[All true.  Somewhat sadly, it's all quite literally true.]

 I'm well into my third 'weed free' month.  Once I make up my mind, my resolve is firm.  As I anticipated, being consistently straight has helped me to focus on priorities other than crossdressing.  Life is returning to a semblance of 'normal'.

Bwahahahahaha!  Tears and belly laughs!

The Rabbit Hole is proving far deeper than I had ever imagined.  I'm an ever more mindless sissy faggot.  It's 11:10 AM.  Having used up the last of my stash yesterday, I was waiting in -37C temperatures when the Bud Store opened.  I gobbled a 300 mg brownie on the way home.  That was about 10:15.  

Yesterday was a trip!  I had just enough rocket fuel left to propel me into a lovely sissy orbit.  I'm into pink lately:  basque in bright pink with black trim with garters, neon pink stockings, black panties, black pumps.   I spent much of the day edging in mindless sissy bliss.  I'll say that again, emphasizing the contrast with sane peoples' behaviour:  I spent much of the day edging in mindless sissy bliss. Sometimes I really manage to go 'far out,' and yesterday certainly rates.  It might be what the BDSM types call 'subspace,' where one feels so blissed out that one's sense of self literally blurs.  When Wife returned around midnight, I was barely able to peel myself from my pink satin cloud, just as she climbed into bed.  I wasn't stoned enough anymore to stay dressed for Her, but the thought always tempts me.  Within an hour, after She was asleep, I silently pulled on a pair of thigh-highs.  "Whatever gets you through the night," as the song goes.  And I did sleep like a happy sissy faggot, especially after I wafted downstairs to dance in the dark and suck up the last of the vape left-overs.  

Wife's first words upon wakening were, "What colour are your stockings?"  Our eyes met, and mine betrayed surprise despite our respective lack of secrets.  "I could hear you putting them on.  It was adorable!  I didn't want to disturb you."  We kissed.

Yesterday was utterly, definitely, resolutely going to be my weed swan song until, as I've promised, "the snow flies."  Some time around 02:00, standing in the dark in my kitchen, wearing stockings and panties and a T-shirt, and swaying to the subtle rush of the vape's dying embers, it hit me that I would crossdress and get stoned again tomorrow.  I just felt a familiar 'whoosh' of arousal; the sensation of my best intentions shattering under the onslaught of sissy need.  It controls me.  She controls me - from within.  Feeling the burgeoning power in her manicured fingers is intoxicating; ironically both for 'Her' and for 'me'.  It feels like a power struggle, but an odd one where it feels so erotic to lose.

11:32 now, and I'm getting a definite case of 'brownie head.'  Need to be concise.  And, so, um, I started writing this note because of the powerful residuum of sissy lust and Pink Fog that yesterday's playtime has induced.  To make matteres worse, Wife, being a curling fanatic, plans to be watching Her Big Game on TV tonight at 6:30, and hints that she plans to dress for the event.  Oh, stockings!  This whole scene would already leave me senseless with desire, were it not for one further thing.  When my Wife came home last night she found a poem from me.  It was a short, silly limerick admitting that I was stoned, but declaiming again that I was 'done until the snow flies.'  I came downstairs to greet Her - after quickly stripping my pink sissy things - and we joked about the poem, but She added, "Of course, you can't go cold turkey.  You'll need some around in case you have anxiety attacks again."  Well, shit!  I'm trying to quit, or rather enjoying the erotic effect of feeling unable, and here was Wife practically demanding that I buy more!  Picture the scene:  I was stoned and crossdressed all day, edging into a Fog of hypersexual arousal, and now comes Wife, and I naturally feel a tsunami of submissive craving.  I want to drop to the floor and kiss Her feet, and Her words have the power of a command, and She says, "My sissy pet, go buy pot and get stoned!"  Well, not in those words, but that's how it felt!

Rapidly heading into 7+ readings on the Stoned Sissy Faggot Scale, or whatever.  I just ascended the stairs briefly, as if propelled by soft pink gusting breezes.  My attire is now full-blown transvestite.  (Pun intended.)  I'm wearing white bridal lingerie and stockings over my French maid costume.  Strappy black heels.  This is no longer a stocking fetish, although it's there.  It's not a guilty adolescent masterbation ritual.  I am a transvestite.  The realization penetrates my head like an IV drip of pure eroticism.  

The feeling is ineffable.  Tom Robbins said that, "describing magic in words is like carving roast beef with a screwdriver."  It's part addiction, part sensory overload, and a small dash of wide-eyed wonder.  My conscious mind feels like a passenger on a runaway train hauling an incendiary cargo of lust, cravings, compulsion and fetishistic eroticism. 

A solid 7+.