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

Holli's Universal Wish List of the Nigh-Impossible

Do you ever find yourself in the position of longing for things you will never, ever obtain no matter how long you hold your breath or stretch your fingers with fervent yearning?  Chances are good.  It's a common trait in human beings, wanting what we can't have, breaking our necks to reverse the polarity of truth defining our predicament.  Some of us are realistic and choose to settle.  Others damn the torpedoes and go for broke, accepting any and all casualties in the melee kicked up by our unruly defiance.

I'm somewhere in the middle, when it comes to being Holli.  You'll hear me say again and again that I won't risk social stability just to pursue the hedonistic lifestyle of a transgendered debutante, but the choice comes with a burden. I try not to upset the lifestyle I've chosen to preserve, yet obliviously hold out hope for finding myself in the happy swirl of girlie euphoria, which I can only imagine must exist out there somewhere.  For instance, I've been daydreaming a little list of all the things I wish I could experience en femme, but are as accessible as the moon and stars.  I'll start on the "Not So Unrealistic" end of the spectrum, and progress toward "Maybe If You Had A Million Dollars."

9. Hair

This one starts at the top because, well, I actually have outstanding hair!  It's dark blonde, shoulder length, and straight.  It tucks behind one ear in the cutest way, and waves gently as it falls, giving the meek suggestion of natural curl when it rolls past my neck, as if begging to be done up in rollers.  From here we see the root (ha!) of my hair issues - I can't ever do anything with it besides have it washed.  Granted, I can experiment with hair ties, head bands, clips & assorted scrunchies, but sadly I boast no ability to braid my own locks, may never experience the luxury of surrendering to a professional stylist, and probably won't ever get around to experimenting with bangs, perms, or hair color (I've wondered how I might look as a redhead).  I imagine it's very hard to explain to coworkers why you chose to go with auburn highlights and sport twin ponytails in playful red-and-white polka dot hair twists.  (Although obviously I would be wearing them to go with my outfit, duh.)

8. Nails

Anyone can grow their nails out.  Anyone can even file them into innocuous, petite little edges, if they take time to master the ancient tools known as Clippers and File.  You can even gloss 'em in clear polish.  People probably won't notice.  Except for women. Women will definitely notice, actually.  So never mind about being able to keep a set of classy kitten claws, much less polish them, if I don't want to draw curious looks.  As a modern closeted CD, I can dare myself to buy a few bottles of splashy color at the local Target, but giving myself a nice nail finish only to have to rub it all off at the end of an "open closet" session is such a senseless waste.  I've never had more than two days to enjoy a set of fresh, shiny red nails.  It's too much work for too little reward.  Like working retail.

7. Makeup

This one falls in line with what I lament about #8.  Putting on makeup for the space of a few hours just for the sake of "being as girly as I wanna" is simply deflating when you go to take it off, thinking of how long you spent trying to make it look just right.  Makeup serves multiple purposes, not the least of which for CDs is to pass as their feminine selves in public.  Get it?  In public.  It's a terrible catch 22:  When women put on makeup before leaving the house, they're accentuating their features to make a good impression; stay-at-home cross-dressers, though they want to emulate women, can't get past the front door.  And even if I choose to settle for private self-makeovers, there's not enough time in my schedule to justify paying the big bucks for a set of makeup that'll just dry up between glamour sessions.  Anyway, I'm such an amateur when it comes to makeup I shouldn't leave the house without professional assistance.

6. Hairless Bod

It goes without saying, being married challenges most of the freedoms I enjoy in terms of transgender activities, but one of the biggest perks of marital partnership - sex - tends to dictate the rules more than any other.  Erica doesn't want to rub up against another pair of silky smooth legs under the covers.  Therefore, I'm expressly not permitted to shave down from ears to ankles lest I suffer a prolonged bout of abstinence.  Since I'm not a very hairy person, I'm not unaware that it could be worse.  Still...know what I hate?  Hair.  Wouldn't it be just horrible for me to accidentally fall chest deep into a vat of Nair and be defollicled for life??  (Oh, the sweet, sweet horror...)

5. Shapely Bod

It takes a short lifetime to realize that women everywhere hate their bodies.  Even the super models.  Most girls are never really satisfied (content, at best) with what they've got), and so in this respect I enjoy the self-satisfaction of sharing this trait with them.  From a personal vantage, my shoulders are a bit too wide. My calves - ugh! - are muscular, and my arms are .  Actually, in comparison to most guys, they're thin and girlish, but next to women they're too contoured.  Who knows, really, because I've never been the subject of a critique in the proper context.  Yet women don't need an outside opinion to absolutely know what's wrong with them.  Like, you couldn't convince me that my lack of hips isn't a big deal.  I just need one more inch, maybe two, but that's not where my body fat grows - stupid bones just don't JUT!  Tough luck, Miss Holli.  Counting my blessings, though, one cannot even tell at a glance if I have an Adam's apple.  Hooray for Mom's side of the gene pool!

4. Vocal Versatility

I have an okay voice.  It's not deep, it's not light.  It may well even be uninteresting.  I do notice people have the tendency to talk over me in the middle of sentences, as if I wasn't even speaking.  But then these people tend to have strong voices.  I could say things with weightier inflection, but then I'd end up being labeled "abrasive," or asked what it is I'm angry about all the time.  Also, I'd probably make myself hoarse.  Lighter it is, then.  Only I'd prefer if I could remove the thin huskiness and replace it with something a little more lilting and dulcet.  While it's true I can put my wife to sleep by the sound of my voice (not a compliment, if you're thinking it), would it be so bad if I could sound less like a phone sex operator with a head cold?  And no, I can neither afford the time nor money to take diction lessons.  ...Why?  Do you know a guy?

3. Pierced Ears

Ohhhh, would I love to have my ears pierced.  I'm so serious.  I've coveted the feminine prerogative to wear earrings since before I tried on my first pair of high heels.  I can't hold back - I'm talking, a whole chest full of different kinds of earrings I'd wear.  I love hoops.  I'm crazy for danglers.  Since I'm dreaming, give me two in each ear, one for studs and pearls, and the other for personality.  Earrings, earrings, earrings... oh, I could just scream.  But Erica says no. *sigh* But if I could, I would dive head first into Claire's.

2. Lingerie (Well, not just lingerie)

To clarify, I do possess a small set of hand-me-over lingerie (read: rescued from Erica's donation or disposal bags), and a few purchased items.  Not much to work with, but they do the job of filling out my pretend bosoms and granting me the pleasure of lounging around like a wanton princess, trapped in her tall tower but at least gifted with the advantage of luxury.  My favorite ensembles usually include the garter/stocking option.  I'm already getting flushed just writing this, because these clothes are unmistakable in their purpose. Kind of exactly the problem, actually! Why am I getting dressed for sex when there's absolutely zero sex waiting for me at the end of the process?  Don't pretend those garters aren't hard to attach.  I went to all the trouble, so why shouldn't... *ahem*  Anyway, moving on to, of course, the most sought after aspect of transcendental femininity:

1. Breasts

Before you even start in on the practicality of silicone cups or some ingenious method you read about in a TG magazine - birdseed or liquid gel or water balloons or whatever - let's put this in perspective: boobs are squishy, sensitive, heavy enough to affect your center of gravity, and non-detachable.  When I say I want breasts, I don't mean I want to emulate the feel of them.  I mean, "I wish my chest would spontaneously begin to swell with benign fatty tissue, gradually forming a new pair of amply-sized, globular parts of anatomy that require support from a specially crafted garment to prevent discomfort by providing lift and separation, and demonstrate sensitivity to cold and subtle physical contact."  Lots of women would say I'm crazy.  "They're such a pain! You don't know what it's like!"  Oh, sure, sure.  But then again, I voluntarily strap myself into a set of 4" heels for the fun of it, while the bulk of modern women's liberators denounces them for foot manglers.  I appreciate a lot of sensations that most women eschew, yet I don't experience them as often as it might take to convince me they're a burden.  I may not want to make the total, completely legal leap from male to female, but a set of melons sounds like the perfect excuse to do on a regular basis what I've been trying to accomplish for 30+ years.  I'm perfectly willing to accept a set of these particular twins into our home.  "Sorry honey... I can't return them without a receipt!"

Addendum: Genitalia
One might puzzle over why I didn't include switching out my male tackle for its female opposite. Apart from essentially requiring an act of God, it's pretty much the same as wishing to wake up tomorrow as a fully formed, fully functional woman. It's not just one thing, it's everything. Modern medical science makes this possible, of course, but it's the ultimate transformation, and I find taking that irrevocable step across the threshold just a little daunting. (Yes, even though I want it; if nothing else, at least woman's mysterious nature resides in me.)

~HCP

Behind Closed Doors, Pt. 2 "Now It's Personal"

Preface - I'm a little embarrassed about how much time exists between Part 1 and Part 2 of my little confessional.  A lot can happen in three months.  It was all more important than jotting down my gender woes to satisfy my feminine angst, I assure you.  But I admit, I'm not very good at returning to diaries once I leave them to fend for themselves.  At least I came back.  Count that blessing.

In my last entry, I counted off a few general variables that all closet cross-dressers have in common, as far as my limited understanding goes.  I think it's safe to believe everything I mentioned, bearing in mind that while no two people are alike there are definite patterns that can be observed if only one bothers to look.  As usual, there is no accounting for individuality.  At some point, the closet CD tends to break away from the typical behavior pattern and ends up choosing her own style and preference.  She becomes an individual.  It's all about creating identity now, instead of initially discovering it.  She focuses on not just making herself happy, but actualizing the significance of self.  In fact, happiness and self-actualization start walking hand in hand, discussing future plans, exchanging meaningful looks, deciding whose house they'll move into, etc.  It feels right.  In some ways, it also feels wrong.  This won't be resolved for some time, but that's not so important at first.

What's been important to me has been determining how I, Holli, can manifest as a person, as someone whose existence matters to another living soul.  Dressing the part in my free time is really a secondary achievement.  I may as well be the sole survivor of some nautical disaster, isolated on a desert island in hopes that someone thinks to come looking for me, knowing that's about as likely to happen as I am to sprout wings and fly home.

Here is a hard fact:  Most everyone I've ever met has no idea that I am transgendered, and those who do are generally powerless to love me for it.  (I choose the word "powerless" only in the sense that their personal moral codes keep them from getting involved to the point where they'd be culpable for any mistakes I made; in short, not supporting me in case my decisions blow up in our faces.)  Erica thinks I should content myself with having the house to myself every now and then.  Without spreading the word around to close friends or family, this is as good as it gets.

Here is an interesting fact: I've never, ever been to the movies by myself.  I'm sure lots of people do it, or have done it, but I don't know anyone who really wants to.  Movies, to me, are soul-stirring experiences, stories that bond you with others (yes, even the crappy ones) much in the same way sports games or TV shows become the topic of water cooler conversation, or any kind of "mini-event" that lets you relate directly to another person.

Thinking of myself as a woman isn't just a hobby.  It's self-discovery.  It's evolution of the soul.  But just because one may relate to women, one may feel like a woman, one may even become a woman, if no one acknowledges your identity then you may as well be a brick.  None of us feel we are who we are without some sort of social feedback.

Some CDs, tired of living cooped up with their inhibitions, will attempt to go public with their feminine identity.  This decision leads to gigantic, nigh-irreversible life changes that affect everyone involved in that person's life.  Here, my dears, is where I wave from the front porch and wish them safe journey.  I can make my own decisions just fine, but such an intimate leap means making decisions for other people in my life as well.  I'm too well-loved in all other regards to leave them behind.

Anyway, I have no idea what I'm trying to accomplish.  What's different about being Holli?  I'm convinced that my identity isn't separate, but I can't outwardly express myself as both man and woman.  I believe that being who you are means spending time in the role, and that such time have some kind of impact on someone besides yourself.  When alone, I indulge myself with playing the stay-at-home-wife role, even though I think the idea of being a housewife is ridiculous when you aren't even married.  Of course, I am married... what I mean is that as Holli I don't have the privilege of relationships, not even in devoted service to those I care for.  Yet do I usually fold the laundry and do the dishes and vacuum and pick up the house when I've switched roles? Oh, yes.  Does it make me feel more like my feminine self?  Not really.  These things are expected of me anyway.  But usually "playing house" brings me closer to Holli-ness.  As I type this, I really wonder how pathetic it sounds.


I used to go online whenever I could, frequenting the U R Not Alone chat rooms in search of like-minded peers, making connections that could well evolve into genuine, meaningful rapports.  This became a steady exercise in figurative head-banging as it became clear to me that my choice to remain closeted turned most people off to pursuing any kind of ongoing association.  Yet for the sake of Erica's privacy and various other concerns, I didn't have much choice but to remain anonymous.  It's been over a year since Holli disappeared from that scene. Despite the occasional temptation to revitalize my presence there, I don't believe I can reach any kind of fulfillment there.


I confess that there have been... carnal ways of attempting to fill the idle hours, but that's something I've been steering away from.  Sex is as much a condition of gender development as anything else, and just as important, but - again, I make with the blunt honesty - that's a glass that's never been full.  And, believe me, I've tried since adolescence.  It's far too late to separate the thrill of sexual gratification from feminine appearance, as those strands of consciousness are forever entwined.  But merely pretending to be the object of someone else's desire tires me, leaves me feeling empty when the moment has passed.  

Finally, it comes to this: What does the closet cross-dresser do when she only has herself to validate her identity, yet out of respect for loved ones refuses to step outside the boundaries she herself has drawn to avoid unpleasant reprisals?


She goes mad.

This, I fear, is inevitable unless something changes.  Something that I cannot change myself, because of my self-imposed dictates of conscience.  Is it my fault because I choose to lock myself in a closet rather than give over to self-gratifying indulgences?  Or should I go beyond that, blame myself for not being creative enough to find another way to be recognized and loved?



Okay, I can't go out.  But how can I invite someone else in?  I guess that's the next puzzle to solve in this maze. 

~HCP