SO and I have been in separate beds now for about a year, after the 2008 Seattle trip blowup, and her unwillingness to communicate with me about substantive issues of our lives, it seemed the right thing to do. Foremost, though, were some very practical issues that we weren’t resolving, and that didn’t seem capable of resolution.
For example, I have a sleep disorder, sleep apnea, and I have to utilize a CPAP (continuous positive air pressure) machine when I turn in for the night, in order simply to be able to function in society. Without it, I would be disabled or dead — the heart cannot bear up to the stress that sleep apnea puts on the body, and congestive heart failure is a common symptom of a lifetime of gasping for breath. Finding a mask that fits well is difficult under ordinary circumstances, but I have some other issues that require a special kind of mask that is in my view particularly hard to fit. So sometimes my mask is tooting, and farting and whistling in the course of the night’s sleep, as I roll onto my side, or over onto my shaved belly. And I sure as hell don’t wake to that kind of stuff. But she does, and she is a light sleeper due to her own special brand of sleep disorder (undiagnosed except by me on pure observation – I think she has apnea too. She’s actually a typical sleep apnea patient, age- weight- and overall health-wise) and when she does, she quickly becomes annoyed, and she socks me or shakes me awake. For a human being with an existing sleep disorder in treatment (who needs to take his sleep when he can get it) this is a nonstarter. I told her not to wake me up, and I explained to her that it is not my fault that the mask makes noise — it just does. She can’t stop. She hates the noise, and my sense is that she views this particular disability as a weakness. Her response to weakness displayed by others, a genetic one I’m sure, is to pounce on it, and to look down on one for it’s display. It’s at least an example of the powerful sway of “nurture” – her father can be positively beastly. So too can she be beastly to me. It took a couple of years of her hiding from me who she really is, before the truth began to be revealed, bit by bit. Yet I love her still for the warm, compassionate, caring person I see in her so infrequently of late. I can’t help it: the heart can’t lie, while the mind is prone to wander and deceive.
And there’s my dressing. I only revealed to SO not yet two years ago my hidden, feminine side. While initially accepting, feh, that has faded into contempt, openly hurtful, biting remarks. A friend believes that I have failed to live up to the unspoken expectations that were laid on me in the beginning. Try as I might, now, there’s a core of respect she once held for me that seems utterly absent in the way she speaks to me, disdain clothed in sullen rage.
And with this my soccer pitch, a turn inward. I live as a hermit of sorts, working, surviving, trying desperately to live, even a little. So the bike, the soccer, the turbo, the weed.
Mood: contemplatively high, verbose
Attire: While SO was visiting her parents, I took another trip to Goodwill, Marshall’s, KMart and snagged some more beautiful clothing, great new underwear and an electric blue string bikini (a girl has to have fun!) some lingerie, a surprise (!) electric blue ball/prom gown (sz 18, took a chance — obviously made for a larger girl, I hope to alter it more to my figure). Shoe Carnival for some really high heels. OMG what fun. Wearing lace boy shorts now underdressing for a busy Saturday of errands. I have been wearing panties and bra with my sz 8 forms to bed every night. Like clockwork, automatically, like it’s what I do, don’t even think about it, for months now.
As promised, I took some media while SO was at her folks’ house. Pictures turned out, well, feh. There is one that haunts me, debating whether to share. If I don’t, it’s not because I don’t love you for wanting to see.
Outlook: I feel very positive about the future, although it is difficult coming to grips with this inflection point in one of my longest-lived relationships.
TMI, right? I don’t care.