I Know

OUT of My Panties, Now!!!

“What? Why?”, I ask him. The time and place vary, the questions vary, his specific displays of stress, shame and discomfort vary. His answer does not.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know what it is that he wants. He drops his head, refusing to look me in the eyes. Mumbles, “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t know why he wants to be seen as a woman. But this is what he wants. He wants “to be” a woman.

“Why?”, I ask him.

He doesn’t know. He squirms on the other end of the couch, twisting away from me, stares out the plate glass window.

“What do you like about being seen as a woman?”, I ask.

He doesn’t know. He picks at the cuticles of his fingernails.

“What do you dislike about being a man?”, I ask. “I don’t know!”, he snaps, exhaling heavily, rolling his head back, eyes searching the…

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Houston, We Have A Problem

Satellite_450x350It has been a while since I wrote anything for this blog. I went through a period of needing to step away. I hadn’t realised when I started this that doing this would have quite the emotional impact on me that it has. I started and abandoned several posts, but needed to take that space to concentrate on other things – to avoid being consumed again.
For years my life revolved around someone else’s emotional comfort. Someone else’s want’s, wishes and desires. I became a tiny satellite in orbit around planet Gender. Unable to pull away from it’s gravity, spinning around and around, sending the occasional signal out into the universe, never really being heard. Believing that nothing or no one was hearing my distress signal. Sometimes the signal would be picked up, only to be reflected back at me with a message saying that my message was faulty, that I should return to base for adjustment.
In oh so many ways, it was this that damaged me most. That gave me nightmares. That almost literally killed me with self-neglect. I stopped taking medication I need to function daily. I ignored clear warning signs of serious physical problems. I ate, and ate, and ate, till I could hardly move my body. I self-medicated with alcohol. There are years that are just a blur of self-loathing and numbness. The feeling that the world had gone mad and I was the only sane person left. The self-doubt – maybe it’s *me*.
I have seen a few of my critics say that I have based my “TERF” “bigotry” on my experience with just one bad apple in the trans barrel. I have been accused of lying, of exaggerating. They have said that I was unlucky to find myself with an abusive man. That I shouldn’t extend my “hatred” to a community as a whole based on a bad experience with one individual. As if saying “The Emperor has no clothes” is an act of “hate”. I have been added to their ever expanding list of “TERFs” and “hate groups” (hellooooo, Dave (Dana) Lane Taylor).
To them, I say this:
You have no fucking idea of how I got here. And your opinion means less than nothing to me.
I knew I was in an abusive relationship. I felt paralysed to do anything about it. I just wanted to get my life over as quickly as possible. I actually *felt nothing* any more. No hurt, no joy. Just existence. How many other women live like that? Countless numbers I suspect. It wasn’t till I came to realise that it’s all connected that I saw a window to escape from. It’s all Patriarchy, it’s all gender. From FGM, to “domestic” abuse, to pornography, to prostitution, to men who say they are really women – it’s all connected. It’s all men getting what men want in a man-made world. It is men determining what women are, what women are for, who we can associate with, where we can draw boundaries, whether or not we are fully human. It is men who benefit from erasing our female experience, and instituting a kind of mass amnesia, enforced by threats – of suicide or physical, emotional, or social harm. It is male dominance. It is male violence.
So maybe this blog hurts the feelings of a few men who wish they were women. Quite frankly, I don’t care. It’s not for you – fancy that! I will continue to speak out. I will continue to tell others about the underbelly of transgenderism. I will continue to speak about how GENDER HURTS. `
I know this post hasn’t been a new revelation about my life with a man who thinks he is a woman (I notice that the “confessional” posts get more clicks), and I promise to post something in the next few days. I just needed this off my chest. Thanks for reading.

Horse Whispering

” The media image of the Transvestite is of a gentle caring man who is adored by his wife for his feminine qualities. Often he is compared against the drunken womaniser brimming with machismo who beats his wife regularly. It is not surprising then that those in the caring professions often express confusion when a woman is presented who is traumatised and defeated by her relationship with a gender dysphoric subject.

This dichotomy of experience begs the question of Why?’ some women are unable to cope or escape their perceived ordeal. Certainly individual characteristics relating to both the wife and the spouse are significant. Not all GD spouses are powerful men. Many wives are assertive women. For many couples however this balance is not achieved. Wives are often browbeaten, tired and at least a little neurotic. Many women would have left their relationship, but find that for some reason they are unable to make the move. The commonest complaint that most affects wives is when the spouse openly and persistently apes, mimics, copies or shadows their wife’s actions.”


Those of you reading this who have been through or are going through experiences similar to my own,  will recognise much of what woman is talking about in this article.
This article is from 1998. Little has changed in the ways that “helping” professions deal with the female partners of these men. In fact,  I would go so far as to say that in many ways it is worse. The conspiracy of silence built by the transgenderist movement is effectively further silencing the voices of women who need to speak out about the psychological abuses perpetrated on them by men who demand to be called “women”. If this article was published today, the author would be called  bigot and “transphobic”. She would likely be ostracised, harrassed, and threatened. She would have speaking engagements cancelled due to the concerted efforts of transgenderists and their supporters harrassing venues, demanding that she be “no platformed”, or alleging that her very presence violates “safe space” policies. These are all things that are happening now to any woman who dares to stray from the accepted transgenderist narrative, or who dares to speak their truth. Her words would be branded as “violence”. She doesn’t even have to call herself a feminist for this to happen. Not even the mildest percieved criticism can be tolerated by the transgenderist movement. Most likely because their assertions (being built on an “identity” that requires external compliance to be validated) have no basis in objective reality,  but are merely word-salad and bluster.

Men cannot be women.
Men cannot be lesbians. No matter what name they adopt, what clothes they wear or how many linguistic tricks they pull.
Penis is not female.
Transwomen are men.

The *real* violence, is happening in these relationships, and in forcing women to change what “woman” means – and in the process robbing us of our ability to describe our experiences,  our reality. The very tools of our liberation.

Revisionist History

“However, the fact that I’m female – with female chromosomes, female medical issues, female physiology, and all the bullshit that comes with being a member of the female sex class is NOT the result of a “box on a fucking form.”


Identify however you like. Be yourself. Wear whatever makes you most comfortable. Adopt a new name. Grow your hair out. Get a neck tattoo. Trust me, no one gives a fuck. Enjoy your special life, but don’t foist your bullshit on women. Don’t demand that women tow some PoMo line about our female reality being “just a box on a form.” Don’t tell women that they must defer to organizations like GLAAD or violent misogynists like Fallon fucking Fox.”


I love this blogger. Enjoy.


Revisionist History.

I am überpoor

I needed a laugh. This is quite brilliant.


Feminists Unknown's Blog

I’ve always known I was working class, even before I had the words to articulate it. Aged three, I used to call my dinner “tea”. My father, a high court judge, hated it but I kept on doing it all the same. I’ve no idea how I just knew the word “tea” was working class for “dinner”. I guess it’s something that was just in me.

Back in the 1980s no one ever discussed working-class children who’d been falsely assigned middle-class status at birth. It was as though we didn’t exist. Because of this I’d retreat into a fantasy world where I’d been swapped at birth and Den and Angie off Eastenders were my real mum and dad. I couldn’t talk to my parents about this. My mother, a bus conductor’s daughter and the youngest of six children, was always telling me how lucky I was with my holidays abroad…

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Discrete Packaging Assured

This morning, I heard the postman put what sounded like two packages through the letterbox. They landed with two soft thumps on the doormat. I went to retrieve them and saw that there were two manilla jiffy bags, adddress side down on the mat. It crossed my mind that they might be books that I had ordered from the USA some weeks ago, but I knew as soon as I picked them up, before even looking at the addressee label, that they were not for me, and they contained things that I would rather not think about while I go about my day to day life.

They were both addressed to my torturer. Both packages had the familiar  weight and “feel” of the many packages I picked up over the years as they arrived in a steady stream from online suppliers of “sexy lingerie” promising delivery in “discrete plain wrapping”.

I stood in the hallway with the two jiffy bags in my hand, re-reading the name on the address label and feeling increasingly sick.

He has been gone from my home for some time now. Why am I suddenly recieving these packages addressed to him again? A wave of paranoia swept over me as I speculated on possible intent. Obviously, it could have been a mistake on the part of the supplier of “sexy lingerie”, but I couldn’t help worrying about how perhaps he has done this to give him an excuse to show up at my home on the pretext of picking up his mail. I don’t have a forwarding address for him, and even if I did, why the hell should I take time out of my day to go to the post office so that he could receive his objects of perverted desire? Maybe he just wanted to show me he could still get to me? His sick idea of having the last laugh. Why was this happening? Why now?

So many of these things arrived over the years. Large boxes containing high heeled thigh length boots. Rolled packages, the hard strips inside a tell tale sign of a corset. Dresses. Stockings. Girdles. Shoes. Handbags. Teddies. Baby doll nightdresses. Catalogues. Sometimes they would arrive addressed to his “female” name. He loved shopping. “Treating [femme name]” it was referred to. One Valentines day he “treated” “her” to expensive perfume and a red bra and knickers set. I was taken for a meal while he wore them under his jeans and sweatshirt. He would tell me that he was buying things for “her” to dress in as a treat for *me*, then expect me to ravish him. Ignoring that I barely touched him at all. That I had screamed at him that he is “A FUCKING PERVERT – GET OUT OF MY HOUSE” more times than I can remember.

So, you see, I am wary of surprise packages.

I made a cup of tea. Cried some. Got angry. Cried again. Switched off the entry system to my flat in case he decided to “drop round”. Switched my phone off. Hunkered down. I was supposed to meet my daughter this afternoon, but I cancelled, choosing instead to go back to bed where I spent the day in dark depression.

I have days when I barely consider my life before. The years in numbness and disassociation. Walking around like a half-dead person with flat emotions, unable to feel joy or pain. Then something like this happens, and for a few hours I cry. I cry for my lost years. For the lost me and for the part of me that died.

I want to reach out to every woman who has ever been hurting inside with no one to tell that to. Who has tried to speak and been told that they are being ridiculous, or that they have to learn to “accept”, to “have compassion”.  Who has kept secrets they didn’t want to carry inside them. Who has feared rejection by the “normal” world. Who has smiled when they feel dead inside. Who has buried their anger so deep that the thought of it escaping terrifies them. Who has ever lost themself.

You are not alone. I’m holding your hand, as those women who helped me find my sanity held mine. I love you, my sisters.

I will be putting the packages back in the post, marked “Not known at this address”. I did think of dropping them off at the pub he drinks in with a note attached saying “STOP GETTING YOUR PERVERT UNDIES SENT TO MY ADDRESS”, but I know that would backfire and get ugly. So I’ll settle with giving him the hassle of tracking down his frillys.