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| There's no cure for Sissies. It's a spell not an illness. |
A confident tipped me of a friend of hers on the verge of mental collapse. A son caught wearing mom's clothes. Could I maybe provide relief? Like phone her... OK, got that.
The worried mom answers my call.
Thanks for calling, it's so kind to rescue her, she sure needs help and...
Counselling people is something I often come to hate, specifically when they stubbornly refuse to listen to what I have to say. Will this one be different? At least for now she sounds genuinely shaken.
Hardworking mother of one, quietly growing son, does well at school, fixes old computers in his spare time and sells them to help ends meet, will gladly do cleaning chores, tidies around, keeps the grocery list, no parties, no booze, no junk food, slender clean delicate good mannered lad.
And what's the drama?
Her voice sobers. Happens that, so hard to say, meaning, how to explain, that other day she glimpsed at her son's laptop and there was a folder with pictures, he likes photography, you know.
And... More sobering ensues, in the heartbeat before he hastily folds the screen, she can positively tell that those were pictures of him wearing a black skirt and a white dressy silk blouse.
Photoshop miracles ?
Not really. She quietly went to check her cabinet. Sobering resumes.
And... And yes, most of her dressy clothes were not that properly hanged, a white blouse still had the fragrance of a deodorant not of her own.
Only the dressy ones? Sure but how do I know?
Because that's what girls choose to look feminine at their best.
Silence fills the conversation. I seize the opportunity to pursue.
Does she realize how blessed she is with a kid like her son? In an epoch when teens compete on disorderly driven by foolishness achievements?
Definitely yes and she loves him dearly, no doubts.
Take a pencil and a paper, this is my place, I expect your visit right this afternoon. And I mean today, right after work, not tomorrow.
Short hesitation.. Yes she will.
Insecure hands around the warm coffee mug. She remains small and silent but her makeup tells the story.
First things first, I'm not a doctor. Then, there's no need for a doctor since her son is not ill and consecutively can not be cured.
My credentials are that, alike her son, I was back then illuminated by the Pink Light of a Sissy Fairy.
Shock and awe.
Fifteen minutes later she knows the essentials of what her son experiences and why resistance is futile.
The decision is her's. Either a confrontation with dire consequences or a new era of happiness.
The suicide rate of rejected for similar reasons teens is alarmingly high. In five years he'll be considered adult, legally free to manage his own whereabouts and feelings.
Will those years be a constructive preparation for life or a perpetually uncomfortable and potentially destructive sentence?
She's the one to decide and this will happen right here and now.
Suddenly time drags. Then an eruption of emotions, yes, for sure, she loves her kid, the best son a mother can ever dream of, and no matter what, she'll support him be it sunshine or storms.
Wise decision Lady. The only reasonable by the way. Now we'll split our efforts for a moment. You fix that train-wreck makeup of yours while I'll go look for a few props. Deal ?
Here a cute feminine card, appropriate envelope, a sparkly pink marker. And a classy gift wrap bag with plenty of cute roses printed all around.
Ready to rescue your son's life? Affirmative gesture.
Please open the card and write "I love you, let's be friends." . Signed "Mom".
Slowly she starts moving the pen.
Well done, let the ink dry. Time to take care of the envelope.
Please write "To my beloved daughter" and draw a heart or two.
The pen moves again.
Visibly she feels relived. It's all said. It's over. A whole new life is about to begin. Right now.
So here's the plan.
Once home, discretely put that blouse, skirt and whatever might go well under in the lovely gift bag. Toss in this fragrance on my behalf and don't forget the envelope with the card.
Then, most important, discretely put the bag on your son's desk and be prepared to face the improbable without tantrums, fits, drama. Improvise at best and if you're heart is genuine and true, the first of many miracles will occur.
Now it's time to go and face reality. You two have so much to learn. Be blessed and give me the good news.
The phone rings. I instantly recognize the voice less the drama.
They would like to say thanks and have the opportunity to treat me with the wonderful apple cake they baked together for the occasion.
Sure, pleasure is mine, they know the address, coffee machine is ready for action.
Reaching for a tissue. My makeup needs an urgent fix.
I love you, I love you all !
Thanks for calling, it's so kind to rescue her, she sure needs help and...
Counselling people is something I often come to hate, specifically when they stubbornly refuse to listen to what I have to say. Will this one be different? At least for now she sounds genuinely shaken.
Hardworking mother of one, quietly growing son, does well at school, fixes old computers in his spare time and sells them to help ends meet, will gladly do cleaning chores, tidies around, keeps the grocery list, no parties, no booze, no junk food, slender clean delicate good mannered lad.
And what's the drama?
Her voice sobers. Happens that, so hard to say, meaning, how to explain, that other day she glimpsed at her son's laptop and there was a folder with pictures, he likes photography, you know.
And... More sobering ensues, in the heartbeat before he hastily folds the screen, she can positively tell that those were pictures of him wearing a black skirt and a white dressy silk blouse.
Photoshop miracles ?
Not really. She quietly went to check her cabinet. Sobering resumes.
And... And yes, most of her dressy clothes were not that properly hanged, a white blouse still had the fragrance of a deodorant not of her own.
Only the dressy ones? Sure but how do I know?
Because that's what girls choose to look feminine at their best.
Silence fills the conversation. I seize the opportunity to pursue.
Does she realize how blessed she is with a kid like her son? In an epoch when teens compete on disorderly driven by foolishness achievements?
Definitely yes and she loves him dearly, no doubts.
Take a pencil and a paper, this is my place, I expect your visit right this afternoon. And I mean today, right after work, not tomorrow.
Short hesitation.. Yes she will.
Insecure hands around the warm coffee mug. She remains small and silent but her makeup tells the story.
First things first, I'm not a doctor. Then, there's no need for a doctor since her son is not ill and consecutively can not be cured.
My credentials are that, alike her son, I was back then illuminated by the Pink Light of a Sissy Fairy.
Shock and awe.
Fifteen minutes later she knows the essentials of what her son experiences and why resistance is futile.
The decision is her's. Either a confrontation with dire consequences or a new era of happiness.
The suicide rate of rejected for similar reasons teens is alarmingly high. In five years he'll be considered adult, legally free to manage his own whereabouts and feelings.
Will those years be a constructive preparation for life or a perpetually uncomfortable and potentially destructive sentence?
She's the one to decide and this will happen right here and now.
Suddenly time drags. Then an eruption of emotions, yes, for sure, she loves her kid, the best son a mother can ever dream of, and no matter what, she'll support him be it sunshine or storms.
Wise decision Lady. The only reasonable by the way. Now we'll split our efforts for a moment. You fix that train-wreck makeup of yours while I'll go look for a few props. Deal ?
Here a cute feminine card, appropriate envelope, a sparkly pink marker. And a classy gift wrap bag with plenty of cute roses printed all around.
Ready to rescue your son's life? Affirmative gesture.
Please open the card and write "I love you, let's be friends." . Signed "Mom".
Slowly she starts moving the pen.
Well done, let the ink dry. Time to take care of the envelope.
Please write "To my beloved daughter" and draw a heart or two.
The pen moves again.
Visibly she feels relived. It's all said. It's over. A whole new life is about to begin. Right now.
So here's the plan.
Once home, discretely put that blouse, skirt and whatever might go well under in the lovely gift bag. Toss in this fragrance on my behalf and don't forget the envelope with the card.
Then, most important, discretely put the bag on your son's desk and be prepared to face the improbable without tantrums, fits, drama. Improvise at best and if you're heart is genuine and true, the first of many miracles will occur.
Now it's time to go and face reality. You two have so much to learn. Be blessed and give me the good news.
The phone rings. I instantly recognize the voice less the drama.
They would like to say thanks and have the opportunity to treat me with the wonderful apple cake they baked together for the occasion.
Sure, pleasure is mine, they know the address, coffee machine is ready for action.
Reaching for a tissue. My makeup needs an urgent fix.
I love you, I love you all !
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