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The Funny Thing About Depression Is….

Literally nothing. Depression is an insidious beast that creeps up on you, quietly at first, and when it comes to roost (I used to playfully call it the Black Dog but there’s nothing playful about it) you find yourself suddenly incapable of doing anything constructive.

It has taken way too long to get up the urge to blog again; the world has been an unpleasant place to watch, especially around the sheer hatred towards various communities, T in particular, and although I am a strong person I have just found myself in an odd, shrouded, numb place. Every time I thought about writing a blog post I had a wash of apathy, a ‘why bother’. On top of that my body dysphoria flared up – before I let Sarah out of her gilded cage I didn’t care about the way I looked, my weight, my complexion. Well, I did, but my fantastic approach to depression meant it was, again, washed in apathy.

Pictured – I’m not in a good place but, as I will explain, I had a session to cheer myself up so there will be some beautiful outfits and poses to look at if the text gets too bleak.

See, the thing about depression is that it is simultaneously an incredibly private thing, and something that needs someone external to lean in with a virtual hug occasionally. And the irony is that a depressed person is absolutely the last person who wants a hug. Depression makes you question everything about yourself and always answer negatively; it makes you see the worst in yourself and others, you yearn for someone to say something positive to drag you out of your hole but you don’t believe anything any says, other than yourself, who is not being the most positive idiot in the room.

And that’s where I have been simmering for the last couple of months. This isn’t a cry for help; the fact that I’m blogging is hugely important and makes me feel better just typing, because I feel I’ve turned a corner, albeit a still kinda dark one.

I’ve said it before but people like me, with my compulsions, are by nature sensitive; I’ve always been a little prone to the occasional ‘sadness’ but I cater with it with copious amounts of alcohol; not because I’m an alcoholic, but because this kind of depression always makes you feel three pints too damn sober.

Pictured – the feel of a petticoat under a tight restrictive 1950’s housewife frock is just so damn delightful it hurts

Sarah helps and doesn’t in this situation, and I’m going to be a bigger man (cough) and admit that, yes, Sarah is me. A very important part of me, a facet that lets me express a different, more fun, more enjoyable person. The problem with depression is that the mind betrays itself – Sarah makes me happy, the mind tells me I’m too old, too fat, my skin is baggy, how can I let her out if she is going to look terrible.

And this strange depression also makes everything feel, well, bad. Every time I eat I feel guilty because I still want fit in a size 14 frock; and I still do, and eating the level I do isn’t going to effect it, but, again with intense irony, depression and stress MAKES YOU PUT ON WEIGHT.

So I eat, I feel guilty, I put on (a little) weight. I persuade myself I’m too old to *be* Sarah.

Pictured – two days ago. Too old. Too fat. Depression really messes your mind up

And it’s all depression. I know that because a couple of beers and the sun comes out. And occasionally I wake up and, before the weight of the world and all the complex crap going on in my noggin drags me into the dark, I feel good.

When you have had depression for a while you know the signs, the effects, but the whole concept of depression itself is self-serving; the more depressed you get, the less ability you have to break the cycle. You need to do radical things to spike the endorphins, to get out of the cycle, and again, that’s so hard when you’re down.

A lot of us (cross-dressers) deal with this wet, dark and heavy blanket of depression every day, all of our lives. For me spending time, however small, in my feminine persona does wonders – in the old days it didn’t, dressing would spike me down into depression, but now it’s the opposite.

Pictured – who wouldn’t be happy IN A TIARA!!!

At the end of the day you have to ride the darkness until it gets light. I have tried medication (terrible idea, unless you like being a zombie in a thin layer of emotions that give no ups or downs), I have pushed hard against the weight by exercising (to the point I have injured myself, again). It feels like I’m coming to the end of the tunnel and the light is there, hence coming back to the blog.

Vent over, let’s talk about something fun instead…..

Taking a deep breath and tasting my lipstick

I have been very busy at work lately, which hasn’t helped my mood; I love my job, but there comes a point when you sit back and say ‘why am I doing this?’. For me it’s always been about earning enough to be comfortable, to do things, but because I’m an obsessive I have ended up sowing the seeds and never reaping the benefits. So I’m starting to swing the scythe and collect the crops, so to say.

I have fallen in love with the Etsy ‘Wig in the City’ store; every retro wig I get from them is just sublime. To cheer myself up, about a month or so ago, I ordered a 1940’s do in my own hair colour; I’ve been going down the ‘red-head’ look for a while and thought I’d try a dark brown, which I normally avoid because, cough, it looks too much like my hair.

Pictured – yes, I love looking like Lucille Ball.

A couple of days ago (June 2023 for anyone reading this later) I popped into London (popped = 4 hours of driving ending up with lots of shouting at suicidal cyclists and the like), met some friends, got drunk, forgot to eat, woke up at 4:00am in the hotel just in time to expel the beer, passed out until 7:00, then woke up, got up, shaved and had an absolutely wonderful session at Cinders.

And I needed it. I have found lately that I tend to stress too much about the logistics, and spend all the time building up to a visit worrying about all the little things that can go wrong, then spend the session with half of my head focused on posing and half of my head worried about the ins and outs of getting home. I have now made a concerted effort to, well, not care about the getting there, being ready and getting back, and just getting on with having fun.

So, with a little bit of a stinging hangover and a lack of food (I forgot to eat breakfast and eventually didn’t eat until we finished the session; that Chipotle Burrito tasted like pure nectar from the Gods), I did an old-school session. We decided to let our hair down and do some things I have shied away from because I was, subconsciously, avoiding risk as part of the ongoing mental health situation.

Pictured – for instance, dressing provocatively as a sexualised object for men to fantasise about

And it was gloriously fun. So much that now, two days after, I’m sat at 18:05 having finished work for the day, furiously typing the blog post because I want to retain the fun. We did some glorious 1960’s looks; I found an online retailer called ‘The Carnaby Streak’ that does just the kind of sixties dresses that give me a thrill. We did a wonderful 1940’s look with the aforementioned Wig in the City new wig (which is now sat carefully packed into it’s travel box for whenever my next session is), but then we had some fun with a retro lingerie look, before doing another of the delightful 1950’s submissive housewife looks, followed by a ‘Pride Princess’ look before finishing with a raunchy revisit for Kitty Klaws, my ‘porn persona’.

It was delightful; the day was warm but the evening after we were done was that wonderful cooling end to a Summer day, and I drove home, in the light for once, before collapsing, happy, in bed.

I felt oddly complete again. And for me that is the balancing act between the cold, hostile, depressing ‘real world’ (TM) and the happy, fantasy life I can occasionally slip into.

Sarah is my anti-depressant.

Pictured – and it helps when my anti-depressant is just so damn cute

Grabbing life by the hips and opening wide

If you’ve been following the blog you will know that I have been messing about with that wonderful female hormone called ‘Estrogen’. Completely dangerously, haven’t talked to a Doctor about it (because I did the ‘bare your soul’ to a shrink before; she was great but I know what I do, why I do it and why I have the urges I do, and discussing it to prove I am ‘not a man’ would drive me nuts (nuttier).

Pictured – not going to lie, I love the idea that some of my pictures would now be banned from Instagram as they don’t allow topless shots of women’s breasts – not sure I could get away with ‘this is a topless man’ now

It has had some noticeable effects, both external and internal, but I think I’ve been in. a situation of denial about my core sexuality. Yes, I am asexual, as I have stated on WAY too many occasions, but from a fetish perspective I have needs, and I’ve always shied away from them; this effort of telling myself I don’t have those needs has been immensely draining and frankly destructive; it’s cliche about ‘it’s only one life so you should live it’ but hell, it’s a truism as well.

For me, the idea of dressing up as a submissive wife and roleplaying a relationship, including sexual intimacy, is my ultimate fantasy. I can claim asexuality but even just typing that sentence fills me with a warmth that is hard to explain.

I have always thought about that first moment of intimacy with a great deal of want and fear. Fear because I have spent my life in an environment that demonises non-heterosexual intimacy; it’s almost hard-coded that it’s wrong, and to feel or want anything that approaches that kind of intimacy makes you broken. And that’s completely internal; I can watch television and see a gay couple and see it as completely and utterly normal, but to think about doing it myself and it’s a wave of Catholic self-hatred.

Pictured – she has needs too. Cough.

And that needs to change. Hell, it is one life. I had a wonderful, eye-opening conversation with a trans friend of mine where I said ‘I’ve gone 54 years without being intimate, what the hell would I do if I was intimate now and found out I liked it?’ and. she said, very sagely, ‘what if you went your entire life and didn’t do it?’.

On one shoulder is a straight-laced brain-washed child of the seventies telling me I’m a bad person. for even contemplating it. And on the other is a female figure in a petticoat, a 1950’s swing dress, full red lips, whispering ‘go for it’.

Pictured – a hard pink cylindrical object inches from her red painted lips. I’ll let you fill in the blanks.

I know which one I want to listen to…..

Anyway, apologies for the quiet period. I needed that little vent.

Stay beautiful and, if you are in the same boat when it comes to depression, try as hard as hard as you can to love yourself. That’s a great place to start in getting better.

Pictured – I can do ‘longing’ a little too easily