Friday, 8 December 2017

The Middle. (of the end)

Live right now, Just be yourself,
It doesn't matter if that's good enough for someone else,

It just takes some time,

Little girl, you're in the middle of the ride,

Everything, everything will be just fine,

Everything, everything will be all right,

...I don't remember when time felt like it was moving again.
I don't remember much more of the rest of that day, except mourning.
Tears, talking, booze, take-out food, reminiscence, more tears and more talking.
We talked about all of the people, places and things we'd loved, hated, seen, done, eaten, drank, puked, partied, travelled to, said goodbye to in the last 12 years.
I had striven for a different way through, an alternative ending to make the film happier.
But I had to settle for director's commentary and post production notes.
But there would be no bonus features, there would be no sequel.
One thing was clear to me when we went to bed that night, this woman who I love dearly was no longer my wife, because in her eyes at the very least, I was no longer her husband.

The next day, Sunday morning, I was out of the house early. My in-laws were coming over to help my ex-wife out, moving furniture (a bed) to the spare room etc
But that's not the reason I was leaving, I had to get to North Manchester from Warrington.
I had a mission, something I had been planning for years. All the while terrified of the repercussions, convincing myself it would all be okay and then listening to anxiety's voice,
"Your friends will abandon you".
But now it didn't matter. I was already at my lowest ebb, so telling my friends that I have gender issues no longer registered on the difficulty scale.
The entire way to the first friend's house, I was moving between a state of panic over what I had to accomplish, to a state of absolute misery, fighting tears through songs, skipping the really tough ones entirely, then back to panic.
Rinse and repeat.

I came out to two of my closest friends that day and also shared with them the news about the end of my marriage.
Both of them, their own wives included, welcomed me with love and open arms
"As long as you're happy"... "We just want the best for you"...
Why hadn't I told them sooner? They weren't rejecting or cruel. These were my friends, they loved me. I've never felt love from friends more than I did this day.
I would go as far to say that I was quite overwhelmed.  
By tea time ('dinner time' for Southerners and 'Muricans) relief had allowed me to lower my guard. I was heading home and on the motorway when my Spotify betrayed me and it was too much. Lemme tell ya, 70mph and bursting into tears are not compatible.
All because of bloody New Found Glory (I normally love them, but not that day).

I was only 10 minutes from home when I remembered;
"Shit! I'm supposed to be in work tomorrow", I called work from the car, my manager was on duty, so I went in to tell her the news. 
All of it. Face to face. Divorce, gender issues, the lot.
I cried more in her office than I had all day, I was in no fit state to work. 
I was in no fit state... full stop. 
And to cap it off, I had taken my glasses off in my manager's  office (crying, remember?) and whilst looking for a bin for the orange-sized ball of wet Kleenex in my hand, I saw a black circle on the floor and tossed the mucous soaked clump into it. After another bout of tears and finally drying my eyes, I put my glasses back on to see that the 'Bin' I had used previously was in fact, my manager's handbag!
"Lynne, why didn't you say anything?" I gasped
"You were just such a mess, I didn't have the heart to stop you!"
I laughed the most genuine laugh I'd made in over 48 hours and it felt good.
Sorry again, Lynne (if you ever read this).

After more Spotify betrayal on my way home, I decided on radio. Spotify was shelved for a few weeks for the safety of myself and other road users. That night over more take-out food myself and My Ex Mrs essentially re-did the previous night's events in more of an abridged, 'Can we not dissolve into tears this time?' sort of fashion.
We even found some happiness in play fighting over laying claim on silly things from the house that we each wanted to keep (I got the 'Domestic Goddess' apron), we did anything to avoid emotions.
We agreed to live together in the house until we could pay off our debts and save our own deposits for new places. My birthday was coming around again on the 25th, so we planned to still have a party for it on the 30th (after payday, obvs), despite all of the upheaval, because god-damn-it, it's my Birthday Party and I'll cry if I want to. I'd long planned a day when I would see all my friends together and they could meet me as Samantha. And this was to be that day.
Something to look forward to at least...

I woke up the following morning with an urge to go and tell more people. 
I needed to come out. But I also had to break the bad news, to try and figure out just how many people I was going to be able to lean on. In the coming days and weeks, I came out to just about everyone I care about staying close with.
And you wanna know the best part about any of this tale so far?
Not one person...
Not. One. Person. Had any kind of negative or unkind thing to say to me.
All I got was a chorus of;
"We only want you to be happy", "Your gender is not you. We love you because you're a good person", "You need to do what is right for you, nobody else". And my personal favourite
"You still like cars though, right?"
I can honestly say I feel humbled by my chosen family this year.
I also feel truly sorry that I ever doubted them....
Fuck. *sigh* I'm crying just typing this...

This would be the day that I would cry in a house-wares shop because of love songs on the radio. Public place. Balling my eyes out. I had to leg it out of there.
And... this was also the day that I stopped sharing a bed with my wife.
On Saturday we had agreed that we would both stay at our house, neither of us was in a fit state to move out, be it financially, emotionally or even physically.
But on Sunday, my inlaws had helped my wife move the sofa bed back into the spare room.
Nights are fucking lonely by yourself. It's even worse when the woman you love is only in the next room. She was there, but she was not.

TV power supply with blown capacitors vs the fruits of my soldering 

Over the next few days I came out and broke bad news to more friends, repaired a broken TV power-board and cried intermittently at adverts like some kind of mad person.

By Wednesday I was exhausted, I needed to recuperate from the last 7 days of relentless movement. I needed to chill.
I needed to be me. So i got dressed how I wanted to, not how I needed to, how I felt obliged to.
And that was the first day I felt better, more like myself. It wasn't much better than,

*can refrain from crying for 3 hours*
But it was better. A candle, a mile down the tunnel, kind of feeling.
 diluted form of hope. Being dressed gave me a sense of what could be, how I could eventually be happier with myself.

I picked my wife up from work that night as I normally do.
But when she got in the car and told me
"I have something to confess, and I don't  think you're going to like it"
My reflex response was
"Is it money?...  Are you pregnant?" and to be fair to me, this would be the worst possible time to be pregnant. 18 years of child support payments ran through my head in a split second...
"No, none of those", she almost laughed as she said it.

Then like an elephant sat on my chest, it dawned on me...
"You've met someone haven't you?"

Her pause that followed, in reality was probably only two seconds, but felt like a hundred.
"No...." she said *Phew!*
"...well, not yet... Lets talk when we get home okay?"

So I drove. Mind racing. Heart breaking. My arms, literally shaking as they held my hands to the wheel.

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Friday, 1 December 2017

The Beginning of the End... (Becoming a Statistic)

I did that thing that I do, again, didn't I?
Make one post then leave you hanging for months...
I know, and I'm sorry, but what can I really do about it otherwise?

So, hello again!
This post has actually been a bit of a long time coming, but that makes it no more easy to sit here and type it all out for public scrutiny.
But first, a little, or not so little re-cap on me.

Okay, so over the years I have cultivated a modest following here.
That's mainly been through my identity as a crossdresser or transvestite (don't really care which one you choose, it makes no odds to me) and sharing my own tips, tricks and personal opinions around dressing up like a lass.
Regular readers, or really, anyone with the capability to read my other entries (hint hint), will know that over the last 18-20 months, my blog content has been changing, coinciding with my own changes in how I perceive myself and my gender.
Who the hell am I then?

Well I am certain I am not a man.
Ever since I was in my early teens, I have battled with low mood, seeking reprieve through alcohol and drugs, hobbies and distraction of any sort that could 'take me away'.
Then in 2012, after a particularly low spell, I saw a doctor who diagnosed depression. The only times the depression lifted were via the above escapes or when I was presenting as a woman. So I began to dress more and more to help me feel better.

 I've always felt better when dressed. From childish sneaking around with my mum's clothes, to later years with my own clothes, and recently more complete feminine presentation with wigs, nails, shoes etc etc. Regardless of the extent to which I dressed, there was always one constant - Satisfaction, Joy, Elation. I felt happier when presenting as a woman. And I never read any more into it than "I dress to feel better".
Perhaps foolishly, I never really examined why I felt better that way.

While I was able to quell my dissatisfaction with life for short spells in the privacy of my own home, I would always end up having to go back to guy mode because that was my life, and never the twain would meet. (Or if they did, it was through small, calculated and considered measures to maintain secrecy and safety.) Very few people ever knew about my issues with gender conformity, and that's the way it stayed for some time.
As time progressed, with myself and my wife both satisfied that my gender non-conformity was safely pigeon holed as transvestism, my fiance became my wife. And we began to plan the standard Man, Woman, kid and cats kind of life. But something was wrong. Something in me. And I didn't know it. Maybe I just didn't want to.
I won't go into full detail because it's been discussed here previously and it won't do me any favours to re-hash it.

Long and short of it is that in September of 2016, I told my wife and some members of our family that;
 I think it's more likely that I am transgender than transvestite. That I am increasingly unhappy living as a man, that I identify more with clothes/items/behaviours that society deems to be feminine. That I do not feel comfortable with my body, for a list of reasons as long as I am tall.
 I concluded the 'issue' was only escalating and needed help dealing with it, I went to my doctor and asked for a referral to a GIC (Gender Identity Clinic) and she did so with the utmost professionalism and compassion and I'm now more than half way along the 18 month wait.
It was at this time that my wife and I began going through harder times. We both knew that if I continued down this path of latent self discovery, then our relationship could not survive - My wife ,while a proud advocate for same sex marriage, did not sign up for a same sex marriage herself. We decided it would be best for me to present as Samantha more, just around the home, to get better acquainted with the idea of living as a woman as opposed to just doing it in spare time, to see if the hat fitted.
I also reminded my wife that she had been promising to go on a night out with me, presenting as a woman, for over 2 years at this point, so we agreed that we would do this too.
(If the last two lines feel shoe-horned in, hold on a few minutes, and it won't do)

Now if you're a regular reader, you will know that all of the above is only prelude to what I'm actually here to moan about today. If you're not a regular reader - then subscribe. And read all my other blogs, comment on them, '+1' them and share them. (Hint-Hint)
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So, skip forward about, oh,11 months or so...
We still haven't done the night out and we had both been quite low (but I'm not revealing the intimate details of our relationship here - it's not even necessary for the story). I was at my wit's end with stress in work and coming home to different stress over an uncertain future.
As respite, we planned a short break away, camping (following this trip, I am now certain I don't like camping. Actually, not that's not true, I would rather set fire to my tent and sleep in the car... that is to say I hate camping) in the last week in August '17 before Leeds First Friday (LFF) on the 1st of September.
At last, something to look forward to for both of us! As I said, camping was utter guff. I don't need to say much more than "cold appendages and walking 1/4 mile to go to the toilet are not my idea of a good time".
But the Friday came mercifully quickly.

Myself and Marissa in Bar Fiber
With another couple (close friends of ours, who had known about my issues for the past year), we headed over to LFF to paint Briggate red (pink, blue and white would also suffice).

Despite initial nerves, which I expertly quashed with a healthy dosing of Prosecco and Jack & Coke, I had what we northerners refer to as "A Fucking Belter" which, loosely translated means, "a highly agreeable period of mirth augmented by the consumption of alcohol". (LOL!)
Myself and my wife in Smokehouse

I mean, who wouldn't do with a new dress, new hair, fresh nails and better quality makeup than they're used to?

I was happy. I was drunk and I was happy. My wife by my side and friends to support me.
I was happy. Elated.

Until the next day.

After seeing to our hangovers with eggs, toast and coffee, we made the trek, back over the Pennines, past that mad bugger in the white house in the middle of the M62 motorway, dropped our friends off, then made our own way home.
Got indoors, cup of coffee, Netflix on, chill out, and then allow the rest of my hangover to depart.

Just as the theme music for Rick & Morty kicked in, my wife began to cry
I hated it when she cried. 
More so when tears and wailing made her incapable of telling me why she was so upset. I'd always felt so helpless and wounded seeing her cry. I just held her and waited for the storm to pass. I thought I knew what was coming. I thought this would all be okay in a day or two. But I was wrong.
After what seemed like forever, the sobbing eased and she managed to start,
"I haven't seen you as happy as you were last night, in years..."
This was the truth I could not argue with it. As a rule, I don't like clubs, and we were in some very crowded, loud bars and clubs. And it didn't phase me. I was actually enjoying myself. It felt right. And not even 'right - for a night out', I just mean Right. Correct. Appropriate...
"...And I can't carry on being the reason that you don't get to be that happy all the time..."
My hangover was gone now. Sobriety. 
Or was it? 
I felt sick, but not the hangover kind...
No, that was likely my heart turning to dust and making an attempt to leave my chest via my mouth.
I couldn't speak. At first through shock and slow, dullard-like realisation of what was being said to me. Was my wife asking for a divorce?
I still couldn't speak. Only now it was because with the remnants of my heart now feeling like they were in my gaping, dry mouth, tears forming little streams on my cheeks, runny nose making it harder to breathe calmly, I couldn't manage more than a hyperventilated, 
"Please, no, don't do this to me"
That is, at least what I think I attempted to say. I have no idea how it actually sounded as the collective volume of fluids in my head had begun a simultaneous evacuation of my facial glands and sinuses.
I can only imagine that it didn't look pretty.
She continued...

"Listen. You aren't happy as a man. I can see it, but you keep denying it to me. But I can't be happy with you as a woman. I'm not lesbian any more than you are a man. I love you, but this has to happen to give us both the chance to actually be happy..."
I was froze. Dumbfounded. This is everything I was afraid of, happening right then and there. It was at that moment I decided that after 5 years of vaping, I was a smoker again. 
She would later tell me that she had been hiding tears from me for months, taking herself away from me to let it out so that I wouldn't see. All because she didn't want me to feel bad. 

We still loved eachother, but my wife was asking for a divorce. 
And nothing I did or said that day, or any day after, could persuade her to reconsider...
This was the end of a 12 year period in both of our lives. It was the beginning of the end.

That's when time stood still....

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Saturday, 24 June 2017


So lately I've been quiet.

I know.

It was a conscious decision to hold back a bit. I was getting ahead of myself.

Anyhow, I'm only stopping by to drop this issue on you all.
Okay, so my identity situation is, in my eyes, transgender. I wish I was a woman, growing old in this body seems like a miserable prospect, I'm only content inside when I'm presenting female.

When I present female I feel right because I know I look (more) right.
I feel empowered, I feel beautiful, I feel like me.
And I'm lucky enough to be in a situation that permits me to dress for many hours at a time.
But something always happens at midnight when I go to start getting undressed...
I stall.
Every second possible.
I can stall for hours sometimes.
Anything to not wipe my face away and return to the male me.
Anything to hold on to the lucid dream that is feeling better in my own skin.
And it's depressing.
Stalling consists of sadness. Sadness and coffee.
"Stay up!"... "You can feel like this for longer if you stay awake"...
"Tomorrow you'll be him again, stay like this".
(If I heard voices, this is what they would say).

Yeah, I could go to sleep in a nightdress. And have done. Can't enjoy something when you're asleep though.
I get down because when I wake up, instead of Samantha's face in the mirror, it will be his, and I will feel like dirt because I can't be her yet.

Bummer eh?

Friday, 23 September 2016

Why didn't I say something sooner?

-Is a question I'm sure you are familiar with if you are in anyway trans.

Even if you are not trans, I'm certain you ask yourself this very question when you have a regret that you are dealing with.
"Why didn't I tell them sooner" or "Why didn't I do something when this all began"?

Regrets are common place, but they seem to be part of a process, and blogging about this stuff is cathartic for me, putting things in black and white is a wonderful self analysis tool.

-What are you banging on about?
Great question my dear, I'm glad you asked!

So last night I came out to my parents.
If you need info on why, now, at 34 years of age, I'm now coming out to my parents?
Read the last blog I published, it has way more context than is necessary for my tale, but your insight into 'why' will be easier for you to understand.

I'd woken up yesterday morning, I was actually off to get my bloods taken (My GP has referred me to a GIC, and it's their policy that baseline bloods are taken to be analyzed for the referral criteria.)
But the first thing I said to my wife that morning, before I even opened my eyes, was
"I want to come out to my mum and dad"

"It'll probably do you good" she said. I love this woman, she only wants me to be happy (Love you Em!).
I'd been awake until 1am, waking at 8am - On leave from work, so nice lie in really. I would have gotten more sleep, but I spent 3 hours reading people's coming out tales online.
Some made me cry with joy for the person, others made me weep with sadness at the hurt.
I was those people as I read their tales, because each one told me a future I might be facing.
Each one loaded my emotional cannons using a short fuse.

I went about my day, went for bloods, took the Mrs to work, started a first draft of a coming out letter, (I want it to be perfect - it needs work LOL), then I went down stairs.
(My parents would be due over with my birthday card (25th by the way - 2 days away) as they would be busy over the weekend. This was to be the day.)
I sat for an hour, no TV on, just though, pre-planning what to say with my coming out letter fresh in my head, ideas were frequent but fleeting.
I planned a whole speech, it would have to do.
Then I saw them pull up outside, so I boiled the kettle and made tea while they let themselves in.

We did the usual family thing first, tales from their recent holiday, bitching about the plumbing in our rented house. The usual. But I was tensing up the entire time.
I waited for a drop in the conversation, and then said,
"Right, so there is something I need to talk to you both about. And I need to tell you because this will effect my future."
They nodded along, allowing me the floor,
"It's something I've held on to for over 20 years, denying it, ignoring it, repressing it and recently accepting that it is just who I am. The feelings are only escalating, and I can't make them go away.
I'... I'_...."
I lost it. The pre-planned speech vanished from my thoughts.
I stopped, took a breath and...

"I'm transgender"

I silenced like I was expecting a bomb to go off in my face.
My dad was first to open his mouth,

"I thought you were ill or something, don't worry about it, we still love you"

My mum chimed in

"Me and ya dad are proud of both of you, (referring to my brother 2.5 years younger), we couldn't be happier with how you were raised. As long as you're both happy and healthy, then we are happy for you".

The next 90 mins were a blur, honestly, I don't remember half of what I said.

I must have hit them with what seemed like a shotgun of things I wanted to talk about after the sheer relief. But instead of giving them information, I think I just peppered them with buckshot introductions to concepts and matters they had no idea about.
I did tell them I was sorry for lying to them, they said they understood, "that I just wasn't ready to tell them yet".
I told them how shame was causing me to feel isolated and that I'm looking to break the cycle by coming out to family and friends, eventually the world. That my feelings were that only by 'normalising' a trans person and allowing them to be who they are can you escape the image of seedy crossdresser.
Do you know why people think it's pervy?
It's because you keep it a secret that people may assume it's something to be ashamed of.
And you know this. And you also know that the only way to stop the shame is to break free.
And that's what I did last night. My chest breathed in volumes it hadn't felt in days.
Much more was discussed, but for the purpose of the blog, it isn't necessary.

-Why the regret then?

Because if I'd have been certain that my parents wouldn't have reacted badly, I'd have told them ages ago. That this is who I am, and I need to get it off my chest.
I regret not telling them.
I guess the process involved in regret is understanding yourself. I'm already starting to feel that my dad said it best - "You just weren't ready" and he must understand me better than I do myself.
Because he's right, I probably wasn't, this is a progressive problem with progressive milestones.

You know what. Fuck regret. With a spikey one.

Damn that felt good. :D

Wednesday, 14 September 2016

I know, I know, I've been away for ages...

But I do have something of an excuse.

So most of you know me as Samantha, the crossdresser/transvestite.
It's been a facet of my identity for some 20 years or more.
Like many I would steal, hide and lie my way to a compulsion I did not
 fully understand.
Through childhood there was shame, guilt and denial.
When I started to buy my own female clothes the guilt and lies (to my, now, wife) ended, and then shame fell off too. I started to feel less grim about my gender presentation.
I'm still lying and for the most part I'm still hiding, just not in my own home now.
And life was good this way. I've spoken before of the freedoms agreed with my wife, so I won't go into detail.

But lately, I've begun to recognise feelings. Some have always been present but never meant anything by themselves and perhaps worse, I never added them up. Some feelings are new though, and some old feelings have evolved or are evolving.
And it's the combination of these old and new feelings, now added up, that make me question my gender, the one that I present to the world every day.
I'm questioning if I need to pursue transition as the answer I never knew I needed.

It's the feeling's, described above, I am going to discuss here.

I've always felt different.

Yeah, I know we're all beautiful, unique snowflakes, but I never felt that I was normal at my core.
I've always felt like a freak. Even with my best friends, I don't feel that I am 'like' them.
We share the usual roots of solid friendships (shared interests, history, care for one another), but I never ever feel I belong. Never did.
After years of living this way, I began to assume that this is how everyone feels, but they just never talk about it. But the closer I get to my friends, the less I believe this to be the case.
The only person I don't feel like this around is my wife. I shared this with her over the weekend in a heartbreaking wave of emotions in the second long talk we had this last week about why I believe I could be transgendered.

I've always hated the classical male characteristics of my body.

That is to say, I've always disliked my body hair, facial hair, I hate that my scalp hair is thinning. But again, I knew that everyone hates things about themselves, but they don't really talk about them (at least men don't) and I thought this to be an aspect of self loathing. (Another reason I never linked this to crossdressing was that I have never hated my penis, and nor do I today. It brings me and my my wife a great deal of enjoyment, and it was my assumption that all trans women hate their penis.)
But as time moves on, I find that I'm disliking more and more of my own outward male reflection in the mirror. My jaw and chin, my nose and my brow being the worst offenders. I want bigger hips, I'm getting breast envy. I'm noticing myself seeing the shape of boobs under the clothing of women in the street/at work/everywhere and thinking
"I want that, I want to be like her". I am aware these are not typical cis male thoughts, which leads me to question myself.
I am either indifferent or disliking of how I look as a male. But when I present as a woman, I feel good about myself, I actually like how I look. (I still dislike my male aspects and characteristics, but I feel about 80% better about it).

Dealing with depression.

I've been through depression. The worst time was due to external triggers (money, environment, work/home life balance) and that was cured when all of those factors changed for the better.
But even after sorting my life out, I still feel like something is still not right, something inside me. 

When I wrote earlier about my friends and how I don't truly feel like them, I feel like a facet of this is linked somehow with depression. Like the two are intertwined in a 'chicken and the egg' conundrum. (Did the depression cause the feelings of being different, or did those feelings cause the depression). I can't pinpoint when the feelings started, but I definitely had them throughout highschool.
Now I begin to wonder if those feelings and the depression are markers for internal conflict.
I've never hidden the fact that crossdressing and presenting female are not a sexual or fetishistic act for me (It was, when I was a kid, but that has faded with time. Generally if I'm presenting as a woman and I feel aroused, it's likely that I would have been aroused just the same in drab). 

For as long as I've been buying my own clothes and talking time and effort in my presentation, I have been dressing for me. Dressing to make myself feel better, like a crutch for the stress I live(d) under. A coping mechanism to deal with life.
And that's how I had always accepted crossdressing in my life.
But as I find less and less of my masculine traits to be acceptable and as I see more and more everyday women that I instantly get jealous of, I have to question why this is.
I question how much of my depression is linked with my transgenderism.
Because like my depression, the white noise of dysphoria is silenced when I'm having fun or am otherwise distracted, but once I'm resting or otherwise idling, the noise is right there waiting to turn up the volume again. Same with
 alcohol and other intoxicants, I could always feel better in depression with some social lubricants. Only for it to return once I'm sober again. The same is true of my questioning internal monologue.


The 6th deadly sin. (OMG did my catholic up-bringing show, there?)
I've brushed over this, but I feel like it deserves attention, because of all the new feelings I've realised in the last few months, this is the strongest.
I'd previously discounted envy as a symptom of being transgender (ie needing hormones and 24/7 living) due to something I read on a forum (can't remember which one) a long time ago. A particular user was asking about breast implants for crossdressing, which in honesty, I recognise to be a wrong move for a CD who wants to live mainly as male. The user spoke of 'boob envy' and how they longed for real breasts.
One of the replies to that person was something to the effect of.
"Every crossdresser in a low-cut dress wants boobs"
And with that, my thoughts of Envy=Transgender were shot down.
I've had boob envy for a while. But recently, a deeper form of Envy or jealousy has sprung to life. It's no longer mere aesthetic parts like hair, nails, makeup, bigger hips and breasts. While these are aspects I wish were mine, (which is why I attempt to emulate most of it when I dress), but now I feel like I want more.
Wishing I could be like any other woman on the street just going about her business. Being jealous of women's place in the world and how they are treated never used to be an issue. And here's the crux of my issue, I'm aware that women are proverbially shit on constantly, whether in their salary, their place in society, or are viewed as inferior when they earn positions of authority or power...
But I'm still envious of being able to live a life that is authentically female, despite the limitations and inconveniences that it brings.
Even for the sake of going into Primark looking around in the womens section, picking up a basket full of stuff, trying it on, buying it and nobody batting an eye.
Going to a Mac counter and having my makeup done in public and picking up a few things while I'm there, and nobody would stare.
And yeah, even down to waking up in a morning with bin-mouth (breath) and having my hair a mess and mascara smeared across my face and pillow before having to go shower to rinse and repeat.
I used to think that envy was wanting something beautiful, and to an extent it still is.
But I'm begining to think that wanting to be beautiful has more to do with envy than anything I previously knew (but that just might be another deadly sin manifested as vanity).


I kept the feelings from my wife for a couple of months as I didn't want to go to her with fleeting ideas, it would only upset her and I would lose her trust and respect if my mind changed. But it didn't, it stayed the same. 
Nagging me. 
Relief sought in distraction as normal, and this worked , but only until the distraction was gone.

Last Thursday (today is Wednesday), I needed to make the guilt stop.
The last 5 days since I came home from work after breaking down in tears on the job have been a mess. 

I'm not pouring out the details of my marriage on the internet for all to see, but I think it's enough to say that we're still together, we still want children, neither of us wants to lose the other.
The hardest thing is that I'm still looking for answers as she begins to look for them and this creates uncertainty for our future. A future I believe my wife is mourning. Because worst case scenario for our marriage is that I need to go and live as a woman, and my wife isn't attracted to women.
And I have to accept that.
Many tears have been cried, many words have been spoken, much alcohol has been consumed. And all of the above will come in greater amounts in the future, I'm sure.

After some discussion with my wife in the last few days, I went to my GP yesterday morning and asked for a referral to a GIC and to a psych. who has some kind of background in gender therapy. 
My GP was lovely, asking about how I and my wife are doing, how I'm likely to feel better for taking this step and how she admired me for my bravery in taking action to find my answers. She assured me she would send the referral to a GIC (either Sheffield or Leeds) and that she would speak to local psych. Doctors about possible counselling/assessment for the interim period (the waiting time for GIC appointments, as of August this year is 86 weeks).

Also last night, my wife and I went to a local trans support group. Mainly due to my wife's request to attend such a thing, she needs answers as much, if not more than I do.
It was nice to see other trans people in the world, but I was so nervous and the group was so small, it felt awkward. I might go back, we shall see.
It didn't really give me any sort of clue to an ultimate answer of any sort. But I know they are there there and, really, that's sort of enough for now.

I'm still really confused. I don't know what any of this means anymore.
I am not a typical crossdresser, I know this for sure. I am transgender, I also know this for sure.
What I don't know any more is where I sit on the spectrum of TG identity.
Am I in need of transition to cure the internal struggle? Or is it possible that coming out as Non-binary/Gender Fluid to my family and friends may help by allowing my feminine self to be a bigger part of my life in general?

Any advice, comments or questions are welcome as always.

Samantha -x-