Deep, dark depths of Deborah

It's self-deconstruction time.

'Spirit only attains its truth by finding itself in absolute dismemberment.'  Friedrich Hegel

Existential grousiness

Today has been a day of dissatisfaction, of restlessness vying with listlessness, of wanting to revitalise myself by ripping myself apart, but not having the belief in anything to motivate such an action, even if it had been at all feasible as a practical activity.

I'm feeling that here I've set up a situation, just as in Mirror Sister previously , in which trans is expected to be the cause and the solution of everything for me, as well as the topic that interests me much more than anything else. I have tied trans up with fundamental existential concerns, have tied my blog writing up with how I am viewing myself, to the extent that this doesn't seem like a blog about just one of my interests, as  if should you want to read me writing about a different interest you could go elsewhere.

So much has been written about trans by so many people, maybe there's nothing fresh to say?

My writing asserts an identity, justifies attitudes. But then I feel confined by that identity, those attitudes.

I never said that trans explains me, is the source of all my angsts and pleasures, or that it contains in itself even the potential for a solution to unhappiness.

That is what Miss Deborah Kate is thinking as she takes off her ballet shoes tonight.

Friend, mother, psychiatrist, home, weapon

My adoring public over at Mirror Sister might get a tad fed up if I quote from The New Diary by Tristine Rainer again, but I'm sure the inner coterie reading this won't mind, will you my darlings? Right then, listen to this good stuff:

"As a woman I feel that my power to describe my life is a gesture against powerlessness. I defy the 'official' version of reality with my own version. As a result of my power to describe my experiences in the diary, I feel there is nothing that can really overwhelm me - not hunger or cruelty, success or poverty, loss or love, illness or disappointment, or even other people's manipulations. As long as I have the power of words to describe my experience, I have a bastion of personal control. The diary is not just a friend, a mother, a psychiatrist, and a home - it is a weapon."

So there you have it, girls. x x

(N.B. I'm writing to an audience again, aren't I?  This was supposed to be an introspective diary, Deborah. Slap wrists time! No, but what an audience, eh? I love you all, my sweets. Your discerning taste in blogs renders you stars.)

Am I a girl or am I a woman?

The difference between 'girl' and 'woman' is evidently not just one of age. You know that, surely, my darlings, so no need for Deb to explain further.

Anyways, I invented a little therapy exercise to try for myself as I sunbathed today. I wrote on a peace of paper (with a pen, as in olden times) twenty times 'I am a girl'. Then I wrote twenty times 'I am a boy'. Then 'I am a woman', then 'I am a man'.

Results: 'I am a girl' gave me the biggest thrill. 'I am a boy' I hated. I  have always been thoroughly unboyish. My eyes felt slightly moist as I wrote 'I am a boy'. I think is particularly to do with all the 'boyishness' I had to endure when I was a child. They didn't give me a choice, did they? Iwas so totally conditioned, so totally repressed, that I didn't even get the chance to kick and scream and yell 'no! no! no!'. Sob.

'I am a woman' felt less sexy than 'I am a girl', but positive in a calmer, deeper way. By being 'woman' rather than 'girl' I am not all sexy girlishness, I incorporate my adult experience of all aspects of life, into a more robust, sensitive yet strong, integrated personality.

'I am a man' didn't feel so bad. It felt closer to 'I am an adult, a person of the world' than to 'I am a big boy'. The difference between 'man' and 'woman' was less than that between 'boy' and 'girl'.

Of the four, 'I am a woman' felt the most complete, the identity that covered the largest part of myself. 'Boy' can get stuffed, but sometimes 'man' feels appropriate in this world. And 'girl' can be juicy fun, can't it?

Do try this exercise at home, sweethearts, on condition that you take responsibility for whatever feelings come up for you. Don't come chasing Debs with a big stick if it goes badly wrong, okay?

Squealing in the wind

The lovely and magnificent Heather writes brilliantly that:

In the past I have frequently felt ashamed and tried to put these feelings far enough away that they would never come back, sometimes for weeks and months, maybe even a year or two, but they inevitably return with great pent-up furious pink silky passion. I wrote in another posting today that this is like an ocean; there are high tides and low tides, occasional thundering tsunamis, and frequent scary undertow that threatens to drag you under.

Absolutely.

Recently I have felt the wind of 'pent-up furious pink silky passion' blowing particularly strongly. I just have to let myself go, and I will fly deliriously into my true femme home, where I will land, kicking and squealing, basking in my newfound - or rediscovered - bed of femininity that makes a Claire's store look butch.

Yet also I feel delicate, naked and exposed, vulnerable in this wind.

And also I weary of it's blustering, pulling me too quickly, allowing no rest or pause for thought.

Yet something electric enters me; I am compelled. I submit to the pink wind.

Femme Debbie I am, absolutely. Absolutely and wonderfully. Wheeeeee!!

Debbie not being sexy

We have been born into a society that for centuries hasn't really known how to deal with sexuality - the deep, powerful, extremely exciting instinctive drive within us all. Inconsistency/contradiction/hypocrisy seem almost inherent in cultural attitudes to sex.

I am a child of this hypocritical society. I am not sure exactly what I feel about sex. A lot of me thinks 'keep it discreet'. Not all over the television, please. Not on the covers of the magazines on the racks in the supermarket.

Less than half an hour ago I was masturbating. Not a picture, not a video, I was actually doing the real live thing.

What proportion of the world's population have either masturbated or had sex in the past twenty-four hours?

wxhluyp has encouraged me to join imagefap. I've thought about it, but I don't think I will. It's a full-on porn site. I find the in-your-face hardcore sex a little repellent, or at least less appealing than a more sensual, subtle, drawing-you-in gradually erotica. (Also I worry that such sites have viruses, spyware etc.)

Sex and gender are bound up together.

Fear of sex has caused much persecution of trans people throughout history. Yet the contemporary trans community has inherited a lot of 'lets not acknowledge sex' attitudes from society at large. So there's  a 'no sex please,we're transsexuals' attitude in certain quarters, while in other quarters many, many people are getting off on hardcore TG porn.

And I'm in the middle of all this!

In the middle of such chaos, it can be helpful to ground oneself in a strong sense of individual identity.

Me, I am an AGP girl.

That is, I am sexually stimulated by the idea of myself being female.

This doesn't mean that sexual stimulation is all there is to my instinctive trans identification.

It doesn't mean that I'm into hardcore TG porn.

It means that I have a sexuality that I have had to work fucking hard to feel good about and put out into the world appropriately.

It means that hostility to autogynephilia adds further confusion to the issue of how much I should include my sexual feelings when I express myself online. An issue, which, in the context of society's attitudes to sex, and of my own attitudes to how public/private it should be, was already quite complicated enough, thanks very much.

Hot sexy kisses to y'all,
Debs x x x

Actress decomposes offstage

Oh let my character dissolve, away from public performance.

Oh let my opinions dissolve into a chaos of contradictions.

Now that I am naked, why have I opened this window?

Come chase me through the maze of constructed identities.

Dishy Debbie's dinner dialogue

I am wearing a mid-length, slim black dress, tights and black high-heels.

I am two inches tall.

I am standing in my dinner.

I am clambering through sensual mashed potatoes, wading through soothing warm gravy, rolling cherry tomatoes purposefully along my plate, posing as the tragic romantic as wisps of spinach wrap themselves around me.

'Hey there, Deborah, how are you doing down there?'

'I am buffeted by emotions, rich and unpredictable as ever. Life is always a storm, always an adventure.'

'Is it?'

'Yes, down here, in the realm of authentic momentary feelings it always is. You can know little of this, my dear. The best you can do is think up stupid metaphors and eat supper.'

Deeper femme

I seem to be feminising at a rate of knots.

I am reorientating my perspective on myself from a base of identity and (tentative) community, as opposed to proud individualism.

There are three levels of  identification:

1) Crossdreamer. I having thrived on identifying as such  for nearly a year now.

2) Trans. (Whether crossdreamers are by definition transgender is a moot point I don't want to argue here.) What I mean here is possessing a sense of inner femininity which is not just a sexual stimulation at the notion of being female.

3) Female. I baulk at this. I don't honestly presume to have an affinity with those whose characters have been so influenced by actually having women's bodies and having been brought up as female. Yet if 2) is vaid, it does imply some 3) within me. Lovely!

Paradoxically, it is in the realm of the sexual that I feel most like 'a natural woman' (incidental, ironic Judith Butler reference here - please ignore if you don't know what I'm talking about). I am becoming increasingly aware that I have always responded sexually in an instinctively feminine way, which was not consciously adopted behaviour to produce the crossdreaming thrill of acting feminine.

Here I must mention my lovely new friend Heather. I think Heather is a brilliant writer. She is full of wise thoughts, and is also a mistress of feminine erotica. She has written stories - this one in particular - which present a very female sexuality, very much from the inside; relishing the scenario as a woman would, with the thrill of crossdreaming transgression only implicit in the background, perhaps disposable altogether. My enjoyment of her articulation of female sexuality has made me appreciate that I share the sensibility. Her heat (get it?) is mine. The stories include explicit sex, but are sensual and gentle in nature, not hardcore in character. They appeal to me more than stories of transformation or crossdressing, in which gender transgression is foregrounded.

I hear the muffled sound of alarm bells, being rung by my natural sense of caution. But oh, I'm just loving it, this embracing of inner femininity; and, in this tough, frustrating life, feeling really good is quite a rare and precious feeling that should be valued and cherished. And the feeling is deep and poignant too. Poignant especially when I re-view my past from the perspective of a trans inner identity. I'm planning a Mirror Sister post about this, so do watch that space.

Love to you all, sisters,
Debbie x x x  

Debbie says 'yes'

At Crossdream Life forum earlier today I described myself as androgynous.

Why do I feel that that was a boring description? Why do I feel a little impatience with it? Why 'I suppose so (sigh)'?

Because right now it's exciting, sexy and powerful to be female, female, female. I'm fed up with the qualifications:' it's not the whole of me', 'I'm not saying this...', 'I'm not saying that...'.

This is Deborah's descent. Not a static position, a descent into increasing femininity, as I access more fully the female deep within my psyche.

There is a danger that I am getting carried away...

Yet I am proud and pleased to be happily acknowledging something that was lurking uneasily within me for so long. Somewhat actually thoroughly soft and sweet and good-natured, although also strong.

This experience is sexy but it's also a deep and important reorientation of my identity.

It's so much more interesting than watching television.

Just say yes, girl, just say YES!

Sliding into sisterhood

Am I a girl?

Seriously?

I have never claimed that my autogynephilia definitely indicated any femininity within me beyond itself. Nor, though, have I insisted that I am a regular masculine man.

Until recently I have kept my antipathy to masculine values away from my crossdreaming sexuality, which was thoroughly segregated from the rest of my inner self.

Does integration of these indicate a feminine centre?

A man with a feminine centre is not like a woman. A woman has been brought up as female: this greatly influences how she is, regardless of centre. I have been brought up as male: this has greatly influenced how I am. A large part of me is the product of this influence. I do not disown or dislike this part.

Is there such a thing as a feminine centre? (I know what postmodern gender theorists think about this - hi, wxhluyp, darling - how are you?) Perhaps there isn't, but perhaps there is? Maybe human life is more thoroughly gendered than I have appreciated - like the French language, where every word is given a gender. So my sensitivity does derive from my femininity?

It's possible.

The case against would claim that I am sliding into a dangerous, sex-driven fantasy. Ooh, that sounds quite exciting, doesn't it?

Or perhaps my descent is reaching a firm base of identity which explains much and connects me with others who have grown from such a base. That sounds nice, and it might be true.

I almost didn't write today, but I did

As an 'inner woman' I am stronger and more instinctive than I might seem. And I seem to feed on creative writing.

It's almost as if Mirror Brother is merely my channel. A channel who sometimes doesn't feel like working. That's fair enough, bro - we understand each other well.

Just now I had an image of myself in a wind tunnel, resisting being blown away by clinging tightly to a post.

I didn't blow away.

Expressing myself as Deborah indicates an optimism , a sense of self-expression, indeed of life, as worthwhile. Mirror Brother often does not accord with this sense.

Being Deborah is also connected to masturbation. Of course I do not deny the validity and importance of sexuality, nor the validity and importance of my particular crossdreaming sexuality. Yet masturbation is an undignified activity, stimulated by undignified thoughts. This is true for most people (everybody?), not just crossdreamers. Nevertheless, the role of Mirror Brother's sexual stimulation in Deborah's existence can provide a discouraging context for Deborah's writing/existence. One part of this self-doubt is 'why not go for the sexual stimulation more overtly, be explicitly erotic? Why be so inhibited, presenting Deborah as as a reflective intellectual?'

Writing as Deborah also has a context of the internet. The internet offers a broad life now, but a lesser-dimensional one. There is also something compulsive (and hence not really satisfying) about it.

But fuck all that. I write because I am Deborah. I write therefore I am. I am therefore I write.

And I (Mirror Bother/Mirror Sister combined) always feels better for having created a fresh post.

Many thanks for reading me. My love to you all.

D x x

Tears

Here I am again, saying 'hello'. Saying 'Thank you for reading. I'm flattered by your interest. If you really like reading me expressing myself, the least I can do in return is to give you a bit more of it.' x x

Here I am again, in front of my dauntingly blank canvas, with a freedom of expression that is somewhat intimidating, almost overwhelming.

I refuse to confine myself to a role that narrows this existential freedom - e.g. commentator on trans issues.

Writing is an assertion of active being. Of being alive, and - as Deborah - of being a crossdreamer, and of being an inner female.

The depths of my psyche are all pink and fluffy!

I could do some masculine assertion - 'this is my opinion! this is what I think!' - but I don't want to. I don't have to have an opinion to speak to you, do I, friends?

In fact right now I feel a little bit like shedding a few tears.

No particular reason. I'm just a sensitive person in a harsh world, that's all ('all'!). So naturally I feel like shedding a few tears every so often.  Maybe you do too?

Love and kisses from Deborah x x x