So I'm seeing a shrink at the moment.
I have a lot of issues to deal with (childhood abuse/neglect; post-traumatic stress; Asperger's; gender dysphoria - and those are only the ones I can think of off the top of my head) and I've been pressing my GP to refer me for counselling for the past 17 years. I haven't had any counselling since my early 20s when I lived in South Africa, and I've been struggling for the whole time since then. The NHS, in spite of being thought of as the 'envy of the world', is actually crap. It's fine if you need some emergency treatment (such as if you break a leg or something) but if you have anything more long-standing, such as mental illness, cancer, physical deformities or my issues, you're pretty much screwed. It's an uphill battle to be seen at all.
So yesterday I had a session with my counsellor and much to my surprise, the main subject of our meeting turned out to be my anger towards my husband, which I have kept very well hidden. I hadn't acknowledged that I'm very angry with him - not even to myself.
When we first got together, I thought he was Mr. Perfect. Well, close enough anyway. ;-)
He's kind, thoughtful, attentive, and he was quite romantic at the time. He said I was the best thing that ever happened to him and that I am the most important thing to him. He promised to always put me first, and I promised him the same with him.
We discussed the usual subjects: marriage (we wanted to marry a year to the day after we got engaged); buying a house (we wanted a small starter home, then upgrade to something nicer); holidays (I love travelling and he said he did too); children (we both wanted children and I said from the start that I wanted 3 kids; he agreed).
So we got married and everything seemed kosher for about a year. And what a year it was! We got married, bought our first house, and I gave birth to our eldest child, all within the space of 1997.
But as I was progressing through the pregnancy, thinking how great it was going to be to have a child (something I'd always wanted) and how nice it would be for me to take a couple of months off work looking after the baby before easing my way back into the workplace, Hubby & I started assessing nursery schools and childminders, testing the water to see what facilities would be available for when I'd eventually start going back to work.
And all of a sudden, Hubby changed from the generous, loving man who put me first. Rather than appreciating the fact that I was giving him a child (and going through all sorts of trauma to do so), he started pressuring me to sign up for childcare to start as soon as possible (i.e. from when the baby would be 3 months old). He said that we desperately needed my salary coming in every month so that we could afford to pay the mortgage, so he heaped enormous pressure on me to go back to work early. This started months before I'd even given birth.
I was extremely distressed by this. When I planned out how I wanted my life to unfold, I'd always known that if I worked hard at school and college, and was ambitious in my career, I'd have a far more stable financial background than my mother'd had. She raised her first two children until the youngest (me) was 3 years old before going back to work, so I would surely be able to do the same since I was far more successful (careerwise) than she was.
I'd been working since I was 16 (I was 26 when my firstborn arrived) and had buried my mother, moved countries, gotten married and was expecting a child all within 2 years... so having a baby was a perfect opportunity to take 6 months-1 year off work, spend time enjoying my baby, before re-entering the workplace. Right?
Wrong. Dead, dead wrong.
You see, I had indeed done everything right career-wise to deserve this time with my child, but I hadn't factored in that in order to take time off work with a baby, you need a supportive husband/partner/whatever to bring home the bacon while you do so. Sadly, I didn't have that.
Hubby was working as an administrator at the company for which I was Production Manager (I put him forward for the job). His wasn't a particularly taxing job, although the bosses could be extremely taxing on a regular basis. When I pressed Hubby about my not wanting to abandon my poor baby at 3 months of age, he insisted it was the only way forward as he wasn't earning enough on his own to cover the bills.
Now, many men in this situation actually fucking do something about it. I certainly would. I have, my whole life. The sole reason why I worked so damn hard in school and college, and have been so ruthlessly ambitious throughout my career, is because of my mother's experiences. You see, after having experienced a very comfortable middle-class life with my father, she eventually found herself in her forties, divorced with two teenagers and a toddler to look after on her crappy secretarial salary, which was a fraction of what she was actually worth. We lived in some very ropey accommodation in some really shitty areas, and there were days when there was absolutely no food whatsoever in the house and entire years during which I received absolutely no new clothing, but she did the best she could and we all made it out in one piece (well, apart from her, but her breast cancer wasn't her fault either).
I saw her struggle every day to make ends meet and I was determined that I wouldn't allow the same fate to befall me. So I worked hard and pushed my way up the career ladder, to the point that I am now a senior manager at a very prestigious company. But despite my best efforts, I found myself in almost exactly the same situation as my mother was when she gave birth to her third child: her (alcoholic) husband was a useless provider, so she had to put him in childcare when he was 2 months old so she could go back to work and keep a roof over our heads.
But my Hubby? Hubby came from a family where his parents were about 10 years older than mine (and much more old-fashioned; it's amazing what a difference a decade can make). His parents have always practiced strict gender roles, with his mother doing the cooking & cleaning and being very proud to do so, and his father doing the DIY & being very proud to do that too. Neither one of them could do the other's role, and they're perfectly happy that way.
His Dad worked as a draughtsman (coincidentally, the same job my own father had - in fact, both of them worked on the design of Concorde, although they didn't know each other at the time). He worked his way up to a supervisor/managerial role so he was certainly well respected in his field. However, due to their age, he retired not long after I met Hubby.
But it occurs to me that it's quite strange that his mother had to go out to work too, particularly in the 1970s.
She had three sons, one of whom very sadly died as a teenager, so she certainly had plenty to do. But Hubby's recollections of his childhood were very much working-class, with the family piling into their Mini to drive down to Cornwall on holiday, and it generally involved stories of inexpensive outings and purchasing potatoes & cabbages etc. in Cornwall to take them home because they were cheaper. (Whereas my childhood holidays involved international flights and fortnights spent in exotic locations such as Cape Town, Durban and Bophuthatswana.)
I know it was unusual for women to work in the 1970s. It certainly wasn't unheard of, but the societal expectation at the time was that the husband was the provider and the wife was the homemaker, but we were becoming enlightened enough that women could go out to work if the family wanted that extra bit of income. However, the everyday bills etc. were expected to be covered by the husband's salary.
Soooo, back in the 1970s my father paid for all our bills and we lived a very comfortable middle-class life in a large, detached, three-bed two-bath house in a nice neighbourhood. We'd go out socialising every single weekend (or we'd have friends round ours) so all-in-all it was quite a good lifestyle. But my mother decided to go to work when I was 4, because by that stage I was old enough to benefit from nursery school and she was getting a bit bored being stuck at home all the time. So they agreed that she'd get a secretarial job (which is what she'd been doing before having us kids) and that her salary would go into a savings account, to save up for nice holidays, home improvements, and stuff like that. The luxuries, basically. So that's where our jet-set lifestyle came from: my mother's contribution to our family was that we could do that little bit more than just the good, comfortable lifestyle my father's salary could provide.
By contrast, Hubby's mother worked in a factory, and then later in a charity shop. And from Hubby's description of his childhood, I believe that every single penny she earned was essential to enable the family to keep the wolf from the door. No luxurious overseas holidays for them; they were lucky if they got a week in a caravan. They scrimped & saved to keep their house in tip-top condition, and over many years they eventually decorated it to a high standard. But they still live in the house that my Hubby was born in 42 years ago.
So this is the environment in which he was raised. Is it any wonder then that he expects my support in providing for his family?
Now, I've always been a hard worker, and I've always been utterly selfless with my income. Every single penny I earn goes towards the family; in fact, I pay out more in bills every month than Hubby brings in as income. So I don't begrudge at all paying my fair share. And in these times, both partners in a marriage can reasonably expect to need to step up to the plate in order to provide for the family, as the days of a sole breadwinner are sadly in the past for most of us.
But would it have been too much to ask him to get a second job, or a better-paying first job, to cover the six months or so I needed to be off with the baby?
I don't think it would be. I've worked two jobs simultaneously before, and it is very tiring but I had responsibilities that I had to meet. Nothing quite as important as a wife who was bearing my child, though. But Hubby simply didn't have the get-up-and-go to do that. Instead, he piled huge amounts of pressure on me when I was very vulnerable (and hormonal), even going so far as to change the childcare plans I'd arranged for the baby.
So with a breaking heart, I was forced to hand my little 3-month-old daughter over to my mother-in-law, and hope she'd do the right thing by her. I was robbed of the opportunity to try to learn how to be a mother to my baby - and this was something I was struggling with for more reasons than one. Hubby didn't know it at the time, but one of the reasons why I so desperately needed to spend time with the baby was because of gender identity issues. I was trying desperately to be a 'woman' and I saw motherhood as an ideal opportunity to explore that side of femininity and see if I could be comfortable with it. But it was not to be. She was ripped away from me long before I was ready to let her go. And I very much doubt the femininity experiment would have succeeded anyway.
So I'm pissed off with Hubby about forcing me into this situation with my baby, but then I had Baby #2 just under 3 years later. And the situation hadn't improved; in fact, it was much worse.
Whilst we'd agreed from the outset that I'd have three kids, and two before the age of 30, Hubby was quite traumatised by the introduction of our first kid. Firstly, it was a traumatic birth for various reasons, which shook him terribly... but secondly, he reacted very badly to the intense way in which I needed to care for the baby. I breastfed my children for two years each, and that's a full-on role when they're little as they need to be fed & changed every 2 hours. He couldn't cope with the intensity and the intrusion into our marriage, so he started to become quite distant towards me even though I wasn't actually doing anything wrong.
Once the baby got to about 18 months, I reminded Hubby that we'd agreed to be having Baby #2 around that stage. Suddenly he was vehemently against the idea of another baby. He said he'd found the introduction of our first child so difficult to deal with (what did you have to deal with, son? I know she was a demanding baby, but I was doing 90% of her care, so apart from the obvious trauma surrounding her birth, what was your beef?) that he couldn't stand going through it again by having another child. I was hugely upset, because this was one of the things we'd agreed to before getting married, and he was now going back on what we'd agreed. So I told him that I can be patient for a little bit but it would be a dealbreaker if we don't have the second kid, so he very grudgingly let me fall pregnant a second time. But all the way through that pregnancy, he made it perfectly clear that he did not want this second child, and that he'd only agreed to it because it was what I wanted and he didn't want to lose me. He let me know in no uncertain terms that Baby #2 was conceived under duress.
Oh, hang on - there you go. That was one example in which he did actually put me first. It's probably also the last time that this has happened. Moving on...
So once again, he piled on the pressure that I'd have to go back to work at 3 months just like the last time, because blah blah blah blah. He'd had 2 years now to improve his qualifications, get a better job, or get a second job so that I could finally spend time with at least one of my babies (and I'd have them both home at the same time - yay!)... but predictably, he hadn't bothered. So once again, I bawled pitifully as I now handed both of my children over to my mother-in-law when the little one was a tender 3 months old, and went back to being a wage slave to keep the fucking bank happy.
Waitaminute... that was me putting Hubby first, as I always fucking do. So that cancels out his previous achievement then.
And now to my complete surprise, I started talking to my counsellor the other day and all this repressed rage suddenly came out of nowhere about how much Hubby has let me down over the years. I cried as I told him about the babies, our isolation & lack of social stimulation, his laziness with simple things such as DIY (which he'd told me he was excellent at - and he is, as long as he can get off his arse and do the fucking thing), his financial incompetence, the fact that we're still living in a shitty little starter home in a crappy area when we should be onto our second or third home by now, his emotional distance and lack of support when I've been going through traumas, and so on and so on.
I realised that one of the big problems I've had over the last few years, particularly since 2006, is Hubby and the way he's been treating me. So I resolved to sort that problem out, one way or another.
Saturday, 8 September 2012
Friday, 7 September 2012
A lot has happened
I've been through quite a bit since last I posted.
Firstly, my brother, who was my best friend growing up, said he had no idea that I was going through what I was going through at the time. He remembers me as being a 'tomboy', and when I mentioned how I hated wearing girls' clothes he remembered me feeling that way, but he hadn't put two & two together (he described himself as 'Captain Oblivious', but in all honesty he's always been more like 'Captain Self-Centred').
He asked me loads of questions, which I answered as honestly as I could, and he encouraged me to tell Hubby the bad news. I'd been dreading doing so because I know where it will lead. Hubby pretends to be all tolerant and easy-going, but that's just lipservice: any time an LGBT person comes on the TV he makes some sort of disparaging comment. The final straw came when the whole family was watching a music video ("Black Heart" by Stooshe) and he kept making very rude comments about one of the women in the band (Karis). He said that she looks like a 'tranny' because of her strong facial bone structure. And to make matters worse, my kids laughed along with him.
I was really upset. Not directly due to the rudeness of his comment (that was only somewhat annoying; after all, I don't personally know the lady and I don't particularly care for the band)... but because of what it revealed about his true feelings on several subjects. Such as transgendered people. And femininity. And how women 'should' look in order to be considered 'real' women. And how ridiculous people look to him if they don't fit the gender stereotype he expects them to hit.
All of this happened while I'm going through the most extreme period of gender dysphoria I've suffered in many years - the worst since my breasts started growing & my 'childbearing' hips began to spread.
So I basically called them all out on it. I told them that they were being cruel and offensive, and that it doesn't matter what her face looks like, she is a singer in a successful band and doesn't deserve that kind of disrespect. Then I told Hubby that there is something important we need to discuss, and that I'd talk to him later.
Hoo boy.
So later came. I called him up to our bedroom, sat him down on the bed, and started the conversation by listing the various issues in our marriage about which I've been increasingly dissatisfied over the past 15 or so years. I won't bore you with the details here, but suffice it to say they are serious issues that I've spoken to him about several times before, and despite his promises to improve in certain areas he has never been bothered to try.
Then I finished the conversation by saying that all of the above may well prove to be irrelevant anyway, because... I'm transgender. I outlined briefly the fact that I've never felt comfortable in my body, that I've known my whole life that I'm not a 'girl' and that I've been struggling to do what was expected of me my whole life. I gave him some background, and then told him that I have contacted my doctor about investigating this to see which path I need to take.
He was furious. But rather quiet.
The one question he did ask me was this: if I've never felt like a 'woman', why have I grown my hair long at times in the past?
And the honest answer is this: all my life, everyone around me has been telling me that I'm female, that I'm supposed to like 'girly' things, wear dresses, behave in a 'ladylike' manner (thanks Mum!) etc. etc. and the whole time they've been saying that to me, it felt wrong. But I guess I just took their word for it that this was what I had to do in order to fit in & be accepted, so I tried emulating the behaviours that they demanded of me.
I tried so damn hard.
Even going so far as to fall pregnant (twice), which was a surreal experience because although I knew I had a child (or in one case, children) inside me and was doing the most definitively 'womanly' thing that anyone can do, it still jarred with my inner sense of myself and I was surprised that pregnancy, childbirth and breastfeeding were still not enough to make me feel like a 'woman'. All of those events just felt like I was fulfilling a biological function, rather than something to do with my gender identity.
But I've come to the point in my life now where I can't sit back and accept other people's shit, and I'm sick & tired of constantly trying to live up to other people's expectations of who I should be. So it's time to face reality for the first time in my life.
Hubby said he'll be supportive, but in all honesty I know this is just lipservice. Just like the lipservice about us having a third child (which never happened); or him pulling his weight financially (17 years after meeting him I am earning more than double what he does, and he hasn't done anything meaningful to improve his situation as it's easier to let me do it); or towards putting me first in his thoughts (such pretty little words, such a pity that he didn't really mean them - after all, if he wanted to put me first, wouldn't he have moved heaven & earth to ensure I didn't have to give up my babies at 3 months of age so that we could pay the mortgage).
Hubby, if you ever read this... know that if you'd put your money where your mouth was instead of taking me for granted, isolating me and leading such a boring, geriatric life that I had to be the one to book anything we'd do, I would probably have been able to ignore my gender dysphoria for much longer, if not for my entire life, because I might have been happy being part of that great relationship we once used to have. You fucked up majorly in 2006 (when I was made redundant) because all of a sudden you didn't have my cushy salary to fall back on, and you couldn't take the pressure of being the only breadwinner. Which is something I'd done before and quite enjoyed, if you recall. And when I was diagnosed with Asperger's and needed your support and encouragement to help me through it, what did you do? Fuck all. You tried to pretend it wasn't there, and you left me to cope with a huge, lifechanging diagnosis all by myself. Big mistake... because that was just another instance in which outsiders (such as my bosses) were more supportive of me than you were. The more you do things like this, the more I notice that this seems to be your modus operandi, and it's totally at odds with the ground rules with which we established our relationship.
The way you treated me after our kids were born, but particularly after 2006, left me feeling very lonely indeed, and it gave me all sorts of time to think about my life. And since I was so damn unhappy with so many things about my life, it's only natural that I had a huge think about things this year and decided to stop letting the world in general (and you too) make me feel so damn miserable about myself.
- I came out to my elder brother, who was surprised but supportive.
- I came out to one of my friends, who seemed bemused & couldn't relate to what I was saying, but then she's a very 'girly' girl so that's hardly surprising.
- I came out to my husband. Which was a HUGE deal, and will cause us a great deal of trouble over the next few years.
Firstly, my brother, who was my best friend growing up, said he had no idea that I was going through what I was going through at the time. He remembers me as being a 'tomboy', and when I mentioned how I hated wearing girls' clothes he remembered me feeling that way, but he hadn't put two & two together (he described himself as 'Captain Oblivious', but in all honesty he's always been more like 'Captain Self-Centred').
He asked me loads of questions, which I answered as honestly as I could, and he encouraged me to tell Hubby the bad news. I'd been dreading doing so because I know where it will lead. Hubby pretends to be all tolerant and easy-going, but that's just lipservice: any time an LGBT person comes on the TV he makes some sort of disparaging comment. The final straw came when the whole family was watching a music video ("Black Heart" by Stooshe) and he kept making very rude comments about one of the women in the band (Karis). He said that she looks like a 'tranny' because of her strong facial bone structure. And to make matters worse, my kids laughed along with him.
I was really upset. Not directly due to the rudeness of his comment (that was only somewhat annoying; after all, I don't personally know the lady and I don't particularly care for the band)... but because of what it revealed about his true feelings on several subjects. Such as transgendered people. And femininity. And how women 'should' look in order to be considered 'real' women. And how ridiculous people look to him if they don't fit the gender stereotype he expects them to hit.
All of this happened while I'm going through the most extreme period of gender dysphoria I've suffered in many years - the worst since my breasts started growing & my 'childbearing' hips began to spread.
So I basically called them all out on it. I told them that they were being cruel and offensive, and that it doesn't matter what her face looks like, she is a singer in a successful band and doesn't deserve that kind of disrespect. Then I told Hubby that there is something important we need to discuss, and that I'd talk to him later.
Hoo boy.
So later came. I called him up to our bedroom, sat him down on the bed, and started the conversation by listing the various issues in our marriage about which I've been increasingly dissatisfied over the past 15 or so years. I won't bore you with the details here, but suffice it to say they are serious issues that I've spoken to him about several times before, and despite his promises to improve in certain areas he has never been bothered to try.
Then I finished the conversation by saying that all of the above may well prove to be irrelevant anyway, because... I'm transgender. I outlined briefly the fact that I've never felt comfortable in my body, that I've known my whole life that I'm not a 'girl' and that I've been struggling to do what was expected of me my whole life. I gave him some background, and then told him that I have contacted my doctor about investigating this to see which path I need to take.
He was furious. But rather quiet.
The one question he did ask me was this: if I've never felt like a 'woman', why have I grown my hair long at times in the past?
And the honest answer is this: all my life, everyone around me has been telling me that I'm female, that I'm supposed to like 'girly' things, wear dresses, behave in a 'ladylike' manner (thanks Mum!) etc. etc. and the whole time they've been saying that to me, it felt wrong. But I guess I just took their word for it that this was what I had to do in order to fit in & be accepted, so I tried emulating the behaviours that they demanded of me.
I tried so damn hard.
Even going so far as to fall pregnant (twice), which was a surreal experience because although I knew I had a child (or in one case, children) inside me and was doing the most definitively 'womanly' thing that anyone can do, it still jarred with my inner sense of myself and I was surprised that pregnancy, childbirth and breastfeeding were still not enough to make me feel like a 'woman'. All of those events just felt like I was fulfilling a biological function, rather than something to do with my gender identity.
But I've come to the point in my life now where I can't sit back and accept other people's shit, and I'm sick & tired of constantly trying to live up to other people's expectations of who I should be. So it's time to face reality for the first time in my life.
Hubby said he'll be supportive, but in all honesty I know this is just lipservice. Just like the lipservice about us having a third child (which never happened); or him pulling his weight financially (17 years after meeting him I am earning more than double what he does, and he hasn't done anything meaningful to improve his situation as it's easier to let me do it); or towards putting me first in his thoughts (such pretty little words, such a pity that he didn't really mean them - after all, if he wanted to put me first, wouldn't he have moved heaven & earth to ensure I didn't have to give up my babies at 3 months of age so that we could pay the mortgage).
Hubby, if you ever read this... know that if you'd put your money where your mouth was instead of taking me for granted, isolating me and leading such a boring, geriatric life that I had to be the one to book anything we'd do, I would probably have been able to ignore my gender dysphoria for much longer, if not for my entire life, because I might have been happy being part of that great relationship we once used to have. You fucked up majorly in 2006 (when I was made redundant) because all of a sudden you didn't have my cushy salary to fall back on, and you couldn't take the pressure of being the only breadwinner. Which is something I'd done before and quite enjoyed, if you recall. And when I was diagnosed with Asperger's and needed your support and encouragement to help me through it, what did you do? Fuck all. You tried to pretend it wasn't there, and you left me to cope with a huge, lifechanging diagnosis all by myself. Big mistake... because that was just another instance in which outsiders (such as my bosses) were more supportive of me than you were. The more you do things like this, the more I notice that this seems to be your modus operandi, and it's totally at odds with the ground rules with which we established our relationship.
The way you treated me after our kids were born, but particularly after 2006, left me feeling very lonely indeed, and it gave me all sorts of time to think about my life. And since I was so damn unhappy with so many things about my life, it's only natural that I had a huge think about things this year and decided to stop letting the world in general (and you too) make me feel so damn miserable about myself.
Tuesday, 19 June 2012
Last night at the gym
I have two gym memberships.
That might sound a bit OTT, but I work 40 miles away from home, and my company has corporate membership at a gym down the road from our offices. This is great for lunchtime workouts (which I do five days a week) but it'd be inconvenient to travel 40 miles on a weekend to work out... so I also pay for individual membership at a gym near home.
So I tend to do cardio at work's gym at lunchtime Monday to Friday, as well as an hour of cardio on Saturdays at the gym near home. I also weight train three nights a week at the gym near home in an effort to improve my physique. That's a total of nine gym sessions a week, with Sundays being my only day off.
Sound crazy?
Perhaps it is. But the thing is, I have spent my entire life (since the onset of puberty) hating my body and the way it looks. I'm very self-conscious about my hips (which my mother very cruelly referred to as 'child-bearing hips') and breasts - both of which I've learned to... ignore isn't the right word, more like disregard... by simply not looking at myself. I avoid looking in the mirror wherever possible and I tend not to look when I wash myself in the shower or bath.
So anyway... gyms, like most public places, tend to provide changing facilities & toilets for either 'ladies' or 'gents'. Which means that if you're female-bodied, you are forced by social convention (and in many places, by law) to use the 'Ladies' facilites alongside all the women.
This can be a nightmare if you don't identify as female.
There are a couple of problems with this. Firstly, the Ladies' changeroom is full of women, and women are very chatty, often having loud, pointless, asinine conversations mainly about who they're with, what they're wearing, where they're going etc. Can you imagine being a (straight) man listening to that kind of conversation all the time? You'd be bored shitless.
Another problem with women's changing rooms is that women tend to walk around naked or topless, which I find revolting. (OK, I know men do it too in the men's changing room, but that's different - I don't find that disgusting).
So last night after my weight training session, I went back to the changing room only to see a woman standing butt-naked in the shower area, which kind of smacked me in the face as soon as I came round the corner. I couldn't help but exclaim in disgust and I rushed through to the other side of the room for some privacy. Then just a few minutes later, a pair of idiotic, giggly teenage girls came in to do their hair, makeup & whatever by the mirrors in the centre of the room, and their loud bullshit was the final straw.
I left the changing room in tears. I feel so bloody uncomfortable there; I don't belong with the women and I hate being lumped in with them.
So when I got to Reception on my way out, I blurted out to the Receptionist (with whom I'm quite friendly) that I wanted to know again (i've asked someone else before) whether they can provide me with a gender-neutral changing area. With tears in my eyes I explained that I shouldn't be in the women's changing rooms because I don't belong there, but that I can't yet use the men's room. So is there anything they can do?
She was surprised but sympathetic, and said she'd speak to the manager.
I'm not holding my breath. But at least I'm trying to find a way to be more comfortable. I'm sick of feeling upset every time I have to use the women's changing areas, and every time I have to see naked females (ugh!)... if this carries on much longer I don't know what I'll do!
That might sound a bit OTT, but I work 40 miles away from home, and my company has corporate membership at a gym down the road from our offices. This is great for lunchtime workouts (which I do five days a week) but it'd be inconvenient to travel 40 miles on a weekend to work out... so I also pay for individual membership at a gym near home.
So I tend to do cardio at work's gym at lunchtime Monday to Friday, as well as an hour of cardio on Saturdays at the gym near home. I also weight train three nights a week at the gym near home in an effort to improve my physique. That's a total of nine gym sessions a week, with Sundays being my only day off.
Sound crazy?
Perhaps it is. But the thing is, I have spent my entire life (since the onset of puberty) hating my body and the way it looks. I'm very self-conscious about my hips (which my mother very cruelly referred to as 'child-bearing hips') and breasts - both of which I've learned to... ignore isn't the right word, more like disregard... by simply not looking at myself. I avoid looking in the mirror wherever possible and I tend not to look when I wash myself in the shower or bath.
So anyway... gyms, like most public places, tend to provide changing facilities & toilets for either 'ladies' or 'gents'. Which means that if you're female-bodied, you are forced by social convention (and in many places, by law) to use the 'Ladies' facilites alongside all the women.
This can be a nightmare if you don't identify as female.
There are a couple of problems with this. Firstly, the Ladies' changeroom is full of women, and women are very chatty, often having loud, pointless, asinine conversations mainly about who they're with, what they're wearing, where they're going etc. Can you imagine being a (straight) man listening to that kind of conversation all the time? You'd be bored shitless.
Another problem with women's changing rooms is that women tend to walk around naked or topless, which I find revolting. (OK, I know men do it too in the men's changing room, but that's different - I don't find that disgusting).
So last night after my weight training session, I went back to the changing room only to see a woman standing butt-naked in the shower area, which kind of smacked me in the face as soon as I came round the corner. I couldn't help but exclaim in disgust and I rushed through to the other side of the room for some privacy. Then just a few minutes later, a pair of idiotic, giggly teenage girls came in to do their hair, makeup & whatever by the mirrors in the centre of the room, and their loud bullshit was the final straw.
I left the changing room in tears. I feel so bloody uncomfortable there; I don't belong with the women and I hate being lumped in with them.
So when I got to Reception on my way out, I blurted out to the Receptionist (with whom I'm quite friendly) that I wanted to know again (i've asked someone else before) whether they can provide me with a gender-neutral changing area. With tears in my eyes I explained that I shouldn't be in the women's changing rooms because I don't belong there, but that I can't yet use the men's room. So is there anything they can do?
She was surprised but sympathetic, and said she'd speak to the manager.
I'm not holding my breath. But at least I'm trying to find a way to be more comfortable. I'm sick of feeling upset every time I have to use the women's changing areas, and every time I have to see naked females (ugh!)... if this carries on much longer I don't know what I'll do!
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
Back to work... androgynously
So Hubby & I have just had a week off together. Nothing special, mind you... we'd just surreptitiously booked off the extra 3 days around the Diamond Jubilee weekend so that we could make it a full week. We spent the week on various projects. Top on my list of things to do was to clean out our bedroom, because there's been a huge growth of mould in our room over winter, what with our room getting damp due to the two of us breathing in there overnight. I broke the back of the job in a big way and still have plenty more to do, but that's a job for another day.
I've been attending our local gym every day for the past week. I did my scheduled cardio sessions (which is often difficult due to the lack of airconditioning in the gym) and for three days (M, W, F) I followed this up with some upper & lower body weights. Hubby doesn't know this, but the reason why I'm doing this is because I prefer the way my body looks when I'm more muscular. Not only that, but a little protip here: orgasms feel much more intense if your thigh muscles are well developed! Ahem... that may well be TMI.
We spent today trawling around the local gyms in the area because I've been getting disenchanted with our local one. It's a bit shabby and it takes them ages to repair anything that breaks down. But none of the other gyms are as large as the one I use, and I'd dread having to wait to use the equipment I need. So it looks like I'm staying put.
In amongst reviewing these gyms, I have been investigating the possibility of using the 'accessible' changing areas. It has been becoming more & more apparent that I'm desperately unhappy about being forced to use the female changing rooms. I hate it for several reasons: 1) I don't identify as 'female' or 'woman', so it seems inappropriate to use those rooms. 2) I greatly dislike looking at the female form, especially naked, and there is an unfortunate tendency in this country for people to get butt naked in the common area of the changing rooms, so many's the time I have walked into the room to be greeted by the sight of boobs or beavers, which I find totally repulsive. 3) women are SO FUCKING BORING and EQUALLY FUCKING LOUD in their conversations. Why can't they have a quiet conversation, or at the very least talk about something interesting? I HATE being in the same room as these women and their banal little chats about who said what, what they were wearing, and where they met up. I don't belong amongst them... and I never have.
Sadly, the provision for 'accessible' changing rooms does not take transgendered people into account. Even worse, it doesn't even take the needs of the disabled into account. Stacked lockers, one near the ceiling? Check. Total lack of hairdrying facilities? Check. Staff who use the lockers in the disabled changing room as their own personal lockers? Bloody check. So I've been disappointed in my efforts to locate gender-neutral changing facilities.
I've decided that when I return to my workplace gym tomorrow, I will ask to use the little-used downstairs changing rooms so that I can try to avoid sharing with women. I'll try to speak to the manager (who I believe to be a lesbian; maybe she'll be sympathetic?) to organise this. Oh well. A week off work, and now I have to go back in the morning. And I'll be going back dressed androgynously.
I'm not looking forward to it at all.
I've been attending our local gym every day for the past week. I did my scheduled cardio sessions (which is often difficult due to the lack of airconditioning in the gym) and for three days (M, W, F) I followed this up with some upper & lower body weights. Hubby doesn't know this, but the reason why I'm doing this is because I prefer the way my body looks when I'm more muscular. Not only that, but a little protip here: orgasms feel much more intense if your thigh muscles are well developed! Ahem... that may well be TMI.
We spent today trawling around the local gyms in the area because I've been getting disenchanted with our local one. It's a bit shabby and it takes them ages to repair anything that breaks down. But none of the other gyms are as large as the one I use, and I'd dread having to wait to use the equipment I need. So it looks like I'm staying put.
In amongst reviewing these gyms, I have been investigating the possibility of using the 'accessible' changing areas. It has been becoming more & more apparent that I'm desperately unhappy about being forced to use the female changing rooms. I hate it for several reasons: 1) I don't identify as 'female' or 'woman', so it seems inappropriate to use those rooms. 2) I greatly dislike looking at the female form, especially naked, and there is an unfortunate tendency in this country for people to get butt naked in the common area of the changing rooms, so many's the time I have walked into the room to be greeted by the sight of boobs or beavers, which I find totally repulsive. 3) women are SO FUCKING BORING and EQUALLY FUCKING LOUD in their conversations. Why can't they have a quiet conversation, or at the very least talk about something interesting? I HATE being in the same room as these women and their banal little chats about who said what, what they were wearing, and where they met up. I don't belong amongst them... and I never have.
Sadly, the provision for 'accessible' changing rooms does not take transgendered people into account. Even worse, it doesn't even take the needs of the disabled into account. Stacked lockers, one near the ceiling? Check. Total lack of hairdrying facilities? Check. Staff who use the lockers in the disabled changing room as their own personal lockers? Bloody check. So I've been disappointed in my efforts to locate gender-neutral changing facilities.
I've decided that when I return to my workplace gym tomorrow, I will ask to use the little-used downstairs changing rooms so that I can try to avoid sharing with women. I'll try to speak to the manager (who I believe to be a lesbian; maybe she'll be sympathetic?) to organise this. Oh well. A week off work, and now I have to go back in the morning. And I'll be going back dressed androgynously.
I'm not looking forward to it at all.
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
Puberty hits with a vengeance
The first signs of puberty happened really early for me.
I remember sitting in the bathtub one night when I was about 6 or 7 years old, when I noticed a very strange curly hair where there had never been any hair before. You know where I mean; I don't need to spell it out for you. I called my mother into the bathroom and asked her to take a look at this strange invader, and she just smiled knowingly and said "There'll be plenty more where that came from!". She was right, of course, but I had no idea that this weird hair meant that I'd started puberty... or what it would wind up doing to me.
As I said in my previous post, my breasts started growing around the age of 7, and that was a devastating blow to my self-image. Over the next few years, my body started changing in other ways too. My hips started to spread… so much so, that by the time I was 11 my mother referred to them as "child-bearing hips", and she meant that in a very cruel way. The Dairy Section continued to get larger, to the point that my breasts seemed obscenely large on my small frame. And when I was 12, I started having periods. Ugh!
Of all these changes, I'd like to focus on my breasts here. Oi! Cut it out, you pervert!
Anyway, between the ages of 9 and 11, my breasts grew from beestings to B-cups. That might not sound impressive, but I was about 1.3m tall at the time (less than 5 feet in old money) and so they appeared to be disproportionately large on my small frame. I hated them from the moment they first appeared, and I only grudgingly accept their presence now, mainly because they helped me attract Hubby and they did a great job of feeding my babies.
I remember very clearly what it felt like to have enormous breasts on my chest at that tender age, particularly since I was so angry at them from the start. Our school uniform was mandatory dresses for girls, which I hated, so I used to change into my customary t-shirt and shorts combo with takkies (trainers/sneakers) as soon as I got home from school. (In fact, I still do this today; I change into comfy trousers and a t-shirt or sweatshirt when I get home from work).
So if I wanted to go out to visit friends or go to the local shop after school, I had to walk the local streets in my t-shirt & shorts. But I had these enormous breasts under the t-shirt, and I was very uncomfortable with their presence… so I would pull down hard on the hem at the front of my t-shirt in an attempt to squish my breasts as flat as possible.
Unfortunately, there was no way of hiding those enormous jugs, and I'm pretty sure that squishing them with my t-shirt just drew more attention to them… and to me. I recall seeing drivers going past me in the street, particularly men, who would stare at me and at my chest. Bastards… if only they knew how uncomfortable I was with myself, and how much worse their stares were making me feel.
Due to the unwelcome stares of those men, I figured out that squishing my breasts flat with a t-shirt would just attract attention. So for the next few years I tried a different approach: wearing large, baggy t-shirts that would hide not only the worst of my breasts, but my narrow waist and 'child-bearing' hips too.
Provided I wore generic trousers or shorts with a big t-shirt, I could look fairly androgynous. And I could feel slightly more comfortable with myself. At least, I could when I was dressed. Nothing, however, helps me feel more comfortable about myself when I'm naked.
I remember sitting in the bathtub one night when I was about 6 or 7 years old, when I noticed a very strange curly hair where there had never been any hair before. You know where I mean; I don't need to spell it out for you. I called my mother into the bathroom and asked her to take a look at this strange invader, and she just smiled knowingly and said "There'll be plenty more where that came from!". She was right, of course, but I had no idea that this weird hair meant that I'd started puberty... or what it would wind up doing to me.
As I said in my previous post, my breasts started growing around the age of 7, and that was a devastating blow to my self-image. Over the next few years, my body started changing in other ways too. My hips started to spread… so much so, that by the time I was 11 my mother referred to them as "child-bearing hips", and she meant that in a very cruel way. The Dairy Section continued to get larger, to the point that my breasts seemed obscenely large on my small frame. And when I was 12, I started having periods. Ugh!
Of all these changes, I'd like to focus on my breasts here. Oi! Cut it out, you pervert!
Anyway, between the ages of 9 and 11, my breasts grew from beestings to B-cups. That might not sound impressive, but I was about 1.3m tall at the time (less than 5 feet in old money) and so they appeared to be disproportionately large on my small frame. I hated them from the moment they first appeared, and I only grudgingly accept their presence now, mainly because they helped me attract Hubby and they did a great job of feeding my babies.
I remember very clearly what it felt like to have enormous breasts on my chest at that tender age, particularly since I was so angry at them from the start. Our school uniform was mandatory dresses for girls, which I hated, so I used to change into my customary t-shirt and shorts combo with takkies (trainers/sneakers) as soon as I got home from school. (In fact, I still do this today; I change into comfy trousers and a t-shirt or sweatshirt when I get home from work).
So if I wanted to go out to visit friends or go to the local shop after school, I had to walk the local streets in my t-shirt & shorts. But I had these enormous breasts under the t-shirt, and I was very uncomfortable with their presence… so I would pull down hard on the hem at the front of my t-shirt in an attempt to squish my breasts as flat as possible.
Unfortunately, there was no way of hiding those enormous jugs, and I'm pretty sure that squishing them with my t-shirt just drew more attention to them… and to me. I recall seeing drivers going past me in the street, particularly men, who would stare at me and at my chest. Bastards… if only they knew how uncomfortable I was with myself, and how much worse their stares were making me feel.
Due to the unwelcome stares of those men, I figured out that squishing my breasts flat with a t-shirt would just attract attention. So for the next few years I tried a different approach: wearing large, baggy t-shirts that would hide not only the worst of my breasts, but my narrow waist and 'child-bearing' hips too.
Provided I wore generic trousers or shorts with a big t-shirt, I could look fairly androgynous. And I could feel slightly more comfortable with myself. At least, I could when I was dressed. Nothing, however, helps me feel more comfortable about myself when I'm naked.
When I first noticed that something wasn't quite right
When I was a kid (whenever I refer to my childhood, I always refer to myself as a 'kid', never as a 'girl' because that doesn't seem like 'me'), I lived in sunny South Africa… a country of 8-month-long sunny seasons in which every other family has a swimming pool in their back garden. My best friend, who lived just two houses away from me, had a pool and my brother & I would often go round her place during those long summer afternoons for a bit of a swim. Also, my parents would take us out most weekends for a braai (barbeque) in some lovely picturesque spot where swimming would usually form part of the day's activities.
Throughout my childhood, I was what might be considered a 'tomboy'. But the difference is: most 'tomboys' grow out of being a tomboy and grow into being a woman, but I never did. I've never been comfortable with being in a female body. Can you still be a 'tomboy' when you're 40? Or is it time to accept that this isn't just a phase you're going through, but it's who you really are?
As a kid, I loved going out swimming… in fact, I loved everything about the great outdoors. My elder brother and I used to go 'adventuring' in the African bushveld that surrounded our home, making 'forts' out of remains of old buildings; imagining that dinosaurs had left footprints in the volcanic rock formations in our local veld; climbing trees; fishing for tadpoles; making water features in our garden; finding and playing with bugs in our rockery; playing rugby (if we didn't have a ball, we'd use an old 2-litre Coke bottle with a bit of water in it to give it some spin); arm-wrestling; riding our bicycles; play-fighting in slow motion whilst pretending to be the 'Six Million Dollar Man'; and if the weather was bad we'd stay indoors and play with his Scalextric set, or play Top Trumps with fighter jets & Formula 1 cars. Or if I wanted a bit of space, I'd simply sit and paint in my room.
So at this point, are you wondering whether I participated in all of these activities because I had an overbearing older brother who would strongarm his long-suffering little sister into them?
If that's what you think, you couldn't be more wrong.
I love my brother and have always looked up to him, but he has no backbone and he couldn't strongarm me into anything if he tried. If I'd ever fancied playing 'girly' games, I could easily have just gone round to my friend's house and played with her. But I didn't want to do anything 'girly'; I wanted to do all the 'boyish' things I did with my brother. I loved our rough-and-tumble play and I feel very fortunate that my brother was welcoming and accepting of my enjoyment of his games. Especially considering the fact that we were kids in the 1970s, a very sexist decade in which 'boys' and 'girls' were expected to follow strictly demarcated gender roles.
The truth is that my brother and I played together, co-operatively, with neither one of us dominating our play sessions. Now that I come to think about it, it was quite an ace early childhood really, especially compared to the way many kids are wrapped in cotton wool today.
Anyway, back to swimming. When I was about 5 years old I had two swimming costumes: a one-piece costume that my mother had bought for me, and a two-piece bikini that my friend's mother made for me on her sewing machine, to match the one she'd made for her daughter. Oh, but with one subtle difference: my friend's bikini was in her favourite colour of pink, and mine was in my favourite colour… blue. I loved blue clothes as a child - I was mad about the colour and everything I wore had to be blue. My favourite dress was dark blue with a picture of a 1920s car on the front. Apart from the fact it was a dress, it was perfect!
I loved that bikini. Can you guess why?
I loved it because as soon as my parents were distracted with their grown-up conversations around the braai, I could discard the bikini top and run around with just the bottoms on. Just like any other boy. It was great! I loved running around topless in the African sunshine; it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Indeed, I would often spend my summer afternoons, barefoot and wearing just a pair of boyish shorts, playing topless in the garden. And although my parents would make the odd comment to me that it's not very 'ladylike' to run around topless, I ignored them and carried on regardless for as long as I was able. I understood from their words that I was expected to behave in a 'ladylike' fashion; I just didn't identify with being ladylike. It didn't seem relevant or applicable to me.
So I had a lovely, carefree, topless early childhood… until that horrible day, when I was about 7 years old, when my parents noticed that my breasts had started to grow. Just the tiniest beestings, mind you, but the dairy section had definitely started to bud.
On that day, my mother told me that I would have to wear a top from now on, and would never be allowed to run around topless again. I was devastated. It was so unfair!
Why was I being forced to be different from my brother, when I feel the same as him?
Why wasn't I allowed to be myself any more?
Why did I suddenly have to start pretending to be a girl, when I knew deep-down that I wasn't one?
I was forced to fit into a different mould. I felt like a square peg being hammered into a round hole.
So I started wearing a bikini top or a t-shirt at all times, in spite of my (then) pathetically small beestings… and for the first time in my life, I started feeling desperately uncomfortable with my body. Young children are fairly androgynous, and as long as they're raised by fairly open-minded parents their sense of identity can flow organically so that they can demonstrate who they truly are. But puberty doesn't care who you want to be. It changes your body the way it wants to change it, regardless of what you might prefer. My body was doing things I did not want it to do. It was becoming girly, even though I was not.
Damn you, hormones!
Throughout my childhood, I was what might be considered a 'tomboy'. But the difference is: most 'tomboys' grow out of being a tomboy and grow into being a woman, but I never did. I've never been comfortable with being in a female body. Can you still be a 'tomboy' when you're 40? Or is it time to accept that this isn't just a phase you're going through, but it's who you really are?
As a kid, I loved going out swimming… in fact, I loved everything about the great outdoors. My elder brother and I used to go 'adventuring' in the African bushveld that surrounded our home, making 'forts' out of remains of old buildings; imagining that dinosaurs had left footprints in the volcanic rock formations in our local veld; climbing trees; fishing for tadpoles; making water features in our garden; finding and playing with bugs in our rockery; playing rugby (if we didn't have a ball, we'd use an old 2-litre Coke bottle with a bit of water in it to give it some spin); arm-wrestling; riding our bicycles; play-fighting in slow motion whilst pretending to be the 'Six Million Dollar Man'; and if the weather was bad we'd stay indoors and play with his Scalextric set, or play Top Trumps with fighter jets & Formula 1 cars. Or if I wanted a bit of space, I'd simply sit and paint in my room.
So at this point, are you wondering whether I participated in all of these activities because I had an overbearing older brother who would strongarm his long-suffering little sister into them?
If that's what you think, you couldn't be more wrong.
I love my brother and have always looked up to him, but he has no backbone and he couldn't strongarm me into anything if he tried. If I'd ever fancied playing 'girly' games, I could easily have just gone round to my friend's house and played with her. But I didn't want to do anything 'girly'; I wanted to do all the 'boyish' things I did with my brother. I loved our rough-and-tumble play and I feel very fortunate that my brother was welcoming and accepting of my enjoyment of his games. Especially considering the fact that we were kids in the 1970s, a very sexist decade in which 'boys' and 'girls' were expected to follow strictly demarcated gender roles.
The truth is that my brother and I played together, co-operatively, with neither one of us dominating our play sessions. Now that I come to think about it, it was quite an ace early childhood really, especially compared to the way many kids are wrapped in cotton wool today.
Anyway, back to swimming. When I was about 5 years old I had two swimming costumes: a one-piece costume that my mother had bought for me, and a two-piece bikini that my friend's mother made for me on her sewing machine, to match the one she'd made for her daughter. Oh, but with one subtle difference: my friend's bikini was in her favourite colour of pink, and mine was in my favourite colour… blue. I loved blue clothes as a child - I was mad about the colour and everything I wore had to be blue. My favourite dress was dark blue with a picture of a 1920s car on the front. Apart from the fact it was a dress, it was perfect!
I loved that bikini. Can you guess why?
I loved it because as soon as my parents were distracted with their grown-up conversations around the braai, I could discard the bikini top and run around with just the bottoms on. Just like any other boy. It was great! I loved running around topless in the African sunshine; it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Indeed, I would often spend my summer afternoons, barefoot and wearing just a pair of boyish shorts, playing topless in the garden. And although my parents would make the odd comment to me that it's not very 'ladylike' to run around topless, I ignored them and carried on regardless for as long as I was able. I understood from their words that I was expected to behave in a 'ladylike' fashion; I just didn't identify with being ladylike. It didn't seem relevant or applicable to me.
So I had a lovely, carefree, topless early childhood… until that horrible day, when I was about 7 years old, when my parents noticed that my breasts had started to grow. Just the tiniest beestings, mind you, but the dairy section had definitely started to bud.
On that day, my mother told me that I would have to wear a top from now on, and would never be allowed to run around topless again. I was devastated. It was so unfair!
Why was I being forced to be different from my brother, when I feel the same as him?
Why wasn't I allowed to be myself any more?
Why did I suddenly have to start pretending to be a girl, when I knew deep-down that I wasn't one?
I was forced to fit into a different mould. I felt like a square peg being hammered into a round hole.
So I started wearing a bikini top or a t-shirt at all times, in spite of my (then) pathetically small beestings… and for the first time in my life, I started feeling desperately uncomfortable with my body. Young children are fairly androgynous, and as long as they're raised by fairly open-minded parents their sense of identity can flow organically so that they can demonstrate who they truly are. But puberty doesn't care who you want to be. It changes your body the way it wants to change it, regardless of what you might prefer. My body was doing things I did not want it to do. It was becoming girly, even though I was not.
Damn you, hormones!
Gym bunny
So in light of Hubby's apparent support for my changing my clothing & image to be more androgynous, I spoke to him about another aspect of why I'm so unhappy about myself: the shape of my body.
I used to weigh about 50kgs (I'm 1.55m tall) before I met him, but I put on weight during & between (and admittedly, after) my pregnancies and as such I'm currently about 15-20kgs overweight. I've been attending gym for the past couple of years, but I've had to do it in spits & spurts due to various (medical) reasons.
I'm such a nutcase that I actually have TWO gym memberships. I'm fortunate to have free corporate membership of a local gym near to where I work, but I work around 40 miles away from home so it isn't practical to use that gym on the weekends. So I also pay for membership of an independent chain of gyms near where I live so that I can exercise on the weekends too.
About a year ago I was fully in the swing of going to the gym 9 times per week: 6 sessions of cardio (Monday to Saturday) along with 3 sessions of weights (Mon, Weds, Fri). It was going great: I was losing weight, feeling fitter & healthier, and my body was becoming more muscular: just how I like it!
But as I have mentioned previously, Hubby likes soft curves: he's a boobs & bum man. So whilst he says he's supportive of my gym attendance, he is an opinionated old sod and he has been known to make critical comments about muscular women, such as female bodybuilders, when they are in the Press. So he says he's supportive, but I see things differently when I hear his bitchy comments.
So when my back, arms & legs started to get quite muscular last year, Hubby started making the occasional sniping comment. Nothing direct or personal - he's far too clever for that - but he made it known that he prefers me being soft & curvy to being muscular. Do you know what, Hubby? I understand that that is what you prefer, and that that is how you want me to look. But you are not me. And I cannot live my life (and live in this body) according to how somebody else wants me to be. No matter how much I love you.
Now that I've come to the decision that I need to address my gender dysphoria, I need to start weight training again to attain some of the shape I desire. (Last year, I absolutely loved the fact that my upper back was becoming hard, firm & muscular. I love feeling muscles under my skin and I want to feel firm all over). But I remember how Hubby reacted last time.
So I spoke to him about it in advance. I explained that since I want to appear more androgynous, I need to go back to the gym and I need to do some weight training. He said he was perfectly fine with that and would support me… but the proof of the pudding is in the eating, so let's see whether he starts getting snarky again when my musculature starts to show.
I'm already making good progress: I love the fact that I press more weight on the leg machines than most men at the gym, and that I have the knowledge and experience to ensure I use good form in my workouts - far better form, in fact, than many of the men in our gym.
Ha ha, guys, if only you knew, this slip of a 'girl' is one of you. ;-)
I used to weigh about 50kgs (I'm 1.55m tall) before I met him, but I put on weight during & between (and admittedly, after) my pregnancies and as such I'm currently about 15-20kgs overweight. I've been attending gym for the past couple of years, but I've had to do it in spits & spurts due to various (medical) reasons.
I'm such a nutcase that I actually have TWO gym memberships. I'm fortunate to have free corporate membership of a local gym near to where I work, but I work around 40 miles away from home so it isn't practical to use that gym on the weekends. So I also pay for membership of an independent chain of gyms near where I live so that I can exercise on the weekends too.
About a year ago I was fully in the swing of going to the gym 9 times per week: 6 sessions of cardio (Monday to Saturday) along with 3 sessions of weights (Mon, Weds, Fri). It was going great: I was losing weight, feeling fitter & healthier, and my body was becoming more muscular: just how I like it!
But as I have mentioned previously, Hubby likes soft curves: he's a boobs & bum man. So whilst he says he's supportive of my gym attendance, he is an opinionated old sod and he has been known to make critical comments about muscular women, such as female bodybuilders, when they are in the Press. So he says he's supportive, but I see things differently when I hear his bitchy comments.
So when my back, arms & legs started to get quite muscular last year, Hubby started making the occasional sniping comment. Nothing direct or personal - he's far too clever for that - but he made it known that he prefers me being soft & curvy to being muscular. Do you know what, Hubby? I understand that that is what you prefer, and that that is how you want me to look. But you are not me. And I cannot live my life (and live in this body) according to how somebody else wants me to be. No matter how much I love you.
Now that I've come to the decision that I need to address my gender dysphoria, I need to start weight training again to attain some of the shape I desire. (Last year, I absolutely loved the fact that my upper back was becoming hard, firm & muscular. I love feeling muscles under my skin and I want to feel firm all over). But I remember how Hubby reacted last time.
So I spoke to him about it in advance. I explained that since I want to appear more androgynous, I need to go back to the gym and I need to do some weight training. He said he was perfectly fine with that and would support me… but the proof of the pudding is in the eating, so let's see whether he starts getting snarky again when my musculature starts to show.
I'm already making good progress: I love the fact that I press more weight on the leg machines than most men at the gym, and that I have the knowledge and experience to ensure I use good form in my workouts - far better form, in fact, than many of the men in our gym.
Ha ha, guys, if only you knew, this slip of a 'girl' is one of you. ;-)
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