The Endless Struggle

It has never gotten easy for me. Maybe I should say, it never gets simple. I have always said (while acknowledging shit happens), I would prefer a simpler life to my layered and complex life. Much of that has nothing to do with gender, much of it has everything to do with it. Each and every one of our lives has issues: family, both the ones we grew up in and they ones we helped create; health, ours and those of loved ones; jobs, we all have bills to pay (at least most of us); mistakes made; great and bad decisions we make; circumstances; on and on and on…

Then yesterday I got a serious gut punch, basically lost the job I saw as my salvation, completely out of left field. Something I was getting better and better at and really enjoyed. Plus it did not require physical labor, which is becoming more and more difficult. This other endless struggle continues and will do so until it kills me, which it eventually will. But back to the focus of this blog and this post.

Yes, I can easily put myself together. Yes, I can very easily walk out the door and interact with society. Yes, I can smile, revel in the joy of being female. But I am still deeply effected by the push and pull. Every day of my life, every day, and frankly having this blog does not allow me to forget things for a while (my choice, my decision). Except on the days I get to be consumed by something else mentally (the best possible kind of day I can have), it is there. Front of mind or lurking in the background, always there. All of this even though I have accepted who and what I am.

See that piece of clothing above, hanging out of a drawer (not mine, just a great picture)? What is it about that? Some of my earliest memories are of sitting in church or at school and specifically noticing a girls bra showing through her white blouse. Noticing every detail. Selecting a specific pew knowing I can look at a certain young lady’s back. The shape, the band width, different styles. Bands showing, slumping off a shoulder, pretty or plain, white, black or another color. Why did she pick that one? Did she even consider anything other than reaching into the drawer? Wanting that to be what my back looked like.

To this day, my undergarment selection is a big part of my presentation, even if 99.99999% of the decision is only seen by me. I always want to emulate a woman. That means, when possible, I want to wear clothing made for a woman (not made for a CD or TG). I try to wear no additional padding (except when enhancing my cleavage, and even then I take it easy).

It has never been about big breasts or cleavage when I see a woman. It is always about presentation for me. How she choses to display or not, her breasts. They never really have had a sexual connotation to me, they were and are a statement of womanhood. Proud, one of the most beautiful things in life. Life affirming. I look at mine, often indistinguishable from those of a genetic woman in the right circumstances, and it is a gift. A treasure.

I have, and I am not exaggerating, easily owned well over probably 250 bras. I currently own about 40, so I don’t think I am being hyperbolic. But now, they are MINE. Now they (dependent upon the style and fit) serve their intended purpose. That fills me with joy and it also fills my mind. Except when I am out dressed, when I am wearing a bra (often, particularly in the winter, presenting male or female), I am cognizant of it.

On this day, while many of you are reading this, I am in bliss. I am celebrating my femininity. I am doing a boudoir shoot. I am getting hair and makeup. Then I have a 30 minute shoot and get 10 pictures out of it (I am trying not to invest WAY too much money). The photographer was referred by a friend. She has multiple sets for us to do the shoots, including a bed. I will allow myself to me vulnerable. I will be proud. I want to create art, I want to be sensual. I will not be shy. I want to be a girl…

A bit if a mind dump here, forgive me. Let’s see what happens.