Hey! I made it into the DSM!

If you start off knowing what the DSM is, it should not come as a surprise that there are references to our behaviors contained in it. If you don’t know what the DSM is, now may be a great time to find happier reading.

OK … still here? Then, just quickly for the uninitiated, The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) is published by the American Psychiatric Association and provides a common language and standard criteria for the classification of mental disorders. Fair enough. Sounds like a useful thing for a shrink to have handy ‘round the old couch. But the DSM, now in its 4th edition, has influence and impact miles away from the couch.

The production and maintenance of the DSM entails the constant labors of various committees, sub-committees, posses and lone wolves. They meet, they talk, they work out language, kick the language upstairs for editing and commentary, make required fixes and then line up for lousy chicken entrees and the pasta salad before heading out for a round of golf ( ... I find it interesting that you selected a 4 iron … why do you think it is important for you to avoid the water hazard in front of the green? ... ) at the annual conference.

Invariably, the contents and the language expressed in the DSM reflect a number of biases. A bias towards the benefits of psychiatric intervention. A bias towards yielding to the loudest and most charismatic voice on the committee. A bias towards ensuring that arenas of research and treatment that are presently driving income and billable hours remain open.

These biases, (and many truly positive and caring ones too) are solemnized and legitimized in the process of printing and binding. Numeric codes are created that facilitate billing mechanisms. Research gets funded. Causality and treatment protocols are agreed upon. Pharmaceutical sales reps pitch up on doorsteps with satchels brimful of nicely merchandized samples. Careers are made and unmade.

The big bias goes unsaid though. Wait for it … something is wrong, something is broken, something is bad. Something wants a cure. This is the bias that I take issue with.

As gentle as the language describing Transvestic Fetishism in the current DSM is, the money shot is that the Cross Dresser engages in this activity at least in part as a self-treatment for depression. You might fairly draw different conclusions, and I have referred only to summary language, but I have a hard time drawing any other conclusions.

Yes, depression is real and, for many, debilitating. I think though that we can all agree that too wide a net has been cast over the issue. We have fairly carelessly pathologized a pretty universal aspect of the human condition. Depression is too big an issue for me to take on, fear not. But if you would like to spend a few minutes reading some terrific thoughts on the topic, I happily point you to Louis Menand’s recent New Yorker essay.

Back to the DSM now. Echoes of the past are surfacing now in the drafting of DSM-5 which is due in 2013. Between 1970 and 1973 language having to do with homosexuality was changed to de-stigmatize this long standing condition of humanity. Hooray for earthlings! It was quite a struggle. I recommend the investment of an hour of your time to listen to Ira Glass’s indispensable This American Life episode on the debate that swirled within the APA, and the mechanics of change associated with the de-pathologization of homosexuality. This is as good as radio gets.

Similar discussions having to do with Gender oriented “disorders” are no doubt being broached (love that broach, where did you find it?) now. Actions are being taken too, and I lay claim to one action. I came across a petition sponsored by the International Foundation for Gender Education yesterday. I then signed it.

Now, while I enjoy the odd late breakfast at the International House of Pancakes, I do not know of the work of the International Foundation for Gender Education. If you are familiar with their work, I would greatly welcome a note that helps me confirm in my own mind that they are the real deal. Until I do confirm that, I do not feel as though I can implore you to join the chorus of petitioners. I am of the belief though that a chorus is required, and I am actively seeking membership in the most full throated one there is.

In all of this, I seek not to diminish the very real truth that the caring profession of Psychiatry has been central to helping countless troubled souls better understand themselves, and find a path to peace. Nor do I suggest that Cross Dressing or any expression of gender related exploration is necessarily free from some manner of fissure in the tissues of our minds. This is complex stuff, and stuff that my mental fluff is certifiably not capable of wrestling down alone. Hence, this blog my dears.

I do believe however that the clinical de-stigmatization of much of what we feel, and much of how we act upon our feelings is a necessary step. We are participants, like it or not, in a long parade of many similarly, formerly marginalized people. Now I will think on what shoes to wear for the parade.

Are you in? Comments most sincerely welcomed here.

Cross Dressing vs. Cross Being

This is a post about coherence. No surprise that as I labor with the theme, coherence is eluding me. Irony can be so ironic. Thoughts on this topic were in part engendered by Janie, proprietress of “Inside and Out”, whose post back in January of this year really tugged at my skirt hem. My post today should stand (ed. or wilt) on its own merits, but I encourage you to read Janie anytime, and the linked post in particular for some provocative background into a what can be a problem area for anyone taking a really serious look at themselves through the lens of gender expression.

Cross Dressing can be, evidence suggests, a gateway behavior, a first unknowing step down a long and transformative path. For some, the path is related to their sexual orientation. For many, it uncovers a realization that there was a quality control foul-up at the Bureau of Gender Assignment.

For other Cross Dressers, and I (still) count myself amongst them, Cross Dressing in adult life is a compelling extension of what was a nameless youthful obsession, what was a fetishistic attraction or what-have-you. The chase is still on, but something other than immediate gratifications of the flesh is what is under pursuit.

Technically, Cross Dressing remains the process of temporarily altering surfaces. There is though an impact well below those hopefully pretty(er) surfaces. Cross Dressing takes me out for nice Spa Day. The perfumed air and subtle lighting relax me, and help lower my guard. Aggression gets exfoliated. Macho pressure points get a shiatsu treatment. As smooth, hot stones are applied to rigid discs, sources of irritation recede. Movement becomes more fluid. Tranquility reigns. I am at peace.

The body, in such a blissed out state carries senses and sensibilities to new places, green acres of feeling that are typically walled off from the typical guy, or at least walled off from my typical day. Much of it has to do with mindfulness of others. Call it sensitivity, I feel it in spades when en femme.

When I leave the spa, elbows jab, lights glare and horns honk, but they have less purchase on my attention. Consciously and unconsciously, the benefits of the Spa Day stay with me, and have a happy half-life in my general outlook. I have come to the belief that this sensitivity is integral to me. And narcissism aside, I really like the person who displays it.

I have spent close to five full decades either suppressing or not consciously cultivating these senses which are seeming to me now to be very important and attractive aspects of my whole self. It was always relatively easy to play the behavioral hand I was assigned at birth, to get in line with the norms (and the Norm’s I suppose). In some settings, I might find myself less capable of the display of hairy-backed simian chest thumping and jocularity than other guys in the room, but I typically put that down to generalized cynicism rather than something tied to my coordinates on some Magic Quadrant of gender expression.

I remain happy in my cynicism, but that personality trait seems not to be the thing after all. It is more a matter of gender expression.

And now to coherence. I have a choice with this realization.

- reinforce walls, or
- knock walls down

Framing the issue this way editorializes very much in favor of knocking walls down, but please believe me when I say that I truly appreciate the value of walls. Walls hold up whole structures, give shelter, provide comfort, and can be decorated to delight the senses of the people within them. I understand people who standing (hand on hip) at the same fork in the road as I might choose to separate their “parts” and provide distinct nourishment to these separate and likely to remain unequal halves.

Knocking walls down editorializes for liberation and freedom (heroic and aspirational things yes), but has with it the impact of exposing spaces to sometimes harsh winds, and all manner of plague and pest, large and small. At the expense of laying myself siege to these unknowable (but likely mostly benign) forces, I feel more inclined towards knocking down walls in pursuit of personal coherence.

I believe that there is one true “voice” contained within my two distinct outer layers. Finding and exercising that voice may result in the loss or gradual erosion of some of the natural abilities that have served me well in host of arenas. I am persuaded though that the benefits of actively tending to those inner traits that help me perceive and participate in the world reasonably well en femme outweigh the risks.

I have little acquaintance with the risks yet, but will cite a couple of examples here now.

Some weeks ago, I bought a nice top, while presenting male. There was no discussion about who the garment was for. Sometimes a blouse is just a blouse it seems. Leaving the shop I threw my arm through the bag straps and hoisted my bounty up on to my shoulder, in a way that would leave absolutely no doubt as to whose shoulders the blouse would ultimately be resting on. No big deal, but this trivial moment is merely the tip of a behavioral iceberg. How many other “tells”, signals will I send out?

And for some months now, long months really, as I have become more accomplished at presenting as "Petra", (or at least more comfortable with my limitations), the thrill of the act has become less pronounced. I think no less about Cross Dressing: I am just doing it less. Partial dressing seems not to be a requirement. I dress almost exclusively from top to toe now. When I do, I am less enthralled by the scope of change to my shape, by the smooth, clingy fabrics, by the polished make up and lengthened nails. The jangle of jewelry surprises me not.

There is a now a growing familiarity. I do not believe that familiarity necessarily breeds contempt, but it can be a breeding ground for indifference. That would be a high price for coherence. We just never know what is next it seems.

What is next for you friends?

Cross Pollination

When I decided in autumn of 2008 to go with the Cross Dressing flow, and to document the experience here on Voyages en Rose, I truly did not know what I might find. One entirely unexpected finding has been the readiness of women to … to deal with Cross Dressers. I wrote about Liesl last week. There is my friend Linle at The Heretic. There was Stephanie one evening at Paris. There have been other encounters here and there. Skilled waitresses with black napkins to keep the lint off my skirt, charming sales assistants ready with the key to the fitting room, gorgeous cosmeticians ready to labor heroically with my rawly-shaved raw material, wig stylists with honest views on the good, bad and dreadful, and innocent civilians too numerous mention. Above all, there has been Mrs. Bellejambes who stays true to all the good things I suspected of her from minute one, and who is side by side with me on our voyage together.

Here in the virtual world too, I am happy to report that women have rolled the red carpet out for me.

This welcome means the world to me. Women are at the heart of the “why” I roll the way I do. I am wired this way. Aesthetically, there is, to me, so much more beauty contained within the female of our species. My five senses respond much more happily to women. Always wanting my senses fed, always having treasured the society of women, their approval has always been core to my happiness.

Therefore, being today in a happy frame of mind, I am publishing the first in a series of tributes to virtual friends of the female persuasion who have displayed to me, and by extension, to all of us of the CD/TG persuasion, a warm welcome, and some very welcomed society. The tribute takes the form of yet another Blog Award: Petra Bellejambes’ Heel of Approval.

Unlike many other such awards, this award arrives with no strings, no responsibilities, no mandate to proliferate. The Heel of Approval is a simple thank you note, from me, on behalf of all people, like me, drawn to somehow explore their own inner woman. It would thrill me to no end if honorees chose to proudly post the award in their own virtual trophy case on their wonderful blogs, but that is not the main point. The main point is to encourage regular readers of Voyages en Rose to visit these blogs, enjoy the beautiful content there, and generally glow in the knowledge in that their authors simply do not have any hang ups about the likes of we.

First up, Miss Neira, editrix of FAB (Fashion, Art & Beauty). Miss Neira and myself traded guest posts on The Lingerie Addict recently, and having at least that much in common, we struck up a little correspondence. Here is a very quick snapshot of her bio.

This young blogger has lived in four countries, picked up a few languages, and acquired a real appetite for life along the way, before settling in Boston. Neira recently headed back to school to further polish her design credentials, after a couple of years of work as a lingerie stylist and fitter in some very upmarket boutiques, where she first was exposed (in all senses of the word) to the life the Cross Dresser.

Neira tells me that the CD/TG customer was not only welcome from a business perspective, but also intriguing to her from a personal point of view. With practice, she learned not only how to help this special market segment learn how to dress, but also how to listen and understand some of the complex things that motivate us. The big learning, it seems, is that people are pretty much the same. We all want to be beautiful, in some way.

It takes a broad mind to arrive at this conclusion. Miss Neira has a broad mind and, happily for all of her admirers, a narrow waist too. She has, as well, the considerable advantages of youth, having just celebrated her 21st birthday (gasp!) just this past weekend. For all of these things, she is a worthy recipient of the very first Heel of Approval award.

Thank you Miss Neira for making it just a little easier for all of us to explore ourselves more comfortably, and to learn from someone who exemplifies inner and outer beauty in a womanly way that all of us should aspire to. Please visit with Neira, and rifle her virtual closet. I am sure that you will enjoy browsing around and find things that fit your way of thinking too.

If you have met a righteous woman in your virtual travels, someone equally free of bias please name names here in your comments. There are a few treasures and treasured friendships in my queue, but am always interested in welcoming new pledges into the sorority.

p.s. Neira, thanks for all the Sunshine. It is displayed in my trophy case.

Afterthoughts on a Conversation with Liesl

Parts the first and second linked for the benefit of fashionably-late comers.

I really had my shoulders back and a song in my heart after parting ways with Liesl. The sugar buzz does wear off though, and I am kicking myself a little just now. I wish I that I scratched out my URL for her. I would like her to be able to read up on “us”, follow a few links, and continue to feed her healthy curiosity.

I wish that I had taken her by the elbow, browsed some of the clothing racks or sat at a Starbucks with her for a sociable while. I did have more than a few minutes of idle time that I ended up spending solo, chatting with sales assistants, futzing with my iPhone and wondering how women with nails do any sort of text messaging. The company would have been nice.

And I wish that I had thanked her for her great, unexpected question: Why? Liesl reminded me that I have something to think on. I still do not have a good answer to “why”. Knowing it would not change anything in a material way, I realize that. But perhaps knowing “why” would be help me pick some other existential locks.

I am not too prone to regrets though. Moving forward now, dear friends.

I have found with my fairly newfound freedom to explore Cross Dressing, that the voltage that runs through me is diminished, a little, each time out. A part of me wants to experiment with places and possibilities designed to heighten the current, to bring the experience back up to those super-charged moments of the not so distant past. To expose more. This part is not the dominant part. These are the sounds of my little inner voice.

The clearer and more compelling inner voice has other desires. Principally a desire to seek the source of this river. My explorations are now tilting away from the visceral, and driving more into the cerebral. The surface fetish is losing ground to interior feelings. As I find myself better able to integrate with the world en femme, my hunger to dress is somewhat tamed.

I am willing to concede that I might be getting early signals of my natural summer Drabbatical*. Very early signals. But something happened on Tuesday of this week that tweaked my attention a little. As I watched the dogs romp in the backyard with coffee in hand, temperatures in the 50’s and skies blue, for what felt like the first time in 6 months or so, I thought about golf. And then, dammit, I golfed (shot a 92 which is for me, an outstanding season opener). And I am looking forward to more.

I played piano for over an hour that same night. Beatles songbook stuff. First time I have really sat at the bench for a long time.

Mrs. Bellejambes and myself decided as well to put the TV (television dear friends, strange how I feel the need to be very specific on that acronym here) off limits two nights weekly, so that we can do more active, less inert things together.

These are all good things, things that will soak up time and attention, and some of that time and attention will come from “Petra”. Some time, some attention, not all of it.

There are more than a couple of outings left before the weather turns against me. I am going to design them in such a way that I might meet another Liesl, perhaps even a Rolf, or in my fondest dreams, The Baroness (the exquisite Eleanor Parker, pictured above, porcelain perfection at the surface, cracked, sad and resigned just beneath). Perhaps, I will be a little closer to understanding the riddle, nicely expressed in the Oscar Hammerstein lyric…

Perhaps I had a wicked childhood
Perhaps I had a miserable youth
But somewhere in my wicked, miserable past
There must have been a moment of truth

Nothing comes from nothing
Nothing ever could
So somewhere in my youth or childhood
I must have done something good.

Vielen Dank Liesl, wherever you are.

* to better appreciate the concept of Drabbatical, please visit this old post.

Further Conversations with Liesl

I will now take up my nice chat with my new friend where it was left teetering on a conversational cliff yesterday. If you missed that post, what follows will make even less sense than my usual ramblings. God help us all. So scroll down to catch up please. The very efficient or epically lazy amongst you may choose to click here.

“Hey, I shouldn’t be so rude. My name is Petra. Nice to meet you. What’s your name?”.

“I’m Liesl, nice to meet you”.

Nice handshake. I had to comment on her name;

“You know you are the second Liesl I have had a total crush on now”.

She didn’t catch the reference just then, and I volunteered Sound of Music. I really did have, and maintain to this day a healthy Liesl crush. Nice Austrian girl, well-to-do family, you just know she had a pair of Wolfords on for the rainy gazebo scene with Nazi Youth-Boy. Clearly, tragically, I would have been way better for her than Rolf, but Captain von Trapp would have set the dogs on me.

“You know, Liesl ... Sound of Music Liesl… ”

“Oh yeah! my parents loved that movie. I was named after her" (still clearly distracted, searching for words).

“Petra … where does Petra come from?”

“Well kind of close to my guy name. Unique enough too. I just liked the sound of it”.

We small talked, off topic for a couple of minutes, where are you from, what sort of work pays the bills and etc. Liesl then went back to her original driving curiosity;

“How long have you been doing this?”

“O, god, it goes way back. Forever. I have really only been active, I mean, public at this for a couple of years, but its been with me forever”

“Forever?”

“Yup, forever. Sears Catalog day was big stuff for me. I would spend hours. I just felt like I had to know more about …. everything that had to do with women, what you wore, how you dressed, just how you were different than me. I must have been seven when it started. Forever.”

“So, … why?”, smiling.

“Why?”

“You know … (top to toe hand gesture, again) … why?”

Here I found myself reaching for words with the same futility as Liesl was earlier in the conversation. I am still miles from why. I truly don’t know why. I tried:

“It feels good. It is a challenge. It is a little bit of theater, and I used to do a lot of acting, so this keeps me in it. It is special. But why? Why it feels good to me, and it might not feel like anything to someone else, that I do not know Liesl”.

She had not really ever stopped looking at me, even as our discussion became less halted and awkward. She was doing the little head shake of disbelief here and there that I could only interpret one way: She was still surprised. She was surprised that she had no inkling that she had been sharing a tiny, crowded little room with someone she assumed, and had no reason to doubt was a woman. Just a smartly dressed gal looking for the next pair of shoes.

If she had been trying on a pair of shoes that did not look so good, I would have been polite, and kept my mouth shut. If you cannot say something nice, say nothing at all, right? Especially about shoes. And Liesl would not have met her first Cross Dresser.

Minds open, change and grow one at a time. One minute, Liesl did not know or suspect that “this” happens, often, and has forever. A few minutes later, she knew this, and she knew as well that she could have a warm, civil, open talk with a Cross Dresser, after getting some really sound advice about shoes.

I gave her a little hug, said so long, and with a nicely whetted appetite, went off to lunch.

I have since gathered some thoughts on the encounter that I will post up here tomorrow.