Life Imitates Art

Part 29 - A Cheery Monday Indeed

Tessa_

What's it like living with an out but deeply frustrated crossdresser? Why, I'm glad you asked. Is it even weirder that he's your own brother? Perhaps, but I love him... or her... or... it's complicated. We're all working pronouns out. Even Max doesn't know them yet. You would think two days and two nights would fix things, but it hasn't so far. Everything still feels awkward and mishapen this Monday evening.

I'll go back to this morning. I woke up and applied a thick face of makeup as if it was just any other day - that would be because it was and it has been. I saw Max already dressed for school and standing in the kitchen washing his finished bowl.

"Hey."

"Hi Max, you alright?"

"Yeah. You know, school." He looked glum, but that was nothing to do with Maxine. He has never liked that school. I looked at his slightly growing brown hair. It took a bit of convincing for Mum not to insist her son go to the barber's for a short back-and-sides trim. With his hair as it is, he can look more girlish. I know he likes that.

"Well, you won't be there forever." I look at my own uniform, too. "And neither will I."

"Yeah. You do get to look nicer, though." And then he smiled and excused himself to go and brush his teeth. He has worn my uniform before...in private, of course. People might find that weird, but that doesn't not make it true. And being totally honest, he wears it better than some of the girls at my school. He's a more natural skirt-wearer than more than a handful of my peers, and if he were a girl, than his peers as well. At his school, I'd place a high sum of money on him being the best girl of the whole student base. That's my brother for you. It helps that he attends an all-boys school.

I dropped him off as I do every morning. We had our little pep talk, and I asked him what he wanted to wear when he was home tonight. He doesn't know exactly which skirt he would like from the wide array I have. The boy has a girl's mind but it's a young, early-developing one.

This morning, he knew he wanted denim. Denim is his go-to. He loves a denim skirt. I gave him a white one for tonight. He doesn't usually wear white, but I've always associated it more with girls' clothing as a bottom half. He chose to wear his own black hoodie with it, and I think I styled him pretty much to his wishes.

"Remember, Maxine, wearing white is all practice for when you're the bride one day." I like to give him those fragments of hope. I like to show him that he can go full-girl one day if it is what he wants. I want to give him the hope to drive him to keep going and not give up. He smiles warmly and hopefully when I say things like that, so it surely isn't a bad thing. In truth, I still blame myself for corrupting Max.

I can't have seriously changed him. The more time he spent as a girl, the more he grew into it, the less he wanted to let go of Maxine. He clearly already had an interest based on all his drawings, some even now, including his own fictitious female counterpart. I didn't cause any of that.

I just want him to be happy, so I'll do anything I can at the moment to make it so. That's how time has changed me. I'm now fully on-board with having a sister. I still kick myself over not seeing it sooner. I know she's there. I need her to be happy.

It's a shame Mum isn't so keen. Molly made it sound like a given that she would be on-board, but I guess she isn't right about everything after all. Ugh, sorry. Bitchiness overload, I know. Max was ordered to change again at dinner. I wiped his makeup off and we both groaned and complained in my room as we held on to some kind of Christmas Carol parody occurring where Mum is shown the light by three spirits of crossdressing past, present and yet to be. I guess that won't be happening. We need another way.

Private girly circle? That's what Dad said to look for, but it's not like that sort of thing is brought up in the papers, on the radio, or even readily available to view online. When I read social media, scouting for such a group, it was full of 40+ year-olds so blatantly just advertising their bodies. Not the sort of space Max would want to be in, and I wouldn't blame him. To each their own, but yikes. It's not the right way to go about it for him.

And Max would kill me if he knew, but... well I have to tell someone, right? This whole situation has been eating my brain alive like a zombie. If just one friend knows, it'll feel so much easier. Not Molly. Not Courtney. I figured neither of them would want to help after the episode last time, even if I did somewhat smooth it over. I don't think of myself as their friend for that obvious reason. The conversation has played out in my head roughly 87 times since Saturday night's debacle.

"Your brother."

"Yep."

"Little Max?"

"That's him."

"And he what?"

"He likes dressing like a girl."

That's all I want to tell someone. I just want someone I know to know. I don't want to be facing this alone, but it's not an easy thing to even bring up, let alone receive no backlash for. And because I still blame myself, it's a self-inflicted wound of isolation, bleeding guilt and self-doubt and gaining a slight infection of hopelessness. I want to keep the positivity up but I'm the one left feeling vulnerable and teary-eyed when the darkness smothers the light and I retreat to bed.

And if I was just brave enough to try and tell that one friend, I'd maybe be able to grip the rope that will lead me out of this well I'm trapped in. But I can't make heads or tails of how to say it. How can I guarantee no further pain to the ones I love?

'If only you never asked to paint his nails, all this drama doesn't happen. You caused this. It's your fault. You broke your brother's mind.'

I bury myself deeper into my books than ever before. Someone else's drama occupying my head will allow me some decent sleep before the commotion of my own life catches me and inflicts insomnia.

A cheery Monday indeed.