.  It's a name about three inches away from the gender border, but no one who mentions it regards me as female.  It would be super easy to leap from Kris to Krissie, or use it mistakenly in that regard, but surprisingly it has occurred to very few people.  Even grade school bullies must have thought it was too easy.

I used to write out ways to change my name, the way other girls would write out the last name of their classroom crushes as if they planned to marry them someday.

"Kris.  Krissie.  Krissy.  Krissa.  Kristy.  Kristen. (Oooh, how about a y?) Krys.  Kryssa!  Krystina!  Krysallinnia!?? ... oh, WOW... no..."

And then I would rip the paper into a million pieces, throw it away, and deny everything, whether I was asked or not.

Which was really hard, having one of these in our living room.

In college, (keyword: Halloween), my girlfriends dubbed me Krystal the first time they saw me dressed as a girl.  (Oh, how warm was my inner glow!)  The name became legend in our social circle, but fell into obscurity. 

Elsewhere online, I've gone by Alyssa Cooper.  Under this name, I've said and done a bit of roleplaying - mostly good, clean fun, but I've certainly fueled a few fantasies contrived by hapless chat room gawkers (nothing exceedingly licentious, but it was nice to pretend I was desirable for awhile).

What seems ages ago, I thought very hard about who I am as a woman, and arrived finally at Holli Cherise.  There's a bit more to it than just inventing a name, but part of the process is a bit telling, and shall remain private.  I will say, though, that while partly my own doing, this designation was also inspired by circumstance and opportunity.  The important thing to know: this is now who I feel I am.

Tragically, for me it still comes down to authenticity.  Names are traditionally bestowed.  We may request them, of course, for a variety of reasons that suit us later in life, but most people grow into identities partly (not exclusively, I know) rooted in the bed of their given names.  For most of my life, I have been Kris - pointedly NOT Krissie, NOT Krystal, NOT Alyssa, as far as anyone else is concerned.  These identities are false.

In a way, it's like if no one knows I'm Holli, then no one can tell me I'm NOT.  I recognize that I'm giving certain people way too much power over me, but there's a positive catch as well.  You see, I feel it works both ways.  Someday, someone precious to me, someone close, will call me Holli (I really don't care what the circumstance, but I'll know when it happens), and I will answer.  And then I'll know.

The naming of a person is to channel life, to lend spark from one's own flame so that another may blaze into being.  Names are powerful.  We share them with those whom we love and trust, and we hide them from strangers, malcontents, and those who would betray us.  There's a lore in names and naming that's very important to each of us in our own worlds.  Dare I say?  Names are magical.  They hold a truth that can set us free or bind us where we stand.  Like a sword or pen, how significant they are depends on how they're used.

Take it from an Austrian literary giant who knows.

What's in a name?  More than anyone bargains for.

Call me Holli.  One of these days, I might just be the woman you were looking for.

-- HCP

Tingling Teeth

I used to hate the term “coming out.”  The meaning of this phrase, of course, is derived from “coming out of the closet” which was almost exclusively a gay metaphor which basically everyone else appropriated.  Even straight people can “come out” about their guilty pleasures.  (i.e. “I’m a closet wrestling fan” or “I don’t tell many people this, but I have sexual fantasies about Daisy Duck.”)

"It gets really in-depth after the third
volume of my unauthorized fanfic."

Call it “confession” or “disclosure” …I don’t care anymore.  These days, letting people in on my closet-sized secret is all I want to do. I’d go so far as to say it’s a bit of a discreet mania.

I haven’t shared my gender identity situation with anyone in years, which is down to basic consideration for my wife, who would prefer to never know what it feels like for our friends & family to learn that she married a bi-gendered person.  I get that, I really do… but from the perspective of a trans-person trying to get some basic identity acquiescence, it’s a frustrating arrangement.

I’ve shared my female identity with seven people in my life (not counting the pre-marriage counsellor, who was, in retrospect, wholly unprepared to deal with that specific sort of speedbump in a burgeoning matrimonial relationship; but she did try, bless her heart, even though “wrapping myself up tightly in a sheet from the arms down” is not valid replacement therapy for actually wearing a dress… but I digress).  The hope was always to have people I trust and care about, and who cared about me, be comfortable at any given time to freely address my transgenderism, so that I didn’t feel so alone and helpless in my distress.  I assumed part of the process would involve some acceptance that I, on occasion, would dress the part (in their absence, of course… unless otherwise indicated… in which case I would just be thrilled).

Instead, what happened was the establishment of two camps of interaction:

Camp Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell - this is inhabited by friends who don’t know how to integrate transgender topics into natural conversation.  Their inhibitions seem derived from a fear of saying the wrong thing and offending me, or - in the case of those opposed to my practical application of a wardrobe - unintentionally implying that they approve of my preferred modes of expression.  Broaching the subject in this camp is generally a complete waste of time.

"Could one of you at least give me a push?"

(To be fair, I’m the only one of my kind whom these good people have ever met. Everything about addressing transgenderism has been new territory for them since the 1990s, thanks to me, exclusively.)

Camp Practical Listening & Shared Wisdom - this camp has an enrollment of one.  Even when she admits she might have no idea what she’s talking about, she still has something to say.  It helps that we’re both wired with the same belief, in that there’s no such thing as analyzing something too much. Unfortunately, this angel belongs to a popular club - “Life Obligations” - that prevents her (and potentially everyone else in the world) from getting too involved in my problems.  (Currently, we are on friend hiatus while she strengthens bonds with her husband, cares for her children with special needs, and celebrates an endless parade of birthdays in her ever-expanding family, all while enduring a weight loss battle.  I have no grounds for protest.)

In the absence of old confidantes, my natural tendency is to seek out new ones.  The obstacles here are multifold.

• The older my peers get, the more set in their ways they become.  They become more guarded of the stability of their own lifestyles, and thus fear any changes that threaten the idyllic worlds their lives have become.  (This point is valid on the condition that everyone has a personal definition of “normal” that my revelation would endanger, which I believe most people do, on the whole.)  This makes me hesitate to bring newer friends closer.

• Telling more people makes the circle wider.  The bigger the circle, the harder it becomes to keep a secret.

• My spouse just loves keeping this secret.  She can live with it, but knowing that other people know is a wound - one which my convictions prevent me from exacerbating any more than I have.

Therefore, being able to out myself to certain people whom I believe could be intellectual and/or spiritual allies in my crusade for trans-recognition has become a crossdream fantasy in and of itself.

As I write this, I’m compelled to add an important fourth drawback, which suddenly seems very crucial to the matter:

• The point of telling someone a secret is to violate its status as a “secret.”  The point of letting someone know that you’re suffering from quiet desperation is with the hope that you might find an escape from it.  Sure, at least you’re not being quiet any more, but if you want things to change, shouldn’t you expect them to change?  Why, then, would I tell someone if I didn’t?

In that regard, my friend Angel once asked me point blank, “What are you prepared to do?”

Lorelai's been there.

It’s a wake-up slap, that question.  It basically means, “Make a decision right now, and see if you can live with it.”  Well… the hard truth is that I’m not about to make any decisions that benefit myself at the expense of my other.  I can’t be Holli and keep Erica.

Nor can I cease to be Holli.  That’s not even a decision I get to make.

Given any kind of chance to live the rest of my life as Holli without consequence of those I love suffering, I know I’d take it.  I don’t even know if that life is better than this one.  I would push that button, because I need to know.

Therefore, me not finding someone else to trust and telling them who I am is like refusing to walk in the room containing the button.  This is basically me admitting that I fear someone supporting me and telling me to go for it.  I fear someone telling me it’s okay to get what I want though it destroys someone else.  I fear that I could be convinced to be that person.

And I don’t think I’m that person.

At least it’s still my decision, even if making the right one isn’t as satisfying as making the one that feels good.

c. Charles Schulz

-- HCP

Phallic Wars

   If I am to report faithfully on my life as a cross-dressing girlie-wannabe, I'll faithfully describe the marvelous contradictions that define me.  And if I make mention of contradictions, then inevitably I'll have to blog about something that garners tremendous love & hate, regarding my kaleidoscopic sexuality.  I'm so repulsed by this thing I'm even loathe to speak its name; yet I need it more than I care to admit, and I'm prone to committing acts of surrender, desperation, and even idiocy for its benefit.  If you haven't realized what I'm talking about by now, I'll summon the word which is anathema to me:

   Penis.

   Ugh.  I don't even know where to start.  Just reacting to the sight of it in text form repulses me.  I assure you, if my brain had bells attached to it that rang in accordance with how many scrambled emotions this subject evokes within me, I should be the Cathedral of Notre Dame.  I shall explain, and to make it relevant but clean, I'll include images such as this:

Intentional entendre.

   I'm very attached to my genitalia.  Ever since I was a child, curious of its purpose yet always taking the weird thing for granted, there has never been a problem.  It's always been very useful, what with the discharging of useless, harmful waste (most often at a time of my choosing).  When puberty arrived, it let me know how I could pay it back for all those years of benevolent service.  And when the time came, even Erica was taken in by its charms.

Though not enough to be enticed to wear this for me.
Or vice versa.

   For the most part, ours is a mutually beneficial relationship.

   (Note - just because I'm referring to it as though it were a character doesn't mean I've bestowed upon it a unique, wholly independent persona, nor do I ever hold conversations with it.  I'm simply saying it has its place, and I intend to never give it up.)

   Still, it vexes me... mainly because it so readily turns on me. It harbors an awareness of how much I wish I were a woman, and over the years it has managed to turn nearly every transgendered thought that crosses my mind into an erotic suggestion.  It totally digs the dual-gender lifestyle, always egging me on to push the limits of what I'm capable of to satisfy its ceaseless quest for sensual fulfillment.  I deny these requests, practically daily, because I don't believe in letting such a small percentage of my nervous system do the thinking for me.  If I were to let it have its way, I'd have long ago sold myself to a sex-centered identity and traded my freedom for numerous wild - albeit short-lived - pleasures.  All of this considered, it probably resents me.

I'm including this image just to mock it.

   Despite my attraction to perversity, I'm really such a prude.  Ever since the halcyon days of adolescence, my "mini-me" has been nearly starved for human contact - not because it never gets it, but because it's insatiable!  It carries the burden of belief that it's actually more important than other people seem to let on, thriving on the hope that one day someone (ideally Erica) realizes she can't get enough of it and devotes more time to its care and well-being.  The bounds of reality are no match for wishful thinking.

   It's a monster, I tell you.  Nearly everything about my personal character that makes up my "selfish" side can be traced to this stupid, single-minded, unflattering appendage.  God help me, most of the time I want everything that it wants, too.

   Speaking of monsters, I must opine that it's just awful to look at.  At any given time, it exists in one of three states, each perfectly pathetic: rigid, waxing, and deflated.  I sometimes feel I'm the only one who thinks none of these are anything to be proud of, although the former seems to award men a sense of accomplishment.  Unbelievable.  To paraphrase Stephen King: Is there anything that looks as silly and out of place as a dude with a full erection?  It looks more like a balloon animal than a symbol of sexual prowess.

The only thing more silly looking? TWO of them. Doing this.

   I should also mention that it's a terrible reminder of why it sucks to be male - like all good real estate, it lacks the three most vital qualities you need in a vulnerable hunk of anatomy: Location, Location, and Location.  Not only does it seriously hamper my ability to pretend it's not there (I hate how difficult it is to tuck and stay tucked!), but even when I'm not en femme, it's prone to all manner of physical confrontations, against which it has no hope of defense.  So thank you, Mother Nature, for a) replacing that which I most want with that which leaves me most susceptible to the elements, and b) punishing me for being born in this body... which, by the way, was also your decision (but at least I was spared from regular menstrual cramping, so I guess we're even).

Everyone loses.

   I should also say that of all the male sex organs out there, mine is the least offensive... to me, at least.  That is to say, I also hate every single one of yours.  Seriously.  I don't want any part of seeing them, hearing about them, and above all I don't want any kind of physical contact with them.  I don't "do" porn, because inevitably a phallus will appear on screen, and if I were into porn then the scene introducing another guy's wood would be the LAST THING to get me in the mood, and the first thing to rob me of satisfaction.

   That said, I recognize that the phallus is one of the favorite components of the "feminine actuality" fantasy among the more libidinous members of the crossdreaming community. There's no denying that the penis is popular among a whole lot of us.  Fellatio is often employed as a grand symbol of womanhood, or even anal penetration, in subservience to a dominant partner or controller.  Whether or not any of us would actually do such a thing, it's nonetheless a popular fantasy.  Personally, I can see how the submissive factor in this scenario is somewhat appealing, but the legendary "quivering member" doesn't enhance my fascination with being a woman to this degree.  While I might fantasize about being required to grant an intrusive object access into my person, if the object in question is purplish, veiny and loosely wrapped in wrinkly skin, then I should rather eat hissing cockroaches than allow it to make berth in any orifice of mine.

I just killed your stiffy, didn't I?

   Before I wrap this up, I have one more complaint, and this takes issue with the word itself...

   Penis. Bleah.

   What a stupid sounding word.  As far as I'm concerned, those letters were strung together to keep people from taking their sexuality seriously.  It's a ridiculous word to say. It may well contribute to self-esteem issues.  And... and... it only rhymes with Venus. (Sorry, I have this thing about listing things in threes and I was reaching.)  And speaking of my favorite gender, could we get a different term other than "vagina?"  Seriously.  If I'd never heard the name before, this might almost make me scared to meet one... say, on a dark road winding through the forest at midnight. "Bewaaaare the VAGINA, foolish traveler!" [cue ominous howling]

grrrr...!

   *sigh* Anyway, in summary: I hate the penis, in name, concept, and appearance. Yours. Mine. Genitals overall, really. Unless they're being taken advantage of in their proper context: in the dark.

~HCP

Free Form Fantasy pt. 3: Submission

If there's one thing I resent about being a crossdreamer, it's that during a lifetime of emulating women I've been forced to go it alone most of the time.  Lack of materials (clothing), resources (time, privacy, money) and experience (peer support/feedback/counseling) left me no alternative but to rely on my own limited intellect when it came to feeling out the territory.  A creative mind, like water, finds ways around obstacles in its path, even when it must deviate from it's intended course.  This is a recurring theme in nature.  In living organisms, we call it "survival instinct."

At some point, I responded to my pitiful lack of membership in a female society by seeking out women who might find the idea of dressing me as a woman appealing.  I won't try to pass this off as some personal checkpoint, since it never worked in the long run.  But that doesn't detract from the fact that submission to a woman with makeover mania has its own wing in my fantasy gallery.  I'm not alone, either.  Not at all.  A great many members of the crossdreaming culture have the same obsession, to varying degrees.

As I mentioned before, there are dozens of websites dedicated to crossdream fantasies, and in the dominance/submission category there are, again, recurring themes.  Shall I explore these now?  Yes, I shall, beginning on the "vanilla" side:

Friendly Fun For Everyone

I've already written about how Erica and Penny dressed me up as a woman for Halloween in college, and how they enjoyed the process of selecting my outfit, doing my hair, nails and makeup, and showing me off to our friends.  At the time, this was the ultimate wish fulfillment as far as I was concerned.  It definitely inspired a parade of bigger and better possible realities with which I'd learn to tantalize myself, but I would eventually understand that this was the best kind of crossdreaming fantasy, simply because it's the kind most likely to happen.

They're discussing whether to dress up Molly's cousin as a Goth chick,
a French maid, or a Disney princess.  Or, a combination of all three.

The younger the ladies, the more open they are to social perversity, especially in groups.  When this mindset encounters the concept of their gender opposites switching roles, their enthusiasm doubles.  I don't have the numbers to back me up, but I suspect the most frequent occurrence of boys acquiescing to feminine makeovers by their female friends and/or partners takes place during the late high school/early college years.  (Okay, this was how it happened for me, but the theory is sound!)

Honestly, it wasn't hard to find girls in college who wanted access to my feminine side.  True, they didn't want so much access as I was willing to offer, but there were plenty of opportunities to make myself available.  If I was hanging out with some coeds in their dorm room, and my bare feet happened to be hanging off the bed while they were doing their nails, I ended up with a pedicure.  With my long hair, a casual evening of platonic conversation occasionally turned into "fun with curlers."  It was easy to get Penny & Erica to make me over for Halloween, because all I did was demonstrate how easy it would be, effectively giving them permission.  It was basically my idea, but they ran with it.

In short, this is the most common fantasy we 'dreamers have.  It a) involves the people we trust and look up to the most, b) provides a safe environment where risk of consequence rests at a minimum, and c) grants us the ability to openly enjoy ourselves.

Becoming "one of the girls" will also create a lasting bond.
Especially when blackmail photos are used as leverage.

Feminized Agenda

According to crossdream legend, there exists a kind of woman who not only demonstrates a marked curiosity in the average heterosexual male cross-dresser, but has also reached the point of wanting to help that special girl emerge from hiding... at all costs.  In fact, she takes particular pleasure in encouraging her transgendered friend to spend more time exploring her femininity.  Encouragement becomes insistence.  Insistence becomes relentless pressure, which eventually results in the crossdreamer losing touch with every semblance of her masculine gender and spending virtually every waking moment in the world this "sponsor" has helped her build.

Just pray your mentor has good taste.
Or at least watches "What Not To Wear."

This is a very popular fantasy, which I now believe begins to take shape right after a trans-girl realizes that even the most fun-loving girlfriend doesn't have any intention of playing fashion pimp to her femme beau, even on the occasional Halloween.  Wouldn't it be much nicer - and easier - to meet someone who actually wants us to act more like a woman?  Who gently but firmly leads us by the hand towards complete gender renovation?  Who removes our decision-making power so that we're effectively no longer responsible for any lifestyle changes, thus free from the guilt of shocking & hurting the other people in our lives?  This woman would likely be a distant cousin to the yetis of Nepal, since she too is often sighted but never proven to exist.  Ah, well, imagination certainly has benefits.

"Sometimes, me feel pretty too..."

Admittedly, I myself have entertained such lurid dreams, with the additional burden of a libido that has, since adolescence, formed permanent bonds of arousal with the sensation of wearing certain feminine attire - a combination of stimuli that renders me tirelessly attracted to the idea of being in someone's thrall when I'm en femme.  Thorough readers will recall Mallory, who I dated in high school, and how she enjoyed tormenting me with a devilish promise to make me over as a girl for Halloween, which I totally let her believe was akin to my worst nightmare so she'd keep wanting to do it (such a strange relationship, in hindsight).  This is the closest I've ever come to seeing my forced feminization fantasy come true, though it never happened.

The fantasy evolves further once the "dominant/submissive" element is introduced, leading the ever-searching crossdreamer to explore a variety of flavors that include bondage, hetero/homosexual experimentation, role playing, and body modification. Once again I admit that my imagination has ventured this far, but I remain inexperienced, and more than a little reluctant.

As you might have noticed by now, there are no examples of my personal fantasies regarding anything mentioned in this category.  My blog runneth over already, so I'll end on a short, sweet note... And I'm just gonna keep this part vanilla, if ya'll don't mind.

#1 on Holli's Super Girly Fun List: Just Being One of the Girls

~HCP

Two Minds of the Same Whole Part of the Half

Altogether now: belly laugh!  That's right, I'm a slacker.  But what's most important is that I was right about being a slacker.  I called it!  "Won't last until February," I said.  However, I was going to give myself a little more credit than "Won't even make it to 2012."

Ever the optimist... ever the renegotiator...

I'm coming atcha tonight in the seclusion of my comfy basement.  The ever-loving spouse is spending the night an hour and a half away from here and will return again tomorrow.  And so despite the dozens of other way more important things I have to do, I'm going to type up a little bit of news out of Holli World.  Even though, honestly, I really don't want to.  I'm tired, sleepy even, a bit distracted, and I seem to be having trouble putting everything I actually have to say in cohesive order.  But if not now, when?

Sooooo... Sunday night.  Yes.  Erica and I had, officially, the most horrible conversation about my gender issues ever.  It wasn't loud, nor did it in any way resemble an argument.  There was a bit of a return to the subject of my long hair and how it was "driving a wedge" into our marriage, and "What do you hope to gain?" or "What do you think is going to happen if you wait around long enough, some sign from heaven, or whatever?"  And what I wanted to say was all of the stuff I wrote down in my last segment.  Well, some of it sort of got said.  A few main ideas.  Not in so many words.

To tell the truth, it could have gone better.  We talked about how each of us is dealing with some pretty severe emotional needs issues right now, prompting me to mutter, "I'm having a hard time deciding which one of us needs therapy the most."  Soon after, I made an attempt to sum up my feelings about what I believe I need.  The effect was diminished by the subtle undertones of "crazy" that I'd let creep in...

I told Erica that I believed I had two genders - one physical body, but two genders (important distinction there) - and that a part of me is emotionally starved - my feminine ego - because it receives no love.  I then made mention of such phenomena as genetic chimeras, made a bit of a philosophical pass on the topic of souls ("Would it be possible for two souls to reside in a single body?") and concluded that sometimes I wonder if part of me was really supposed to be someone else entirely.

After all of this was said, after a bit of silence, she replied, "I think you win. You definitely need the therapy more than me."

"By that, do you mean 'That's a lot more that he's going through than I ever would have expected,'" I asked, "or do you mean, "He's absolutely insane and needs professional help'?"

"Yes," she said.

It was meant to be a joke... she later told me.  Unfortunately, friends, Erica's jokes don't always hit home.  For those close moments that followed, it looked like she'd lost all faith in me, or the possibility of seeing this through to a rational conclusion.  I could have sworn I actually heard a string snap, like something big suspended overhead had just lost an important element of support.  It's as close as I've ever been to being stunned silent.

Maybe I'll get to the rest of that well-worded epiphany of mine some other time.  Sooner would be better than later, but I've been all about nailing the timing.  I trust that it will work out in the end. Like my sister-in-law loves to say, "It'll be alright in the end; it's not alright, so it's not the end."

Ever the optimist... ever the sucker...

~HCP

New Resolve

I am so predictable.  If you know anything about me, I mean.

It's almost the New Year.  If there is anything you can double your money on, it's by betting on me trying to kickstart something I let gather dust some time during the year, especially when the Annual Glorious New Beginning rolls around.  Well, I'll see that bet and raise you odds that I don't last to February.  (Good luck collecting if I lose, by the way...)

Despite my absence from my sparse little blog site, there has been a lot of roller coaster-esque activity happening up in my thought box.  There's just no room to explain it all, no time to really organize what I've been feeling, to describe the rare moments of clarity where I almost think I know who I am and what I need to do to actualize who I need to be, or how many times I've noticed contradictions, redundancies, and sudden U-turns that change my way of thinking. But what it comes down to (and here you may notice the hint of a theme taking form) is that I'm so. damn. lonely.

It's the cruelest of ironies that anyone who sits squarely on a serious truth can be surrounded by people who love her, and yet feel completely isolated because she can't reveal about herself what she so desperately wants to.  I've felt this deeply these past months.  I'm still not sure what I'm going to do about it.  Maybe nothing, which is typical.  Maybe something.

My dear Erica is always* asking me, "What do you want?"  My answers have always been lacking in conviction and clarity. Well, I finally forced myself to answer than damnable question.  The following is something I've been hammering out for a month or so, and which will be brought up the very next time I'm asked:

    "All my life, my feminine self image has been shaped by my own perceptions.  I've decided that it's overall counterproductive to continue letting this state of isolation deepen. Having a feminine persona existing along side my masculine identity has always been about me.  When it's no longer just about me - when I can say that someone is genuinely, willingly, and positively communicating with my feminine identity - then I will be able to move forward.  Until then, I'm afraid there will be no progress.

    "It's not about getting "what I want."  It's about embracing the truth, coming to terms with its nature.  The alternative is to push it down & lock it away, in which there is no salvation - more like reckless abandon enabled by the drug of denial.

    "What I suffer from isn't a delusion, or misconception; I know what I am, and what I am not. What plagues me is the emptiness, the echo of my lonely voice as I speak out loud to nobody but myself. I lack the affirmation I need.  People do not grow by heeding the wisdom of themselves; "iron sharpens iron" as it is written.  Everyone requires some external recognition, some form of acknowledgment of what one is, whether in the physical or emotional realms, or both.  The gift of constructive, well-thought out perspective widens one's credible understanding of what a thing is.  This isn't just what I wish for, it's what I need."
 

I'm sure it needs work. I'll obviously need to provide a few more details when I open my mouth to confess all of this.  Not that there's anyone checking up on my little corner of cyberspace these days, but if any passerby cares to pare down my thought processes with a few well-intentioned questions, I would be most appreciative.

But yes... I'm lonely, and tired of it, especially when there's no real need for secrecy amongst people who love me.  Will Erica respond well to this declaration?  Not likely.  That is, she'll take it in, then leave me to deal with these thoughts on my own.  But at least she won't shoot me down.  And she's never come close to wishing she could divorce me (I believe).  Which is what I keep telling myself is the true victory - ultimate commitment.

I just need a bit more than that: compassion; empathy; a miracle of grace to let others step up to provide these if she finds that she can't.

And soon... please, dear.

~HCP

*Well, not always.  We don't really speak about my feminine identity anymore.  I'm only saying this used to be her number one question.

The Miss and her Mistress, pt. 2

I'm reminded of a joke I heard in high school, which I now offer with an extra infusion of irony:

Q: What's the difference between a sadist and a masochist?

A: The masochist says, "Hurt me."  And the sadist says, "No."

The fruit of which a trans-person such as myself delights is bittersweet.  Every bite is a struggle to reconcile two naturally opposed forces of nature:  The search for identity versus the mandates of social familiarity; Dread of loneliness against the fear of discovery; Yearning for meaningful relationships, yet fearing no one will ever be able to love you for being you.

Sometimes these symbolic battles manifest as genuine situations.  In my case, marriage.  "I love you so much, but I can never do what you ask of me."  This is no overnight phenomenon.  Such dazzling contradictions, like diamonds, take lots of time and intensity.

I revealed my hidden gender to Erica one quiet night at college, both of us laying together on her dorm bed.  I was gentle, but candid.  There was no way to predict her reaction, and no expectation on my part beyond hope that I'd made a good decision.

In the years that followed, Erica traveled from one end of the gamut of complicity to the other.  She began with sincere acceptance.  With time and consideration, she eventually stood against any kind of physical cross-gendered expression.

After she graduated, and later discovered how I'd sought expression outside her sphere of approval, Erica reluctantly granted me a few opportunities to become "freely feminine" in her presence.  She survived these sessions with self-distraction techniques and measured apathy.

In marriage, Erica's alleged indifference was incinerated by her zeal for being a wife.  While some form of feminine expression was anticipated on my part, she was taken aback by the frequency of routines.  Over the years she became more vocal with her reservations, even while still attempting to honor my entreaties for participation.

2003 -  let's call it the year of the Purge & Empty Promise - was when Erica officially wrote herself out of the Holli Cherise Show.  That was pretty much all on me...

As a gesture of compassion for the love of my life, I spent a full final weekend en femme and then ceremoniously discarded the majority of my assembled wardrobe.  Less than a year later, after the inevitable revelation that I wasn't, in fact, through with cross-dressing, the disappointment created an unassailable rift between the two of us.  Her conscious mind has remained closed to the feminine me, for the most part, ever since.  Erica expresses no interest in my thoughts, feelings or activities regarding cross-dressing or any other trans-interests I might keep in the back of my closet.

Her last words on the matter declared that she could no longer see me as a person when I dressed for the role, that I seemed some nameless "thing" taking up space until her spouse returned  A sure sign that I could no longer rely on her as an accomplice or confidant.

In an ironic twist, my irrepressible femininity would begin to manifest during the rising passion of our lovemaking.  Surprisingly, Erica has attempted with admirable success to use it rather than succumb to it.  Some of the elements of submission have come into play, and if she doesn't dwell too deeply on the subtext our experiences are quite mutually pleasurable.  Will some common ground avail itself to our mutual benefit, at least as far as the darkened bedroom?  One can only hope.

Meanwhile, I'm pretty sure I won't be completely satisfied with any pseudo-cross-gendered interaction until it's reflective of a heart that knows exactly who stands before it, and then embraces her.  (I know, right?  Let's hear it for mile-high standards!)  But there is a bright side: by insisting on denying me the very thing I would beg her to do for me, it seems Erica has the makings of a first class dominatrix.

~HCP