Hello smile

I'm Siobhan Curran/Kisa Naumova, and this is my weblog. I tend to write about stuff like crossdressing, Macs, code, cats, wine and Second Life, but in general it's just an ongoing conversation about all sorts of stuff. If you'd like to know a little bit more about what this all is, I recommend starting on this page which has a little bit of info on who I am, and what I'm trying to do — or you could dive into my five years worth of archives if you like.

Otherwise, feel free to close this box and explore...

Box Room

Dressing up has never just been about women's clothing for me. My 'natural' self is some form of Easy To Get On™ ensemble — the ubiquitous jeans-and-a-t-shirt, or a dress that I can just pull over my head. Anything complicated falls, for me, into the realms of costume. Anything that requires more than fifteen seconds to get into becomes some form of 'dressing up'.

When I was younger — much younger — I used to dress up all the time. Unwittingly — without realising the horrors that she might be unleashing — my mother gave my brother and myself a dressing-up box, full of her old clothes and hats and shoes. Afternoons used to be spent parading around in nighties and heels, and attention was given.

As I grew older and went to school, my early 'fantasies' and daydreams revolved around clothing. The school I was at had a uniform, but it was seldom worn — just for concerts and photo-days really. Which was good, because I hated my school uniform.

I also hated it when others wore it — especially the girls I'd managed to develop a crush over. It was ugly. It was wrong. It was like some kind of punishment that I/they had to undergo.

My dressing up at the time, was like some kind of 'aversion therapy' for me. "Confront your demons" and all that.

When no-one else was in the house (a rare occurance for a nine-year old), I would squirrel myself away in the box-room next to my parents' bedroom, and try on all sorts of clothes.

Not (as I presume you'd suppose) just my mother's clothes, my father's as well.

It was a strange sensation — one that would become a lot more clearer as I ventured into puberty — looking at myself in the mirror, garbed in the things that I hated. I was (truth be told) incredibly insecure about my appearance as a young boy, and coupling my facial awkwardness alongside 'forbidden' outfits, I had a strange attraction to the monstrosity staring back at myself.

It was a very private thing: hidden away in that box-room, I was discovering a passion for the 'odd' — the more ridiculous I looked, the more 'perverse pleasure' I got from the experience. I didn't do anything, I just sat there looking at myself, stopping only with a panic when I heard the car pull up, or the key in the door.

...

In the summer of 1983, a creeping dread started to gnaw its way into my head.

I was, of course, about to start secondary school, and my seven-year avoidance of my school uniform was about to be brought to an abrupt close. There were no 'special occasions' on the horizon — every day was a uniform day.

My secret pastimes were about to be made very public — the concealed indulgences were about to be performed in the open. I was about to be made to look — as I thought — ridiculous, without the sanctuary of my closet.

And that scared me.

...

It must have been a Sunday evening — I'm sure Songs of Praise was on, and my Dad was out at church. I'm not sure where my sister was, but my mother and brother were in the living room watching the telly.

For some reason, I'd been overtaken either with bravado or an inability to not dress up, and I'd been recklessly sat in the box-room trying on my new school uniform — trying to get used to it.

I have no idea why I did what I did next, or really was the consequences were. I just know that it's a moment that has stuck itself in my memory as being in some way relevant to who I am today.

"Do you want to see what I've been doing for the last hour?"

Something had pushed me to break out of my privacy. Something had urged me to leave the box-room, walk down the stairs, and 'display' the results of my furtive hobby. I don't know what it is that I was expecting to happen, nor — for that matter — what it is I was wanting* to happen.

Maybe some recognition of the achievement, or maybe some affirmation of what I thought of myself. Maybe (of course) I just had no idea of social 'ettiquette', or rather "things you might not want to tell the entire world" — examples of which I could probably fill another five years of blogging with.

I dunno.

...

I know, I've written about a lot of that stuff before, and I do seem to be banging on about certain topics — superficially insignificant topics — a lot recently, and I'm sorry if I seem to be flogging a metaphorically dead horse at the moment.

I wasn't going to tell this story — not because it's too personal or anything, just because it doesn't really go anywhere. I can't, really, remember what happened next — a vague nod of appreciation from my mother perhaps, swiftly followed by a feeling of feeling really really silly.

I just find it interesting to look back at fuzzy memories and relate them to things I find myself doing today — not by way of explanation, just as observations.

We all do it, you know. Life really is a journey, only sometimes it loops back on itself and something from the past suddenly seems important or relevant in a way it never was before. I'm struggling to understand myself right now, a very painful part of my journey, so I sort of get where you are coming from with all this. Keep talking — it helps sort the jumble out — even if only one person hears. {hugs}