Sarahjanus's Blog

January 21, 2011

The pink fog and my dilemma

The pink fog began as a mist, swirling tendrils that sometimes blurred the sharp edges of reality around me. It hid nothing. It changed nothing. It was more like the shafts of summer sun that break through the storm clouds and illuminate something. It gave objects a new depth or perspective. And swirling, it was gone again leaving reality with all its sharp edges, its concrete, and its black and white.

One day, the mist became a fog. Suddenly the roads I travelled were not so familiar. I could see shapes and objects. I could avoid collisions but I was completely enveloped and when I passed by my reflection in a window, it was not me that I saw. It was not the me that had been. The clothes were not mine. They were foreign to me but they fit with the comfort and ease of something tailored. The pink fog is not dark. It does not shut out the light, and so the bouncing refractions of light created an aura around me. The aura gave me an inner warmth and peace. It was like I was wearing my soul on the outside. It was like I had transcended out of my mortal body to a higher level of understanding.

From my corner of the world, I watch the blacks and whites and grays hurry by me. They have their heads down, focusing inwardly on their own angst. They barely see each other and they certainly don’t see me. I don’t think they would understand me if they did. I think they may recoil with apprehension, with fear, as if I may infect them. I won’t infect them, and whether or not I even affect them is entirely within their control. I don’t know what they fear. I like the mist and I am becoming comfortable with the fog.

The clothes that enable my transcendence slip on with an ease and familiarity that comes from an inner naturalness rather than a learned societal norm. The transcendence becomes familiar and sought out ever more often. The pink fog becomes more like home and less like a foreign place. Like the proselytizing itinerant street preachers, I no longer so clearly understand why people step around me. I need to convince them of the rightness of me and the error of their judgments against me. I need to convince the world that it is wrong and I am right.

Now, the fog thickens and deepens and I plunge into with ever greater enthusiasm. I no longer know exactly where I am. I don’t know which road I’m on. I don’t know where it will take me or where it came from. I do know what the fog could cost me. I do know what the fog could cost others.

I am reminded of a cold, rainy morning of the summer just past. At dawn I was up and out with the dogs, heading for the beach to let them run loose before the buzz-kill leash police were out. As we walked through the woods as far away from the travelled route as possible, a storm came in from the lake. The wind was bracing, the rain heavy and lashing, trying to force me to bow my head, trying to drive me back. Ahead and coming towards me was a disheveled bundle of clothes that resolved itself into a young man, maybe in his 20s. In the city he would have been a homeless person. He would have had a shopping cart, laden with worn tattered shopping bags. He took shape in the rain, he appeared dirty, wet, unkempt, his hair both wild and matted.

As he came within hailing distance he began to speak. He was a preacher, a disciple of the Lord. He had found Jesus, (to which my inner voice replied, as it always does; I didn’t know he was missing) and he wanted to know if I had accepted the Lord into my heart. He had the fire of passion and true belief in his eyes. Spittle flew as he rushed to say what he had to say before I passed him by. He blocked the path to delay me.

My dogs paid him no attention which told me they didn’t sense any violence in him. The wind gusts were becoming ferocious as the storm moved over us. The rain became intense, driving through my clothes soaking me. Yet the preacher stood, oblivious to it all, offering to help me find my way. I’m sure he had no awareness whatsoever of the weather.

He had so much energy and passion that I couldn’t harshly reject him and move on. He truly believed in his chosen work. So I listened, and as I listened and took note of his look, his dress, his being, I wondered about those that loved him and worried about him. I wondered what he thought of them as he began down this road, giving up all worldly possessions to wander and preach, trying to save souls one by one. I wondered what they thought on days like this, sitting in their homes, looking out at the storm and worrying about where he was, had he eaten, did he have shelter, would he suffer violence at the hands of non-believers and disparagers. Eventually, as with the Jehovah’s Witnesses who come to my door, I had to cut him off and make my way. I went to the beach and enjoyed the ferocity of the storm as much as I might enjoy the warmth of the sun. The dogs, being pagans, gave thanks to the gods of storm for the waves that teased and chased them.

The pink fog has become, for me, analogous to that man’s faith. I edge ever closer to accepting the fog as being real. I know that once I do, my world will change. The world of those around me will change. There will be no way back, no undoing of what is done. This is not about religion but it is about faith. It is about accepting who you are in spite of what it may cost you. It is about confronting societal norms and confounding them to find your own inner peace. It is about accepting that, once upon this path, most of the world will avoid you rather than embrace you. Some will even hate you.

Faith is sometimes defined as belief in the absence of evidence. To live in the pink fog, I have to believe that I will be happier in the absence of any evidence that it will be so and in spite of all the evidence that it may not be so. I think this qualifies as a conundrum.

To any who may have read criticism of the preacher in my words, please be assured it wasn’t my intent to be critical or to judge. I simply observed and compared. I don’t mean to equate his passion to save my soul and spread the Gospel with my dilemma with cross-dressing and who I am, or should be. I simply used it as an analogy. I have a great respect for anyone who is prepared to sacrifice their own desires and creature comforts for the benefit of others. That respect isn’t restricted to Christianity or even religion. I am humbled in the presence of the young men and women of the Armed Forces around the world who are prepared to lay down their lives for even the chance that others may someday live with the freedoms and dignity that we are so lucky to have.

These are just my thoughts.


January 18, 2011

The lies that will bind me.

Yesterday I was so comfortably dressed until I had to go out and pick up the Last Child Standing (L.C.S.) that I didn’t want to change. I was truly enjoying my day. I was in a positive place like none I have been in for a long, long time. Because I have to go and pick up the L.C.S., and because he’s not blind, I have to change into drab to do it. I’m always a bit resentful of this, particularly when I’m having a really comfortable day. As I wrote yesterday, my mood is directly affected by my attire and the longer I can stay dressed en femme, the better my state of mind is.

Kris Kristofferson wrote in one of his songs; “if you’re heading for the border, Lord, you’re going to cross the line”. I guess that’s where I’m going with this analogy. Instead of stripping off all the en femme clothes and re-dressing in drab, I changed up my shoes, men’s slip-ons instead of heels, pulled lounge pants on over the leggings; I tucked the long sweater into the pants, took the forms out of the bra and pulled on a coat. The same child, who noticed my lipstick a week ago, saw nothing untoward in my attire. Clearly I am heading for the border.

It wasn’t long after we got home that he was asking for the car to go shopping. I was happy to lend it to him and before he was clear of the driveway, I was redressed and comfortable. Unfortunately, for a set of reasons completely beyond this blog, my afternoon soon imploded and I retreated into a gray haze and stayed there, miserable for the rest of the day.

This morning I had engagements out of the house, so I thought I had lost my opportunity to dress today. The L.C.S. decided to hang in town with his chums. So, here I am, dressed and becoming cheerier by the moment.

I have put myself in a corner that I won’t escape from. I had an opportunity yesterday evening to “come out”, so to speak, and I avoided it. In fact I flat-out lied and this will come back to haunt me in the future. My long-suffering SO saw something that led her to ask if I had been doing some personal grooming. What she saw was from my eyebrows. Obviously I had done a miserable job of cleaning up, but in any event, she asked about other grooming. I tried to not answer the questions. She persisted. She got her answers and then asked about why I didn’t want to divulge my activity.

My answer to her was that it was personal and in my mind a bit eccentric so I was reluctant to embarrass myself by bringing it up. She said it wasn’t eccentric, that many males groom these days. She continued, and said that not many shaved their legs, but many groomed. She was getting in a shot at me for once having shaved my legs. I don’t know what possessed me to do it and why I thought she wouldn’t notice. On the other hand, being the character that I am, it is possible that I shaved them expecting her to notice and hoping the discussion would go in such a way that she wouldn’t object to it. Then I could continue shaving them. It didn’t.

The personal grooming led to more questions and her observation that there is something awry in our world. She played her usual gambit, which is to offer to hear anything I may have to say about what is awry before she has to pursue the information herself. “Save me the trouble of having to find it all out the hard way. Don’t make me work for it. Tell me, be honest.” I waited as she spoke and wondered silently if this was the moment, the time, to be forthright and tell her how much happier I am dressed as a woman. That admission would lead to other questions, many of which I don’t have answers to; Are you gay? Do you want a sex change? Are you going to do this full-time? What am I going to tell my friends and family?

I deferred. We have a momentous event in front of us. It is just weeks away. It will form part of the family lore. I chose not to colour that event by connecting it with my “coming out”. Perhaps I will stumble between now and then and the secret will come out anyway but I would prefer, first of all, that it didn’t come out at all, or alternatively, that it comes out in a moment where it won’t be associated with something-else favourable. The corner I referred to is this; when my cross-dressing is exposed, she will come back to this conversation and point out how I lied and deceived her, even when she was pressing for the truth. She will be right. She usually is.

Here I am, dressed with no place to go. I have a gray pencil skirt with a gray/black cowl neck top from Pennington’s that I rarely wear. I have a pair of nylons that must be the wrong size because they are loose on me. How can that be? And, I have a pair of heels. I feel lovely and I’m working happily at my desk.

A correspondent was kind enough to point me towards Fantasia Fair, a TG/TS event held in the U.S. in October. It looks like a great place to spend a week. Who knows, maybe I’ll be in a position to go. I do not have the exuberance or exhalation of yesterday, but I have the peace of being able to be who I should be, at least for a few hours.

To my friend who was trying to IM me; I’m sorry I missed you. I was writing this and missed the pop-up.

Love to all.  Sarah..,

January 17, 2011

It’s a beautiful day

Good morning World. I don’t know how to use fonts and formatting to write that phrase so that it is reminiscent of Robin William’s character in Good Morning Vietnam. But, that’s how I feel this morning, exuberant, exhilarated, glad to be alive and looking to share that with everyone.

It’s cold here in my part of Canada. I had to take one child to the bus this morning in the pre-dawn darkness and the thermometer read -24°C. It doesn’t matter. I’m in the house, warmly dressed with work to do, coffee at hand and nobody home. I can switch from Robin Williams to urban slang and sing out that “Sarah’s in the house”.

During the week I usually have stretches of hours to myself. I can dress and settle in to work. As a side note, the growing presence of video phones is not pleasing me. It could seriously impact my privacy. In the meantime, being able to dress in the morning lets me be Sarah from the beginning of the day. So I am calm, relaxed, at ease with myself. Even when people begin to arrive home, and I have to change my clothes to drab, the personality remains. It may remain for the rest of the day. If my tranquility is challenged, Sarah may retreat, and my tense and hostile persona comes to the forefront. I can now feel the shift when it happens. I have long been accused of not knowing myself but since Sarah became a force in my day, I am much more attuned to my feelings and responses.

The problem becomes significant when there is always someone home, and I don’t get to dress at any point in the day. It becomes much harder to bring the calmer, quieter persona to the forefront. My tension and hostility breeds tension and hostility in response so it becomes a damaging useless cycle.

I post on Plenty of Fish. I’ve explained part of the reasons why in an earlier blog but one of the things that has happened is that I’ve been contacted by men (or writers presenting themselves as men) who, for the moment, just want to talk to me as Sarah. That has been an uplifting and exhilarating and empowering experience. It has strengthened me as Sarah tremendously. I can carry a conversation with a man while presenting as a woman. It may not be the same as carrying a conversation with a man in person, but like any rehearsal, it’s bound to make me much more confident and relaxed when the person to person opportunity arises.

The spin-off effect is that Sarah is stronger. I can hold her for longer after the clothes are changed. She doesn’t retreat so quickly. Conversely, I can’t go to Plenty of Fish when my everyday personality is present because I can’t relate to the conversations. I can’t get the giddy, light-hearted, fast-talking girl to the forefront. So, my answers are short, and sometimes sharp.

For years my wife loved the world and expected the world to love her back. In her mind, there wasn’t anyone in the world that would cause her harm because she meant harm to no one. She couldn’t comprehend cruelty for the sake of cruelty or the sociopathic personalities that just couldn’t care about the consequences of their actions on others. She has lost some of that shine. I never understood it until now. Now Sarah brings that to the day. I love the world and I expect the world to love me back. I don’t have a reason, I just do. Of course, if I went out to the Mall as a middle-aged man dressed in women’s clothes, the world might not be as kind as I hope for, and that’s sarcasm in the form of under-statement. But here, this morning, in my own house, I love the world, I love all of you, and I hope you have a wonderful day.

January 14, 2011

A new dress but not for flying

This blog is going to cover a serious issue for those in the cross-dressing community, the federal regulations that prohibit a passenger from embarking an aircraft if their gender of appearance doesn’t match their gender of identification.

I read a post from a writer in Forum. She cited the newspaper article about the student from Hong Kong who used a disguise to get on board an aircraft for Canada and then changed en route before claiming refugee status when he arrived here. The Hong Kong authorities have arrested eight people at their airport for complicity in the offence. The offender remains in custody in Canada pending a refugee hearing. However, of significance to cross-dressers, transvestites, transgender and transsexual people is the statement by Air Canada that they must refuse to allow anyone to board who does not appear to match their identification, which includes appearance, age and gender. So I wrote to Air Canada, Canada Border Services and Passport Canada to ask them specifically about me, a cross-dressing male. Anyone who reads my blog knows I’m a closet cross-dresser with only two public outings to my credit, so the chances of me being the trail-blazing pioneer at the boarding gate are slim to nil. However, I can ask the question and I did. I’ve include my message to Air Canada so that it is clear to every-one how I framed the question. I apologize to the more strident and militant members of the community for the “apologetic tone” of the message. First, that’s me, low-key and not wanting to offend, that’s my personality.  Second, I didn’t want an aggressive, threatening message to begin the exchange. Here’s my message;

—— Original Message ——
Sent: 12/01/2011 10:37 AM
Subject: Transgender/Transsexual
Subject : Transgender/Transsexual
Message : In a recent conversation with some American friends, triggered by the news article about the student from Hong Kong in the “old man” mask; they took note of the comments about the airlines’ responsibility to ensure that the bearer of a boarding pass was the same as the person in any identification offered. For transgender/transsexuals, this is a concern if they are not travelling as the gender of their identification. Apparently, in the United States it is not particularly difficult to identify yourself to the airline and T.S.A. as a transgender/transsexual and be processed smoothly even if your gender of appearance is not the same as your gender of identification.
I said I didn’t know the answers to the questions, I’ve always travelled as the gender of my identification, but I would try and find out. The question is then, specifically; I am physically a male but prefer to present as a woman, how do I approach the security and airline personnel at the airport and what can I expect in response?
I know it’s probably an unusual request. The community isn’t that large and many prefer not to cause themselves any unnecessary difficulty, but should one choose to travel dressed according to mental rather than physical state, it would be nice to know what to expect. Thanks.

And here is the response;

Dear Ms. Janus,
Thank you for your email.
We have had this same question a few times in the past year or so. We have researched the issue with our Legal Department who advised the following:
“Air Canada is bound by federal law and as such we are complying with the regulations that if a passenger’s face or gender does not match the government-issued photo identification, we are prohibited from carrying that passenger. If you have a concern regarding this, you can address your concerns with Transport Canada.”
We trust this information is of assistance to you.

I’ll be sending the same question to Transport Canada and I’ll let you know the answer. To be sure that I don’t run afoul of Air Canada in the meantime, I will clarify; the issue isn’t with Air Canada, it is with the regulations provided by Transport Canada that Air Canada must operate within. The airline is just the starting point of the enquiry.




January 10, 2011

Looking for Mr. Right

Woe is me. I’m doing a silly thing and it’s just frustrating and disappointing me. As anyone who reads this regularly knows, I’m clearly confused about where I fit in the world. I was very fortunate to find The Forum there has been an absolute bit of heaven for me. There are so many different styles of cross-dressers, so many different levels of cross-dressers that I have been able to fit myself in and feel at home.

I have come to know that I am not sexually motivated in my cross-dressing. I don’t do it for the sexual charge or sensation. I do it for the sense of inner peace that comes with being in women’s clothing. Most of the cross-dressers on the site are hetero-sexual males. The cross-dressing doesn’t influence their sexual orientation. I guess (and it is a guess because the answer still isn’t completely clear) that their cross-dressing isn’t sexually motivated either. The most common response (anecdotal, not scientific) of those, whose wives know of their cross-dressing, is that the dressing stops at the bedroom door. The wives are not interested in having sex with their husbands as women.

My wife doesn’t know that I cross-dress. I don’t expect that I’m going to tell her any time soon, if at all. I would like to, but it would be the end of this relationship without a doubt, which brings me to the point of today’s writing. I registered on Plenty of Fish using a variation of my en femme name. I wrote an accurate profile in terms of being a cross-dresser and not being entirely sure what I wanted or was looking for. I invited replies from men who may be interested in exploring that potential with me.

I know that out there, any one reading this is rolling their eyes in expectation of what is about to come. First, I have to sort through the contemporaries who can’t write a sentence or even spell. Even with allowances for modern texting, and the loss of proper grammar, I can’t interpret some of the messages, never mind understand them. Then I have to weed through those who write a single message that appears to empathize with my situation. Once I reply to those the return message is inevitably; when can I come over to your house and have sex.

Then I have to parlay with the more seasoned and skilled writers who appear to understand my situation and are prepared to put in a bit of time “getting to know each other” in public places before either of us trust the other somewhere private. Unfortunately the longer it takes to arrange the public meetings, the longer it is between responses. I can see their interest waning even before we really get started.

So far, I’m 0 for 0. A fellow traveler appeared to be every bit as patient as I am and we had been talking back and forth, comparing schedules, looking for common ground and a safe place, discretion assured etc. Today, he writes a message about fantasying of me in fishnets, stilettos, red panties and a white camisole. That was never part of the plan, at least not in my foreseeable future.

I have this concept, that I might be better suited to this world as a woman. I know that I don’t relate well to men on a man to man basis. I know I do love the company of women and I have always been more comfortable in their company. I know now, as I have learned about clothes, hair, nails and make-up, that I can happily join in on their conversations and be content. I don’t know how it would play out if I were to take on the role of a woman full-time. I don’t know how I would relate to the men that I met. I don’t search out sex with women. It has become a function that I am responsible for at home.

I went to Plenty of Fish looking for a man that would allow me to be a woman and explore that role without haste or pressure. I knew going in that it wasn’t likely to be successful. Sucks really but I hold out hope, that I will find a man willing to indulge my fantasy.

Funny thing is how discerning I am; when as Sarah I read and respond to the posts I receive. Men really do shovel the bulls^&t with a big shovel. I want to be able to give myself to a man but it is going to have to be the right man and he may have to wait (when I find him, if I find him) until the circumstances are right.

January 5, 2011

Happy New Year

I’m in a dress. I could sing it from the rooftops. I’m in a dress. It has been three weeks almost to the day since I was last able to dress. On the 15th of December, the first of the Christmas company arrived, early because they had to go home on Boxing Day. Over the next three weeks, I never had a moment alone in the house until this morning.

I have to admit, I seemed to suffer significant stress over the three weeks. I’m not sure whether it was caused by the total lack of privacy, I really like my alone time, or if it was caused by not being able to dress and more significantly not seeing an opportunity on the near horizon. The presence of others appeared as if it may go on forever.

I suppressed this need to dress until I retired but once the consistent opportunity presented itself with everyone-else going to work every day, the need took hold with a vengeance. I find myself getting moody when school holidays and sick days cause me to lose the privacy of the house. I have to monitor myself and not allow myself to fixate on being able to dress tomorrow or the day after. I don’t plan what I’m going to wear. I don’t anticipate the departure of everyone-else. The disappointment is distinct and obvious to all who see me when it doesn’t happen. I am gaining an ever stronger reputation for wanting to be alone. Unfortunately that’s only part of the story, the truth is that I want to be dressed as a woman and if I could do that in my house, regardless of who was there, I wouldn’t be so moody.

This morning, after my shower, I pulled out the new dress from Mark’s. It was a sale item that I bought well before Christmas and had to put away until now. I took the tags off and hung it so that I could see it as I selected the underwear, pantyhose and shoes. I wasn’t even looking for make-up or jewelry. I just wanted to feel the dress on.

The bikini underwear was first on. A simple tuck was accomplished. The silver pantyhose were next. I feel feminine when I point my toes and shimmy the nylons onto my feet, gather them and pull them up my leg. Both feet in, I can pull the pantyhose up evenly, reinforcing the tuck. My short rise from crotch to waist always leaves me more material than I need and if I pull them up and snug, they roll. The black bra is next, the forms go in. it’s going to be a short day so they don’t need to be glued. They press against my chest and form their own seal. I don’t even notice the weight anymore. They feel like part of me.

The dress goes on, over my head and I wiggle until it slithers down and settles on me. It’s a “Curve-fit” with its own built in bra but I’m not sure yet if the bra is enough to hold my forms without adhesive. That will be another day’s experiment. As I button up the blouse, I slip my feet into patent heels and I feel complete.

I look in the mirror and I see a 50 something woman, stern of face, solidly built, more full-bodied than shapely. Her legs are thin and not in keeping with the heavier torso but her clothes are age appropriate, well-fitted and of good quality. She appears comfortable with who she is and where she is. Maybe in her youth she would have turned heads but now she is satisfied with her own judgments of her appearance.

The sun is shining outside and in. I feel light, like a feather on a breeze. The gloominess of the past days vanishes. I move about the house in a peaceful state of mind, now that the longing is over.

I am deeply driven to this dressing. I don’t think it will ever go away. I don’t want it to go away. I want to be able to access this inner person. I want to access this inner peace. No matter what I do as a male, I have not been able to recreate this feeling.

Sarah can feel the light of day upon her face again and she is happy. Hello everyone and happy New Year.

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