MYTHS, FALLACIES AND MOST THERAPISTS WITHOUT A CLUE

Post 73

EPILOGUE

Quite possibly, Julie no more. For your consideration:
A number of past blogs discussed the subject of “Fetish”. By the way, this particular discussion does not include those who become transsexuals as fetish is not an issue for them. We found it not unusual for a CD to begin their journey pre-puberty when, seemingly, the sexual factor was not present. Teenage and young adult CDs appear to be the group most strongly into the fetish influence during this period when hormones are raging. Then, for most, fetish remains a force and for a very few the major influence during their life time.
I followed a similar route as curiosity, or whatever, triggered my inclinations at age five and by 15 I was strongly into the fetish stage with my mother’s clothes. At college, when I finally could leave the dorms for my own apartment ─ a pattern developed whereby I had active sexual activities with the opposite sex but continued purchasing and wearing female attire in the privacy of my home. As detailed in my memoir, while still a bachelor and particularly in Montreal where four orgasms a night with a Hungarian gal was not uncommon ─ my CD desires remained unabated.Hard to explain what happens to the fetish factor under this and similar circumstances when one’s sex drive has found a strong second outlet.

Where am I heading? Well for the following, roughly, 65 years including 52 years of marriage, my CD interests never diminished during my hetero life. Then, by 89 my brother and cousins had left this world and I was all alone with no one viewing my activities. Boom! Spent thousands of dollars on clothes, makeup and costume jewelry. Had my nails and hair done monthly and, evidently, this old lady passed! Added advantage — old ladies seldom receive a second glance. Fine restaurants, best stores ─ you name it ─ no problems. Other than occasional doctor visits to the VA I was 24/7 as close to being female as my physical appearance would allow. In fact, as testosterone diminished, my overall body features were changing including a now normal B-cup. Something else was occurring that I read would happen but, still, never anticipated to me ─ with lower testosterone came low libido. Whatever fetish syndrome was left that fueled my cross dressing no longer had an outlet. Simply put – few or no orgasms were possible. So now I had attained, deliberately or not, almost all the outward manifestations of a female but felt let down. Remembered words from a Sinatra song “Is that all there is?” There was no thrill, no rush any longer being Julie. The only attraction was that wearing female attire (without girdles) was far more comfortable. Never in my wildest dreams did I foresee feeling this way!

As I write this while in drab my thoughts are conflicting. Though I’m not aware of any immediate life-threatening health issues, my body is certainly wearing out at 91. Can I still depend on the Lord giving me ample warning or, instead, will I die in my sleep? In any eventuality should I be found as Julie or Julian for the long trip back to a Washington cemetery? Just perhaps Julie should remain only in my writings. Perhaps.

Family Pictures

.So Much More ………..                                                                                                       [After reading my 540 page memoir, the former Catholic priest who had painted its cover, Pax Nidorf, exclaimed: “Sure you’re a cross dresser but, Julian, you are more than that, so much more!”] Are you so much more?

Kindly right click www.neverclimbedhismountain.com for further information on Julian and Julie.

Big Mistake! Go to Post 74

MYTHS, FALLACIES AND MOST THERAPISTS WITHOUT A CLUE 72

My Very Own Hair With New Hairdo! Love it!
Picture 4Post 72

{Amazingly not obvious to me at the time — physical and mental damage continued undiminished ─ I was drowning in so many non-life threatening ailments that I was overwhelmed, mentally numb. Why were all these events happening to me? I still had a loaded revolver, from my Gaylord days, in my night stand and yet never considered using it ─ shows how oblivious I was to what was occurring or I would have ended my distress at some point during this period.}

Then a series of events turned on a light bulb in my head: I was laying in a hospital bed staring, mindlessly, at the off-white ceiling tiles when in walked the V.A.’s chief residence doctor followed by a gaggle of familiar-faced floor docs ─ each with note-pad in hand. He looked at the chart hanging from the end of my bed for all of two minutes before announcing “Over medicated”. Off they went to the next bed. Maybe, I thought, maybe they would take action to help me. But no changes were made in my medications in ensuring days, none. So what were those floor docs dutifully scribbling on their pads?

First chance, after I came home, was to make an appointment with my primary care doc two weeks later. “Look, Julian, she said, you have seen half a dozen specialists. There is nothing more I can do. After all you’re 90”. No way, not acceptable I thought, I’d switch primaries.

Soon after I received a letter from the VA ─ had an appointment scheduled for an EED. What the hell was that? Turned out that it was a procedure attaching wires to the scalp to measure impulses or something. Report came back: “Over medicated”. A confirmation! Damn, why hasn’t someone reacted to the residence doctor’s diagnosis? Back to the new primary doc to find out how to cut back. “No idea” she said.” Thought back to a PhD of something or other who was on the Board of the Delta Society with me years ago (Delta is the group that brought animals like dogs, horses and dolphins into the mental health cure arena; service dogs to those in need of help and so much more.). Though we had veterinarians and other professionals on the Board too, she often referred to doctors disparaging as “MDiems” An old cliche: What do you call a person who graduates at the bottom of their class at the worst rated medical school in the Country? “Doctor”, of course. Excuse me but at that time in my life I had a low opinion of practicing doctors.

Okay, I decided, will do it myself. Cut dosage of some from three times a day to two, once daily to one-half. After two weeks I reduced more. For those meds that were already down to small amounts with no discernible changes in my health I then cut out completely. My symptoms, like fainting, didn’t get worse ─ but vastly improved! Within two months hallucinations and blackouts were gone! Still was only sleeping couple hours at night as the VA docs insisted on giving me anti-depressants (Require less paperwork than narcotics.). So what about the patient’s needs? A local non-VA doc ordered sedative-hypnotics, that’s sleeping pills, for me. Oh joy. Now getting sleep in spurts of two to three hours at a time but added up to at least six by end of night. First time in years! Could I get addicted to them? At my age – so what?

So, by being proactive medication-wise I had wiped out many of the symptoms and just maybe the actual ailments that had made me so miserable!  I’m sure that I’m confusing the reader at this point. The various pains and discomfort from the further degenerating of the neck and spine were still with me as were the occasional flair up in my GI track. But I was clearing up the rest of my complaints, as enumerated above, that were evidently caused by over medication.  Don’t want to give an impression that one can cut their medications haphazardly. I read the literature that comes with each prescription, looking especially for directions that indicate that said medication should only be used for limited days or weeks whereas I was put on them for an indefinite period. Those were the first ones I began to cut back to zero. I didn’t cut out a full dose regimen to nothing over night; but, rather, gradually reduce intervals and dosage. I found a few required reversing — particular ailments started to flair up again. For those I increased amounts back to almost the original dose and then reduced at a later date ─ may have to do with interaction with other pills that needed to be eliminated first. Pharmacists are supposed to police one’s dosage but unless you specifically ask, I think they rely on patients reading the, usually, three-page fine-print descriptions.  Not giving advice but only recounting my own experience ─ you’re on your own. True, my actions could have ended in total disaster, but it could have, would have but didn’t.

The above long narrative was not written to denigrate doctors ─ other than warn the reader to question doctors if not comfortable with a diagnosis, even get a second opinion. Also good idea to read the literature that comes with medication to verify that the side effects are worth the risk. A recent example: After eye surgery for cataracts a “non-VA care” doctor with a great reputation prescribed a medication that arrived as a pill rather than the expected eye drops. Reading the literature accompanying it warned of possible serious, life-threatening side effects. WOW! Found out it was the doctor’s error! Further, as mentioned above, were they meant to be used for only a limited time? One caveat: if you have a life-threatening malady don’t try to be your own doctor ─ get a second or third opinion first.

No, the point of the above long but true account was, from my own experience, to illustrate how quickly one’s health can deteriorate ─ out of control ─ often without realizing that that your life just might be ending. That “heads-up” a cross dresser so badly needs may not be forthcoming! I urge that you create a game plan now to anticipate all the scenarios, the available options before you have to enter one of the doors described above.

Now, am I following my own advice? Have I eliminated all evidence of cross dressing ─ clothes, makeup, boudoir table, perfume, “personal products” and anything else of a feminine nature? After all at 91 and living alone wouldn’t that be the smart thing to do? Nope. Betting on physically being able to do all those things before my remains take that long journey back to Washington. Doesn’t make any sense but you CDs understand why I’m procrastinating even if I won’t admit it to myself..

Good luck. God Bless!

See developing revelations in the next post – Epilogue.

MYTHS, FALLACIES AND MOST THERAPISTS WITHOUT A CLUE

MY OWN HAIR STYLED FOR FIRST TIME!

MY OWN HAIR STYLED FOR FIRST TIME!

 

Post 71

Continuing the saga of this past year’s horrible experiences:

Along with fainting came something new and strangely exciting ─ hallucinations while wide awake. Examples: blank surfaces like hospital walls or sides of kitchen counters became blackboards covered with intricate mathematic formulas in white chalk, or black and white sketches of a seated woman or a female face (Nope, didn’t recognize her.), trees with perched birds; half of flooring in my vision became part of the walls. By the way complex mathematical formulas are totally foreign to me so why did they appear? Yes, I also became a rooster ─ saw myself walking aimlessly down an empty corridor with feathers covering my body. Asked by two nurses where I was going and replied most seriously that I was a rooster going to bathroom. Obviously, it never really happened.

Another event, to this day I’m not sure that it ever took place: Taken to a wing on the sixth floor of the West Palm Beach VA Medical Center and wheeled into a dimly lit room. Near the door sat a man next to a table ─ he was reading a newspaper. About a dozen men lay in cots ─ I joined them.  Then the attendant with urinal in hand made the rounds, hourly waking each one up, if need be, to pee. It seems that each of these patients had been wetting their beds while in their assigned rooms and by making them urinate on demand it saved the hospital staff the need to keep changing their sheets. Seemed a logical reason. No idea how long I stayed in that room or even whether it ever existed.

I also kept believing that that the presence of a woman I could not describe or recognize was in my apartment for hours while I was there. I was always wide awake during these episodes.Then, perhaps at bedtime or when having diner I felt she was gone! Many times I would actually check the front door to verify it was locked ─ no way could she have put the latch on from the outside! My former wife had died three years ago and Renee was in a nursing home so whom was she supposed to be? In fact I often hesitated turning on the bedroom light for fear of disturbing this person who isn’t there. Even at times, when I reminded myself that she was a figment of my imagination and proceeded to turn the light on, I would still furtively glance back to confirm that there is no one lying on the bed. My mind is going to hell along with my body!

Amazingly not obvious to me at the time — physical and mental damage continued undiminished ─ I was drowning in so many non-life threatening ailments that I was overwhelmed, mentally numb. Why were all these events happening to me? I still had a loaded revolver, from my Gaylord days, in my night stand and yet never considered using it ─ shows how oblivious I was to what was happening or I would have ended my distress at some point during this period.

Continued on Post 72

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MYTHS,FALLACIES AND MOST THERAPISTS WITHOUT A CLUE

162103

Post 69

[This realization was brought home to me around November of 2014 when, looking back on the events it was like an unexpected water slide — helpless to change the course of my demise because, simply put, I didn’t really know what was happening or its significance as related to my final days on earth.]

My situation at that time: Now all alone, I had three burial locations from which to choose (Lucky me.): The family plot in Flushing, New York still had room left in it. Now contains my grandparents, mother, father, uncles Jack and Lester and brother Mort along with memorial inscriptions for cousins Stanley and Jerry (All included in my memoir). Since first visiting eighty years ago, Long Island’s jammed highways and a multitude of cemeteries now congest the Queen’s landscape and no longer allow what was once a rural environment of birds, small animals and trees. I often visualized the inhabitants must be buried standing up in order to have room for so many. Smog now obliterates the distant skyline of Manhattan. Yes, I would be with family members but I felt crowded just visiting. Foolish I know.

The second location was in New Jersey at the plot that now interred my two aunts, their spouses and Howard, cousin Renee’s departed husband. Recently I had placed a reserve order on two of the remaining sites. In this manner, after agreeing to grow old together, Renee and I, this would be the spot for us to take the eternal ride in each other’s company. Of course that wasn’t to be with Renee developing Alzheimer’s and her youngest son drowned in insatiable greed., I decided to transfer my reserved site at Renee’s family cemetery to the eldest son for, after all, his father and grandparents were buried there and with Renee in a nursing facility it was no longer feasible for me to keep it. As fate would have it within months of my transferring the plot to the eldest son he died at 68 of cancer.

So, my location of choice were the two plots, maintained by Lutherans no less, that I had bought in an untrammeled  landscape on the mainland opposite my last home in Washington state, Camano Island. Vera had wished that, despite our divorce, she still wanted to be buried here, the spot we had both picked out. Instead her nieces decided to cremate their mother, Mary, aunt Grace and Vera together in an unofficial Cree ceremony of their own making. They then pocketed the proceeds of her insurance and half of what we collected in 52 years of wandering. So now I have an empty space next to mine in an untrodden countryside ─ with mountains looming behind my head and the Pacific Ocean at my feet. Oh yes, the stars I sorely missed. Since moving to Florida, the moon, an occasional planet and maybe Orion, just after a thunder storm had scoured the sky clear enough of humidity, were all I could see of God’s heavens. Silly perhaps but the day’s scenery and the night’s blanket of billions of stars would be mine to cherish as God’s gift to me.

The dilemma: with a military funeral and, hopefully, a “missing plane” flyby overhead, I would feel silly dressed in an evening gown. After all I wouldn’t be around to explain my antics to the Veterans Administration doctors or the funeral home in Washington receiving my remains. Just accepting the fact, sadly, that there are still too many lacking knowledge and acceptance of  the TG community.

Okay, here I am a few months from 91 with my annual VA medical check-ups still indicating no obvious symptoms of impending demise and an apartment full of mostly female clothes. What to do? If I ditch everything now I could look forward to months or years feeling miserable and frustrated that I can no longer be Julie having my hair or nails done, shopping at department stores for lingerie or mingling at the supermarket. With my brother and cousins all passed, this past year has been mine to do what I knowingly or subconsciously wished for. Do I dump everything now or hope that I will be blessed with a heads-up warning from my Maker? Sounds familiar? Further thoughts on my personal dilemma in post 73.

Continued with Post 70

 

 

 

MYTHS, FALLACIES AND MOST THERAPISTS WITHOUT A CLUE

Ready For Bed

Picture 3Must I, a CD, Make a Final Purge Before I Die? Must I? Would I Know When?

 

The following posts, starting with No. 68 – are a year late in posting. They should, in their own way, explain the tardiness of this author, Julie. The fact that I’m able to write means that I have avoided entering one of death’s doors — at least for now. Being a CD in one of the many variations that it manifests itself during 91 years of living makes this subject very relevant – morbid yes, but inescapable.

Before recounting my personal experience when, surprisingly, I wasn’t really aware that I might be entering one of these doors that would end my mortal journey, let’s review the “end game”.Two VA ER nurses contributed their experiences on this subject:

Instant death, the most obvious exit door. Here we have no say at all. An 18-wheeler falls off a bridge onto our car; a stray bullet meant for another; we happened to select a commercial airline where on this one day the copilot decides to end his life — you get the idea. Well maybe we do have some say if, for example we are en fem on that day, on that trip. Whoa, not so fast. “When I’m dead I no longer care”— heard that one more than once and maybe it is your honest opinion, maybe IF you are single with no close family. Or is that comment just an excuse for delaying, for vacillating? Do you have close or distant family and business associates that might attend your funeral, none of whom know of your CD inclinations? Don’t care? Really? For those who live a secret life wouldn’t that mean that our CD proclivities are presently confined to that one room or apartment? Revelations do affect those close to us. Does it matter? You know that as well as I. So yes, we don’t know whether this will be our destined doorway — and if it is — how old will we be? At that time will I have a family just growing up or having already left the nest? Obviously we can’t answer any of those questions but when is the decision time to plan or ignore? The planning options are very limited — confine your inclinations within restricted locations and time and still there are no assurances that the grim reaper doesn’t find your secret places. If you have a spouse or partner should you not prepare for an abrupt departure? Decide now what the arrangements should be regarding a funeral home and burial ─ how should that still living person dress your remains? Dispose of your clothing? Talk about it now and plan your final departure. “I don’t want to talk about it” isn’t facing up to the inevitable.

The impending doom door — your doctor summons up his most serious demeanor to announce you have a terminal condition. You have only weeks to live, give or take two years or so — doctors have predicted wrong before. If there is a spouse or partner on the scene you may arrange for clothing to be donated to a charity and the rest dumped. If single at this critical time the chances are that your appointed executor hasn’t the slightest clue what you are all about — time to tell them? Hopefully you are physically able to dispose of your years’ collecting precious belongings while there is still time. Or perhaps you have arranged with supportive family members to bury you dressed drab or en fem. If you haven’t, now is the time to do so. CDs often request a closed casket from the get go if they opt to leave this earth dressed in their finest regalia. Burial preparations differ with various religions so consideration and instructions are required to follow or ignore. Each situation is unique. Take comfort that this door at least allows you time to act ─ God’s Will has made up your mind for you, no stalling

For all practical purposes the last two doors can be combined for they only differ in urgency. In the first part of this group you have, say, a heart ailment or some other malady that will likely do you in down the road a bit, could be years, but in the meantime life is good. Children have left the nest and your SO is in fairly good health. She also allows you to indulge in CDing either in an acceptance mode or supportive. Still there is no guarantee that new health issues don’t change the forecast. So the same decisions must be determined as previously discussed, i.e., who knows? Who should know? What will be the burial arrangements?

The final door, or second in this illustration, finds you in good health with no hint of when you will leave this world. So you have the best excuse to put off thinking about a subject that you MUST eventually face. Point? Since we don’t know which door will open and when  — should we not now have a game plan before one of these doors does open?

Two other events are often encountered: Wife, rightly, believes that there is no longer a need for a large house and senior communities would be less work and, often, cheaper. Sure , but you would probably lose that little secret that you and spouse have shared all these years. Another scenario — you are alone and doctor suggests assisted living or whatever else you call it. Are you willing to trade a nice apartment or home for a bedroom and shared bathroom? Do you know how close to that exit door you really are? Frightening only if you put off determining a future course of action.

This realization was brought home to me around November of 2014 when, looking back on the events, it was like an unexpected water slide — helpless to change the course of my demise because, simply put, I didn’t really know what was happening or its significance as related to my final days on earth.

Continued with Post 69