Yeah, I think it was pretty clear about 10 days ago that I gave up on the 30 day challenge. Not only does my lifestyle make it really hard to get on the computer every day these days, but I’m also perpetually lazy.
Plus, I started getting blog backup. It happens every time I start queuing up a list of topics to write about- for some reason, if I ever have more than 3 things I think I could write about, I can’t make myself start to write about any of them because I can’t pick which one is more important to write about that day, or something.
Anyway, with all that out of the way, I think I said a few blogs ago that I was going to write about something really embarrassing, and since I’ve forgotten everything else I was going to write about, it’s about that time that I get around to writing about that.
Have you ever had a quirk about yourself that you couldn’t decide whether it was a comedy-relief type human foible that could be applied to any other guy, or something that threatened your sense of masculinity so dangerously that maybe it was time to rethink your gender status? I don’t like that everything about myself is now shaded by that “is it male enough?” filter, but this really stretches the boundaries of anything that is believably male, and I’ve been understandably uncomfortable about it for a long time.
See, since I was little, I’ve had this issue with… (oh boy, here it comes, my first time really putting it in words…) the textures of certain fabrics. Euch, just thinking about it kinda makes me want to throw up. My first memory of a fabric that made me want to cringe was pantyhose. My parents made me put the things on to go to church every Sunday and stretching that nasty material over my hands so I could squirm into it just gave me industrial strength goosebumps. Other textures bugged me from an early age, like most rough upholstery, just about any kind of carpeting, terry cloth, etc. I spent a lot of years just putting up with it and trying not to touch those things with my hands.
It got worse as my childhood progressed. I discovered that one of the few ways to desensitize my hands enough to deal with those kinds of fabrics was to keep my hands moisturized, through water, lotion, milk, or whatever was around at the moment. One of the more shameful tidbits of my childhood is the technique I used to get around this problem when I couldn’t find anything wet to put on my hands- I would spit on them. Euch. It’s hard to admit to, but the god’s honest truth that often the only thing that would keep me from going bonkers was whether I could produce saliva.
Of course, when I was exposed to polite society, I realized that this practice was unacceptable, and thus began my dependence on lotion. I had to keep some with me at all times to deal with the increasingly horrific textures the world had to offer.
I’d like to say that I eventually outgrew this problem, manned up, learned to deal with cloth without gagging, and ditched the lotion, but sadly this is not the case. If anything, my aversion to textures is worse than in my childhood (though probably it just seems worse because I’ve been focusing on getting rid of it due to the anxiety it causes when compounded by my gender issues.) My biggest problem with it right now is that I can’t really go more than a couple hours at best without finding some dark corner to dissolve into and rub the lotion into my hands hopefully without someone noticing.
It’s shameful, because lotion seems to be such a feminine things, and I’ve become nothing short of dependent on it. If it were a better world, my friends wouldn’t know about this- they pick on me for it sometimes, which I try to brush off, but I know it makes them take me less seriously when they see it. One of my friends was even present once when I couldn’t find any lotion in my entire house and… aw jeez, I mean, I guess I have to be honest about this, right? Well, I’m not really prone to panic attacks, but I had one right then and there in front of him, and I’m sure he doesn’t see me the same way after that. I mean, I was having an asthma attack of epic proportions and I couldn’t really talk and there were tears and all kinds of horrible things, and the worst thing was that my logical mind was saying that it shouldn’t have been happening, but I couldn’t stop, and I seriously flipped out.
So yeah, that’s the biggest skeleton in my closet, and I just wish I knew there was some way to fix it. I tried searching online for answers, and the closest thing I could come up with was sensory hypersensitivity, and the worst thing about that is that every single site teaches you how to recognize and deal with it in your children. There is absolutely no evidence out there that it ever happens to adults.
So I really should have grown out of it by now, and it just disgusts me to even bring it up. It’s a really humiliating thing and it’s taken me a year to even bring it up on this blog, and god knows I’ve tried before. But, it’s finally time to bite the bullet and hit submit, because I think someone out there may have an answer, and as trivial as it seems, it almost seems like something that would endanger my chances of getting on T if I bring it up to my gender therapist. So, yeah. Here I stand, naked to the world.
Go easy on me.