Self-imposed boundaries

• Posted by Rachel de Blanc November 25, 2012 2,240 views
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  The alternative title for this could be 'Boxed In'

  
  

  This is a quick relfection upon the life of a closet dweller. I'm not going to pass any judgement here upon people in this situation, but for those who are not, or may have once passed through this gateway (sorry, bit of a clunky managament consultant term) it might serve to qualify where you are now in your own journey.

  
  

  My family have been away and so I have time to emerge for a while. At least between going to work.

  So on Thursday evening a long, luxuriant shower is taken. More aromatic than the masculine norm and heavenly as a result. Foam can become abundant and cloaking. I dare to shave my legs a little, small patches but a sensory indication of what the total loss might be like. I stop. Too difficult to explain that turkey.

  
  

  I towel dry and moisturise, slightly scented. Lovely. I'm disturbed by the prospect of aromatic bed-linen being discovered. I shower with rigour the following morning. Men's toiletries in abundance. Familiar clean odour for work.

  
  

  I plan the weekend between meetings and toil and curse the previous disposal of my wig. It'd be nice to take some new photographs, to allow hair length to obscure reality for a while. But that's a purchase that is too late to rectify. Home, another luxuriant shower. I watch the BBC Three documentary upon the 18 year transsexual beauty queen prior to sleeping. Sweet. Dreams don't transport me anywhere impractical.

  
  

  I go shopping on Saturday with specific aims and unspecific aspirations. I skirt the lingerie sections but decide not to purchase a new bra & knickers set because a secluded pile of clothes doesn't really represent sensible spending in a time of austerity. Whilst looking for shoes (mens) I flicker at christmas party heels and statement pieces.

  
  

  Once home I change. More care now. I imitate breasts and hips, I beg steal and borrow a look, and with great care make-up. I think I've become adept at make-up after all these years and tonight I think I get the balance right. My hair though is short and to the point. It reminds me of my failings and limitations. I take a few photographs but they resemble someone in trouble. A vulnerable person, attention seeking and anxious. She's also a little older now than she once was or dreams of being. A glass of wine (or two) and the X-Factor doesn't change this fact.

  
  

  Sunday morning is the return to the rational. To double-checking that secret activities remain so. That the make-up is clearly off. Did I mention that I'd trimmed my eye-brows last night? I anxious and wonder whether they are now too shapely - and my eyes look a little puffy from cleanser and sponges. Experience suggests that they will calm down during the day.

  
  

  I visit Gender Society again and hope for messages, contact or something to grasp. But you've got to give to get, and I don't give enough. So I write this.

  
  

  Self-imposed boundaries is a tricky title. I didn't choose to be what I am and I could of course remove the boundary entirely by revealing the truth. But some of us, many of us I suspect, are unable to do that because of existing commitments, fear or lack of self-conviction.

  
  

  There's no time to be down-beat. The sun is out my son is coming home too and I've worked to do. I must remember to change out of these leggings and navy-blue wrap over cardigan before I collect them, otherwise the next blog will be very different in deed.

  
  

  With hugs to all types.

  
  

  Rachel x