My transgender - cross dresser support group meeting the other night, turned out to be less than exciting.
We had two new attendees, who, unlike most new people in a group weren't shy about letting us all in on their life stories. I guess I am the bitch in this situation, because I am fairly sure the so called moderators of the group should have called time out on both of them. Then again, one of the moderators should call time out on herself after telling the same stories every two weeks.
She is fond of telling everyone of her new found success in the world as a woman, which is fine, except for two people in the group who have been fired from their jobs for being trans in the last year.
I did get to see the person known as the "ultimate cross dresser" in guy dress and he is right that he is very gender fluid.
I suppose too, the people who talk the most, don't normally have anyone to talk to. I am fortunate to have a partner who encourages me to talk when I get quiet.
So, I should be more understanding and I am working on it.
Maybe, just maybe, the moderators could bring an egg timer, to pass along a gentle hint when another abusive father story goes a little long?
And oh...by the way, I can get very agitated when someone calls me a "gurl." I just don't want to know what that means.
When I lived outwardly as a man, I would almost always compliment women on a new hairdo. I found that they appreciated hearing it from a man, even if it was the woman in me who was expressing herself - unbeknownst to them, of course.
I remember that my mother was often fishing for a compliment from me when I was young. I'm sure she did so because my father had died when I was very young, and she just needed to receive that attention at home. It did not seem natural for me, as her son, to be handing out compliments to her freely, so it was awkward when she was making it clear that she was hoping for one. The girl in me was quite willing, and I always took note of her style from that perspective. But, then, I expended a lot of energy trying to cover that up. When my mom was attending an etiquette and modeling school, she would always show me what she had learned in class each week. I was very attentive, but made sure that I didn't show my enthusiasm. Just as I learned makeup skills by pretending to need to talk with her, as I stood in the doorway to her bathroom while she was getting herself ready, I learned early-on how to make myself feminine through my mother. If only I had given her the chance to see what she had taught me; the way I turned out might have been the biggest compliment I could have given to her.