Archive for February, 2011

After those thoughts…

February 17, 2011

*grins*

I’ve been in panties 10 days straight.

One day I even wore a sports bra to work under my clothes.  *grins*

My thoughts from that day:

——-

Bra with no cups or support or really any way to adjust, when it’s not even really needed.

*giggles* I’m wearing a TRAINING BRA!

*grins* I can haz the pre-teen girl hormones to go with it, plz?

*gigglefits*

—-

My favorite day though, was last Friday when I wore the high waisted panty girdle.  Snug and probably the closest I will get to waist training for a while.  When I finally get some “extra money” I need to get a few more pair of those, so I can wear them consistently, ‘cuz I sure can’t wear the same one every day!

*adds 6 more panty girdles to “when I have more money list*

I’m more and more being me again.  The girl is not gone.  The money and work stress and etc all still weigh on me so heavy, they are the gray clouds looming over everything, but it doesn’t mean I can’t splash in the puddles wearing my skirt, while hoping to see the rainbow soon.

 

More thoughts…

February 17, 2011

(written in another journal on 2/7, very shortly after the last post, written very stream of consciousness)

She blames no one for being lost.

She is there because of what she loves and a future for herself and her family.

It hurts, muchly, to be silent, missing.

But it is what it is. With no way out, blinded by the darkness and fear that that comes with moving forward. She takes her place, knowing that is not where she wants to be. But, being where she truly wants to be is unpossible, at least while holding on to what she holds dear.

What tears at her are the little things, that filled her heart with joy. The hair that she has let overtake her skin, the sensitivity that the patch gave her flesh that is no longer there, the pretty undies that made her feel despite all outward appearances, she was herself despite what she showed. The patch and the sensitivity that it brought were a casualty of finances. The rest a casualty of lack of time and her own desires. Stress stole the time and doing the little things that felt so special only made her crave more, like a shark with a taste for blood.

“This means so much, how wonderful would the next step be?”. What that step may be, usually was dashed on the rough shores of time and money, which to a certain extent lead to a sense of apathy of the small things. And yet those things are what are so missed.

I am woman.

Am I? Given how I have let the few female scraps I can hold onto fall to the floor like discarded clothing.

Am I just a silly boy who cannot let go of this odd thought that he is not one?

I look into the mirror and cannot see her.

I look at my clothes which seem very male.

I look at my biology and there is no womanhood, except the tiny buds on my chest from my time on the patch.

I look into my heart/my soul.

I want to cry. Thinking this out as I write it I look, there in my heart, and I see her and the kids are awake and I cannot weep.

I am sorry you…I am sorry we…I am sorry I hurt..

I am the lost girl, despite pushing her..us…myself away.

She is not she. She is me. I am she.

Girl, whatever mistakes I make, do not let yourself believe otherwise. That is what hurts so much. You may portray to the world whatever you want, but who you are is not someone you can brush to the side and deny to yourself.

Tears on the sleeve of a man. Don’t wanna be a boy today…

The same old story…

February 17, 2011

(Written in a different Journal on 2/7.)

Life gets to be too much and I push the girl into the corner. “I can’t deal with you right now.”

This journal which sits here abandoned. Long gone are the days of herbal supplements. I’ve been off and on the patch multiple times, usually due to money. Can’t tell you the last time I wore something girly under my boy clothes, panties tucked away god knows where. Life grabs the boy by the balls and he turns his back on the girl.

I think about her. I ache at times for her, but feeling helpless about it all, it’s easier to ignore and push away than to do anything.

And then I open a paper journal to express some private thoughts and it all comes flooding out. There she sits, buried beneath stress and worry and money and appearances, floundering, sobbing beneath the boy’s attempts to hold onto it all for dear life, to keep his head afloat. Hurt, waiting, hoping for even just a few hours of her, a woman.

She knows not where to turn or what to do.

She is the lost girley.