Deborah monologue

I would like to think of writing this blog as a useful diary exercise. As a friendly 'hello, how are you?' chat with myself.

But who is myself?

The perspective definitely has changed, as most of the posts of the last two months have recorded or suggested. But development is erratic, and always within an intellectual context of 'I don't really know for sure'.

Do I now have a deeper, stronger sense of my own femaleness?

Yes.

Am I now dysphoric? Well, there are strands of frustration at times, but nothing like what others describe. Sometimes the 'I am a girl' voice within me screeches a little too loudly; it's frustrating to have to hold it within an outer maleness. Today I wanted to grab hold of the girl standing next to me, eject her (nothing personal, sorry...) from her body so I could possess the female body that feels rightfully mine myself. But mostly the sheer depth and freshness of this identification opens up so much space to be explored and consolidated that I am not bashing my head against the wall of outer maleness. It feels rich and exciting.

And, speaking as inner Deborah, it feels wonderful to be acknowledged.

In a way that makes me feel sad about past inner neglect, isolation. I still suddenly feel close to tears often, about past loneliness and confinement.

I am reinterpreting my character and my past.

It's an enormous, profound shift in self. xxx



(N.B. No nice pic of an attractive girl to end with, I've decided. Lovely though the crossdreamy thrill is to reperesent my inner self in this way, it doesn't feel quite right [today]. I am my own girl, unique. A picture of another girl is a picture of another girl, not me. I don't have to adopt her to be female [contrary to the sentiment expressed in the big paragraph above]. I don't have a female exterior: that's the sad truth. I do have a female interior. xx)