transretrogurl

Just been checking the dates of my published posts and, err, it’s been a while. In my defence I’m ‘enjoying’ a course of Citalopram, a low dose anti-depressant that, gasp, seems to be having an effect. Well, a couple being honest, one of which is kinda entertaining in a ‘err, where did my erection go?’ and the other being a much more positive one. Not going to bore you with the ins and outs of mental healthcare but to summarise, before I was facing an avalanche and tsunami of stress and anxiety – I know these things and I have dealt with them in my own curiously odd way for my entire life, but for some reason they were starting to weigh on me too much. The inexhaustible energy reserves were suddenly exhausted and I literally didn’t have enough energy to care, which was a bad sign. With the pills that weight, like a cold and wet quilt, has lifted. I still have the anxieties (and who wouldn’t given the downward spiral we live in) but they are manageable, which is great because a number of these little balls of fun have stopped me doing things I have always thought I should be doing.

Pictured – for instance, playing the slightly risque 1940’s seductress.

Case in point – I had a brilliant session with Patti in Manchester a couple of weeks back. Normally I’d be fretting about the train, the hotel, how to get the bag of feminine goodies from said hotel to Patti’s, whether I’d wake up with spots, styes, legs fallen off, you know the drill. But I had none of these.

When I got in the car to start the drive to the station (I travel about sixty miles to get to a mainline station, namely Birmingham Intl, and it’s always a nightmare, especially as they have been screwing up the M5, M40, M42 since the dawn of time) a big yellow warning light came on and for the life of me I couldn’t work out what it was. In the old days that would have sent a stab of ice through my chest and I’d be worried for the entire time I was driving and whilst I was away that the car would fail somehow. This time I serenely took a photo, to check what it was when I reached my destination, and calmly drove to the station (turns out it was a short in the fusebox, next time the car fired up it was gone, and it was a ‘brake light failure’ and both lights are fine).

I got to Manchester and it was in the middle of that very odd heatwave we had at the start of September. Four or so days of 29C+. If you’ve read other articles you know I’m not a fan of the heat; I used to be overweight in my ‘if I can get fat I will look silly in frocks so let’s get FAT’ days and the slightest hint of a temperature rise and it was like I’d run four miles in a Borneo jungle. Now I don’t sweat much at all (and, in the continuous naughty use of Estrogen I’d like to say I perspire rather than sweat. And my sweat smells oddly feminine, or at least not ‘toasted Marmite’ masculine any more).

I walked from Manchester Piccadilly to the hotel, about a mile, in blazing sunshine and I felt, well, good. Backpack on my pack with ‘his’ stuff, the Kindle, the Macbook, some socks. Case on wheels with her stuff; a lovely new Laura Ashley frock from Joanie Clothing, some nightwear for a ‘boudoir’ style shoot (and a terribly oversized sex toy if the courage rose in me to make the pictures a little more saucy), and a quick Amazon purchase of a modern pencil dress for……. outside.

Pictured – yeah, I may be living in the past. I always adored the Laura Ashley look on the middle-class mothers in the 1980’s and secretly wanted to wear them. There you go, another bucketlist item checked off

See, with the cessation of fears, even if it is a temporary thing, my fear of doing things I think are ‘dangerous’ has dissipated. At no point in the last seven years (and yes, it’s been a whole seven years since Sarah stepped out, blinking, into the light of post-Middle Aged idiot’s shell) have I even considered going out as, well, the real me seriously as I have this hard-coded fear which comes from deep-rooted self-image issues about being *seen*. Even in drab mode I will blend into the background, as much as a 6ft 2in person can, when sober (and when I’m not working; oddly I am gregarious when talking tech, go figure). But now not only was I considering it, I was actively looking forward to it.

Pictured – spoiler alert, the dress was amazing and I felt, well, normal in public. ‘Squeeeee’

No, that’s not strong enough. I was *craving* it. I had a nice dress, a pair of comfortable heels, some modest tights, a nice little shoulder back, and none of the ‘screaming inside’ normal baggage.

I’d say it was the pills but I don’t think it was. The pills don’t make me want to do these kind of things. They suppress the fears and irrational anxiety that has stopped me.

Amusingly we were a ways into the session, which I was thoroughly enjoying and relaxed doing, when Patti asked me if I was stalling to avoid going out. I wasn’t, and told her so. So out we went. Taxi to Canal St., walked down it, found an outside table, got some drinks, soaked up the sun, went to the ladies’ three times (down some stairs that forced me to walk slinkily and in full sight of a table of men who watched every dainty step). Then went for a walk around the park where Turing’s statue sits, did some shots around some of the iconic areas and then, as the time was running short, summoned a taxi back to Patti’s place where I was energised but not scared by the whole thing, In fact we stopped to do some shots outside her place, which I said were just to get some full length but in reality it was because I did not want it to end.

Pictured – yes, I was very touristy. But why not; when the opportunity appears take it

I was completely comfortable and completely happy. No fear, no guilt, no questions as to why I was doing it. I just wanted to be out and about looking pretty, to be seen, to soak up the atmosphere of a place like the Gay Village. There was no ulterior reason, no self-hate humiliation, no seeking a sexual thrill. It was just plain happiness and wanting.

I have never felt that before. Ever. It was nice. And Addictive.

Pictured – no filters, just an overly happy Sarah and a photo-bombing Patti (bringing me a beer)

So, in a couple of weeks time, I’m back up to Manchester. I’ve bought a seriously slinky LBD from Marks and Spencers. I have a cropped pink leather biker’s jacket. And rather than do a session on the pretence of going out as part of it, I am doing a make-up and go; I will strut my stuff in the Gay Village, visit the pubs, spend an evening absorbing the culture. Maybe I will hit the point of it being too much; if so I’ll walk the mile or so back to my hotel. But something tells me that isn’t going to be the case.

Whatever happens it feels like a new start, courtesy or not of the happy pills.

Stay beautiful and enjoy whatever you can to make you happy. You have no-one to answer to.

Pictured – obligatory proof I was on (C)anal Street