Here am I in a state of confusion, in paranoid speculation-
-an adjective. “Ridiculously paranoid”? “Almost paranoid”?
about two people who might not even have met plotting against me. Mmm. “Plotting against me.” Ridiculous, overweeningly solipsist paranoia, clearly. Yet- that behaviour of one is so bizarre, of the other so much of a piece, that-
No-one would ever recognise their own insanity.
Hearing my dreadful cough- I feel no other impairment- someone said I should see a doctor. Right back at you: she wears a thick jacket and two other layers, while in the hot weather I am in a light, short sleeved dress. Are you malnourished, or something?
There was I, writing in praise of cruelty one gets away with, and am now flummoxed and scunnered. Man boasted to me this morning of the head teacher saying he was the most impressive probationer the school had had. This is a good story, but a sad boast thirty years later. Another man seems a complete fool- “unconnected to reality” says my muse, hmm, maybe not that bad. He spent the first half hour of the meeting trying to get Skype to work, which would have been more forgiveable had he not spent the first half hour of the previous meeting in the same way. He then spent time blithering about irrelevancies while another thought of practicalities like, will we be able to shower anywhere that week? Though S remembers bathing once a week as a child, and having a quick rub down after playing out. Current ideas of hygiene are strange, historically.
Not so bizarre. “You’re mental!” he told me, appreciatively. Grinning, I agreed.
That situation appears like very early childhood, said Serra Pitts the gender clinic psychotherapist. You react like you did to your mother. All your feelings are distress and frustration. Well, I continue, and if I say anything negative about that situation I will find ready agreement from others. Again, right back at you. Serra, I react to you like my mother, recounting tales of my advancing understanding and maturity. I say it’s like transition. I don’t know why I want it, I just do. I don’t presume to understand the brain architecture, but it is hypothalamus stuff. And I don’t have to make grand plans about exactly how things will be in five years, just decide what I want to do today. Oh, that’s very good, you say. Gold star!
I want to boast about those texts.
-I think your gorgeous!
-I think you’re right!
-I take it your home now
-Nah, texting by moonlight as I pedal along.
-Yeah right lol xxx
This led to some questioning with Serra whether I really am wholly gynaephile, and if I were not what that would mean for My Identity. Better not to cling to it if it is untrue. Better not to doubt it if it is true…
The moon was full, casting shadows from a clear sky. My rear light was not working: a car tooted to warn me. I decided at the time to enjoy it, though it was not merely comfortable and later I was cold, huddling under the duvet. I thought I would write in a chronological way about the open mic night, and maybe I still will though in my confusion the thing which pleases me is the gratitude of a woman I have not always seen eye to eye with (whatever that means) at my easily given yet sweetly generous last sentence in a letter. We are not necessarily nice people, but kindness and gratitude for a moment brings us together. And Fran’s comment, which consolidated my confusion and freed me to write this post.