Debris of Illusion

• Posted by Rachel de Blanc January 19, 2014 #  #i_am_a_woman  1,378 views
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  As I sit here the house is full of the debris of illusion. My feet are aching a little from the pointed-toed kitten heels that are holding them in. A belt, clasped tight around my waist - which is actually dimunitive already, is present and curiously comforting. No bra because I have no breasts.

  Generously applied perfume tingles my senses and is gently heady. I've taken time today with my make-up and I've got it right I think. Let's be honest, that's not always the case is it? A new wig, purchased with brazen subterfuge ("I've been invited to a Hen Party..") albeit cheap, synthetic and end-of-line from a fashion from 2008, sits comfortably upon my head and I love it. Actually, I love everything about tonight and I take photographs in order to capture my happiness. Do share it with me.

  So I'm a transvestive then, dressing for a few hours relaxation and escape? No, I'm certain that I'm not, I'm a transexual and I so wish that this were not a moment in time, but a real period of life. I have no desire to take this stuff off, no desire for the night to end. In the mirror to my right I see the reflection of a woman (OK, I know that narcassistic but you got to take every advantage) and she seems happy, confident and at ease. She's not beautiful because her face shows signs of age in good light, but she's happy, and anyway smiles define us more than crevices. Within less than 18 hours life will return to normal when the family return, and within the bathroom the armoury that has taken her from drabness to solace lies strewn across the floor. A half-empty glass of Chardonnay has travelled from the bathroom to the desk at where she writes but that's the only thing that's been put away. The debris remains. It remains in her head. She's a woman in a man's body. She's a man within a world that accepts her as such but is undermined by her presence. She's too loving to undermine the faith and affection that she provides her wife and child and so she chooses to remain effeminately covert. Scratch the surface and she bleeds, cries and collapses because of the effort to sustain the carapace and to prevent the truth from becoming the body real.

  Oh how I enjoyed this evening, oh how happy I feel, how creatively and naturally free I sense I could become.

  I wish that my life were not a traipse over the debris that genetics have delivered. I wish that I had known then what I know now, and that prior to commitment and comformity that I had been informed and had been made real when life remained to be fully lived.

  I'll tidy up the debris eventually, but if you don't mind I might just stay here for a few hours and let the night become my suitor. 

  Sleep tight.

  x