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Just as I usually do, I went out, leaned back against my cars, looked around at the beautiful Boise sky...and thought...
I'm desperately (but not too desperately) plotting, planning and waiting to go to Kentucky to be with my family. I'm not falling for just any proposition for housing, as I've nearly been conned a time or two in the last 3 months. But the yearning is strong to go. I'm missing out on my family...and also missing out on the time to further develop who I want to be.
Being Bobbi Sue Ellen has been an amazing journey, a wonderful journey, despite my family's facade reactions, their half-buried concerns & platitudes...and their hidden worries & objections. But this is me. It's been the heart of me for years now, ever since I got back into diapers 40 years ago. That was only the beginning...the spark of the evolution. The early journey which posed the hard questions, fought with my conscience, tried to defy my efforts to fit in with the rest, frequently drove me mad. But it is my journey, my life; I've gotta be comfortable in this skin of mine, let alone in my diaper, because I feel the pressure to be what is only seen, especially from those who make up my family, save a precious few. It's hard...but even harder is asserting the real me to suffer the slings & arrows of those who claim to love me. They can barely accept me, with or without the diapers, dresses and the like...how can they truly love me? That has to start with acceptance...and it isn't there.
Long ago, my father once declared that he didn't care if I dressed up as Boy George; he'd love me all the same. But the contradictions were there: the leering side-looks, the head-shaking, the admonitions to "man up"...in my senior year of high school, it was a cold, snowy February. Dad was helping me get an engine out of a totaled Volkswagen, its back end was jacked up and he was under it, loosening the last two bolts holding the engine in when suddenly started to slip on its jackstands. I saw it right away, rushed to the slightly-downhill-side rear fender, put my back to it, hooked my hands around the fender lip and pulled up hard...and saw my heels were slipping on the snow. Dad caught onto the event, still wrenched.
"Dad, get out! My heels are slipping, my hands are slipping, I can't hold much longer!"
"I got the last bolt! Hold it up!"
"Dad! Please, get out! I'm slipping!!!
He said it. He actually said it: "You pussy!"
I tensed up, my strength surged. I dug my heels in, to my surprise. I held up. "What the f*** did you call me?!?!"
"You wanna take me on? Fine! Just let me get this bolt out and we'll do that!" He barked that out just as the last bolt came out and the engine dropped onto the ground. He slid out, I suddenly slipped and down came the car. I was swirling in terror, in shock. We both got up, glared intensely at each other, angrily, steam pulsing out of our mouths in the frigid air. After a few very tense seconds, I angrily grimaced, turned and stormed off. I slid the engine out later.
We never talked about it again and after 36 years, he's never brought it up or apologized. I knew from that moment on, I was alone. Truly alone. His words were a lie. The strain continues to this day.
This was a time when I had almost no friends; I was an outcast. I was raging in autism (undiagnosed) but nobody cared about that back then, let alone knew. I was just dismissed as a "retard". A lot of us were. Only now are we pulling ahead enough to notice this.
But enough, I'm rambling. The point is "Who am I?" and so far, I imagine you're eagerly waiting for the point, musing to yourselves "This is like waiting for a sneeze!"
What this is leading up to is that I am all alone in this journey, present company excluded. My life is getting closer to its declining and final years. I'm not who I was; it's been changing in many different ways since I struck out on my own. And things happen along the way, especially in regard to identity: I overheard my father tell someone "If my son changes his name, I'm gonna disown him". That further drove the already injurious nail. Being a namesake is not easy.
I don't hate him...I love him but I don't like him. Does that make any sense?
I decided that when Dad passes on--and I do not pray for the haste of that day--I'm changing my name. Legally. From that moment on, I will be "Bobbi Sue Ellen Colleen Wetmore". That oughtta raise an eyebrow or two at the court hearing...but that is what I want. I may be male but I'm definitely not masculine. It's neutral/agender in normal life, diapered toddler girl at home. I will wait until Dad passes because if there's one thing I believe in, it's "Don't send 'em away unhappy". Sure, it's an illusion but it's his. Nobody can change that and he's content to live with it. So be it.
As Bobbi Sue Ellen Colleen Wetmore, I will continue to embrace life: take on adventure, get the work done, regard everyone kindly, love my family & friends...live in peace and, hopefully, harmony. Until there's no life left to live and it's my turn to go gentle into that good afterlife. God & Nature made me male; I spent years living as a boy, trying to live as a "man". For now, I'm happy publicly living with neither masculinity nor femininity.
But until that day, I wanna live my home life as a happy, playful, diapered, wet little girl with adorable dresses, sweet stud earrings, darling shoes, lovable knee-highs and the occasional cute, frilly-legged diaper cover (sometimes, diapers exposed juuuust below the skirt are cuter!). And toys, teddies, blankie, crib, high-chair, with fun stuff to watch, fun people to hang out with here on ADISC and others who know me & are okay with all this. Someday, I will be that girl...a forever sweet baby girl in Pampers. Who will love more than she is loved.
I'm desperately (but not too desperately) plotting, planning and waiting to go to Kentucky to be with my family. I'm not falling for just any proposition for housing, as I've nearly been conned a time or two in the last 3 months. But the yearning is strong to go. I'm missing out on my family...and also missing out on the time to further develop who I want to be.
Being Bobbi Sue Ellen has been an amazing journey, a wonderful journey, despite my family's facade reactions, their half-buried concerns & platitudes...and their hidden worries & objections. But this is me. It's been the heart of me for years now, ever since I got back into diapers 40 years ago. That was only the beginning...the spark of the evolution. The early journey which posed the hard questions, fought with my conscience, tried to defy my efforts to fit in with the rest, frequently drove me mad. But it is my journey, my life; I've gotta be comfortable in this skin of mine, let alone in my diaper, because I feel the pressure to be what is only seen, especially from those who make up my family, save a precious few. It's hard...but even harder is asserting the real me to suffer the slings & arrows of those who claim to love me. They can barely accept me, with or without the diapers, dresses and the like...how can they truly love me? That has to start with acceptance...and it isn't there.
Long ago, my father once declared that he didn't care if I dressed up as Boy George; he'd love me all the same. But the contradictions were there: the leering side-looks, the head-shaking, the admonitions to "man up"...in my senior year of high school, it was a cold, snowy February. Dad was helping me get an engine out of a totaled Volkswagen, its back end was jacked up and he was under it, loosening the last two bolts holding the engine in when suddenly started to slip on its jackstands. I saw it right away, rushed to the slightly-downhill-side rear fender, put my back to it, hooked my hands around the fender lip and pulled up hard...and saw my heels were slipping on the snow. Dad caught onto the event, still wrenched.
"Dad, get out! My heels are slipping, my hands are slipping, I can't hold much longer!"
"I got the last bolt! Hold it up!"
"Dad! Please, get out! I'm slipping!!!
He said it. He actually said it: "You pussy!"
I tensed up, my strength surged. I dug my heels in, to my surprise. I held up. "What the f*** did you call me?!?!"
"You wanna take me on? Fine! Just let me get this bolt out and we'll do that!" He barked that out just as the last bolt came out and the engine dropped onto the ground. He slid out, I suddenly slipped and down came the car. I was swirling in terror, in shock. We both got up, glared intensely at each other, angrily, steam pulsing out of our mouths in the frigid air. After a few very tense seconds, I angrily grimaced, turned and stormed off. I slid the engine out later.
We never talked about it again and after 36 years, he's never brought it up or apologized. I knew from that moment on, I was alone. Truly alone. His words were a lie. The strain continues to this day.
This was a time when I had almost no friends; I was an outcast. I was raging in autism (undiagnosed) but nobody cared about that back then, let alone knew. I was just dismissed as a "retard". A lot of us were. Only now are we pulling ahead enough to notice this.
But enough, I'm rambling. The point is "Who am I?" and so far, I imagine you're eagerly waiting for the point, musing to yourselves "This is like waiting for a sneeze!"
What this is leading up to is that I am all alone in this journey, present company excluded. My life is getting closer to its declining and final years. I'm not who I was; it's been changing in many different ways since I struck out on my own. And things happen along the way, especially in regard to identity: I overheard my father tell someone "If my son changes his name, I'm gonna disown him". That further drove the already injurious nail. Being a namesake is not easy.
I don't hate him...I love him but I don't like him. Does that make any sense?
I decided that when Dad passes on--and I do not pray for the haste of that day--I'm changing my name. Legally. From that moment on, I will be "Bobbi Sue Ellen Colleen Wetmore". That oughtta raise an eyebrow or two at the court hearing...but that is what I want. I may be male but I'm definitely not masculine. It's neutral/agender in normal life, diapered toddler girl at home. I will wait until Dad passes because if there's one thing I believe in, it's "Don't send 'em away unhappy". Sure, it's an illusion but it's his. Nobody can change that and he's content to live with it. So be it.
As Bobbi Sue Ellen Colleen Wetmore, I will continue to embrace life: take on adventure, get the work done, regard everyone kindly, love my family & friends...live in peace and, hopefully, harmony. Until there's no life left to live and it's my turn to go gentle into that good afterlife. God & Nature made me male; I spent years living as a boy, trying to live as a "man". For now, I'm happy publicly living with neither masculinity nor femininity.
But until that day, I wanna live my home life as a happy, playful, diapered, wet little girl with adorable dresses, sweet stud earrings, darling shoes, lovable knee-highs and the occasional cute, frilly-legged diaper cover (sometimes, diapers exposed juuuust below the skirt are cuter!). And toys, teddies, blankie, crib, high-chair, with fun stuff to watch, fun people to hang out with here on ADISC and others who know me & are okay with all this. Someday, I will be that girl...a forever sweet baby girl in Pampers. Who will love more than she is loved.
In Peace. 
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"The heart want's what the heart wants".
Sorry, Neil..."for God and Science" and all that.