Every night, I slip my fingers into a prison jumpsuit. The undertone of duty is flimsy and revealing and dispenses hard slabs that will improve my character.
Orange, the color of the bottle, the color of being corrected, sends the signal that I am off-limits. It communicates that I am stable but no longer desirable. The only "package" that I have is a set of behaviors that are associated with prudes and prohibitionists, neither of which I identify even remotely as.
Prescriptions are not flattering, and neither are the lifestyle changes that accompany them. I believe that I now have the complexion of a cobblestone path, bumpy and full of imperfections. There isn't a lot of makeup available in this institutional setting, so I do not have the luxury of looking my absolute best each day.
I thought that the stigma inherent in being bipolar with psychotic features, in addition to having PTSD from verbal/physical/sexual abuse, was something that I could turn my back on. Instead, I feel nearly as devalued for my current state of well being because this status is conditional.
For seven years, I was chronically suicidal and couldn't even walk down the street or perform day-to-day activities without great difficulty because a much more terrifying reality was constantly being superimposed on me. Ironically, it is only by experiencing optimal mental health (thanks to medication) and engaging in the practices that are necessary in order to maintain it that I have come to realize how ablest our culture actually is.
As a sopping hippie, I have absolutely no objectives to participating in a society that fully celebrates sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. Those are actually some of my favorite things in the world, at least, conceptually. But I cannot embrace them with open arms as my contemporary counterparts might, and as much as I would love to.
Everything serves as a potential trigger. When you possess brain chemistry that is being held up by stilts, or when you have an extensive history of abuse, eating disorders, drug abuse/dependency, and self-harm, the Roaring Twenties can come crashing down in the blink of an eye.
I feel alienated from the conversations that I cannot partake in, lest they be triggering. I cannot go to parties or even small gatherings because the overwhelming majority involve alcohol and put me at risk of either relapsing or re-experiencing trauma. The one and only drug that has actually been highly beneficial to me (marijuana) and offers a cornucopia of therapeutic application potential for enhancing my mental health is demonized by society and invites even more stigma. I fear the ubiquitous displays of sexuality because they symbolize what happened in my past, even though I desperately crave safe intimacy with another human being.
I can't enjoy the cornerstones of college life, such as caffeine and late night excursions, or other things that either make my medication less effective or make me more susceptible to relapse. I sometimes feel as though companionship will be rescinded as a result. It is lonely.
I cannot, under any circumstances, pull all-nighters unless I want to run the risk of being hospitalized or having a huge breakdown. Being excessively sleep deprived is enough to plunge me into despondency and crippling paranoia.
And in spite of how well my treatment is working, I cannot help but feel like compliance bars me from the rest of my community. It's like having a curfew on the most important New Year's Eve of the decade. Everything is on ice-champagne, vodka, dancing, and one night stands. It is a culture in which everything with a...spin is critically acclaimed.
I know in my heart that I am much better off taking care of myself.
But also in my heart, I want to be culturally attuned. I do not want to miss out on history. I want to be one of the writers.
So what can be done to overcome this sense of inferiority, this sense of being estranged from your own chronological age?
It is difficult when you are up against cultural staples. I will be working to neutralize the corrosive effects of the media and the messages that it promulgates until the day I die. Every school shooting rains acid on my parade. I wake up in the aftermath of a tragedy to find social media outlets facilitating the derogatory statements that are made about all people with mental health issues-namely, those who experience either psychosis or elements of it. It is a phenomenon that is highly misunderstood by the general public.
Laypeople frantically view you through the lens of LSD. You are seen as a caricature of the brain, a mockery of an organ.
Legislation approaches you as an archaeological find instead of a living, breathing member of an ecosystem. Your body can be understood and tolerated, but it is never meant to participate in contemporary, earthly matters.
I still don't have an answer. I am still fighting to assert an identity that defies the Hedonist/Puritanical dichotomy. I am lost in a world of synonyms and antonyms. All I know is that it will take more than a crossword puzzle clue to figure out what label I have an affinity for, and into which spaces I can fit.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Mental Health Privilege Checklist
-My mind is my own. I do not share it with anyone. I am not beleaguered by relentless and intrusive thoughts, delusions, or voices. My agency is not usurped. I conjure ideas of my own conscious volition. I am not forced to share a space in my head with a vicious, self-deprecating presence. I alone plant ideas in my head, and the consequences of their germination are within my control. My version of reality is not twisted, warped, or horrific.
-I have to use drugs in order to feel like I am under the influence of a mind-altering substance. It is my choice as to whether or not I will bug out, experience paranoia, or be out of touch with reality.
-I will not react to mundane events as though they have posed a crisis situation. My moods will not be so incapacitating that I am unable to get out of bed every day or perform basic self-care.
-If I am unable to attend work or class due to illness, I will not be accused of laziness or lack of willpower.
-Schools become less safe for me because somebody else has brought a gun to one of them, not because people will connect the atrocity that has occurred with who I am. I don't lay awake at night terrified about the implications that one person's actions can have on peoples' attitudes towards me or my ability to access care. I don't have to witness an acrimonious presence on social media sites completely accosting people who might have shared struggles that are similar to mine while simultaneously fearing that I will be lumped into the same category as them. I don't have to worry that one incident is going to reinforce damaging stereotypes about me or that the social and political climate is going to become even more hostile to my existence, through no fault of my own.
-I can interact with people and not feel like I am going to die, that they want to kill me, or that I want to kill myself. I do not perceive my mistakes or accidents as grounds for persecution. I do not view social interaction as a breeding ground for a highly orchestrated plot to attack me, and thus, I do not roam the world withdrawn and terrified.
-No one will blame me for not being well, and providing me with care will not be seen as burdensome. My medical needs will not be viewed as a character defect, a sign of laziness, or a personal fault. When I am unwell, my loved ones will be kind to me. Paying for what I need in order to live and function will be seen as a no-brainer.
-There is a greater chance that disability services will recognize my struggles and provide resources and services that accommodate them adequately.
-When I reach out for help, I am encouraged to tell my doctors everything they need to know so that I receive the best and most tailored form of care possible. I don't have to censor pivotal pieces of information so that my right to self-determination and direct involvement in the treatment process won't be curtailed. When I lay everything out on the table, I can say with a degree of certainty what is going to happen to me or what the consequences will be. And I will never, ever regret asking for help. I won't be kicked out of school, subjected to a mandatory evaluation, involuntarily hospitalized, or forced to undergo electrocution or chemical/medical regimens that I am adamantly opposed to. I will never have to choose between getting better and getting thrown into a cage.
-I can divulge a fundamental facet of who I am without worrying that people are going to be afraid of being around me, being alone with me, leaving their children with me, or being driven places by me.
-If I am fully conscious and a legal adult, it is highly improbable that my medical autonomy will be rescinded or that my desires will be blatantly disrespected.
-Clinical terms that pertain to my state of being will not be used with levity or worse, interchangeably with terms that carry damning connotations, such as when people substitute the word "psychosis" for "psychopath."
-I will only be subjected to imprisonment and treated like an inmate if I hurt another living soul.
-I don't have to take extra precautionary steps or excessively sugarcoat my demeanor in order to prove that I am not a threat to anyone else. If I hurt myself and no one else, people aren't going to automatically assume that I am just as capable of doing the exact opposite. I do not cease from raising my voice even when my anger is justified in order to dispel the myths that I will raise my hand, as well.
-If I am hospitalized, I don't have to look into the eyes of the nurses and feel like I am wasting their precious time or resources...and I can count on them to not share those sentiments.
-If I inflict bodily harm upon myself by tanning, smoking cigarettes, eating poorly, playing sports, or speeding in a car, no one is going to call me selfish or label me as an attention seeker. No one is going to suggest that I am not worth helping because I brought my predicament upon myself. If I am hospitalized due to my injuries, people will visit me and give a damn. If I die due to my injuries, my funeral and the ensuing dialogues concerning the manner in which I died will not become breeding grounds for victim blaming.
-The most important people in my life will not feel like my everyday problems exceed the scope of their friendship and the capacity to deal with them, the abilities of ordinary individuals.
-If I need medical care, I will not be deterred from seeking it due to stigma. Health care packages are more likely to consider my needs basic and quintessential. I can openly discuss my medical ailments in social spaces without having to worry that I am shooting myself in the foot.
-I do not have to think twice about riding the bus, going to the dining hall, attending class, walking down the street, or ordering food from a venue because I do not struggle with these basic tasks.
-I can navigate the public domain on my own because I won't become so crippled by my emotions or thoughts that I need help filling out forms, answering questions, talking to people, or traveling.
-When I am forced to be in crowded, busy locations and potentially stressful situations, I don't legitimately fear for my life or struggle to maintain tenuous contact with reality.
-My ability to study or absorb basic sentences is not compromised by racing or intrusive thoughts.
-I have the luxury of going without sleep or altering my sleeping schedule if I have work to do or want to stay out with friends, because the state of sleep deprivation is not going to send me spiraling into a state of despondency, suicidality, mania, self-destructiveness, or psychosis.
-I will never have to worry about the episodic abolition of the most often cited requisites for humanity-rationality, stability, and capacity for higher thought-and thus, I will never be demoted to sub-human citizenry in either my own eyes or the eyes of others.
-I have to use drugs in order to feel like I am under the influence of a mind-altering substance. It is my choice as to whether or not I will bug out, experience paranoia, or be out of touch with reality.
-I will not react to mundane events as though they have posed a crisis situation. My moods will not be so incapacitating that I am unable to get out of bed every day or perform basic self-care.
-If I am unable to attend work or class due to illness, I will not be accused of laziness or lack of willpower.
-Schools become less safe for me because somebody else has brought a gun to one of them, not because people will connect the atrocity that has occurred with who I am. I don't lay awake at night terrified about the implications that one person's actions can have on peoples' attitudes towards me or my ability to access care. I don't have to witness an acrimonious presence on social media sites completely accosting people who might have shared struggles that are similar to mine while simultaneously fearing that I will be lumped into the same category as them. I don't have to worry that one incident is going to reinforce damaging stereotypes about me or that the social and political climate is going to become even more hostile to my existence, through no fault of my own.
-I can interact with people and not feel like I am going to die, that they want to kill me, or that I want to kill myself. I do not perceive my mistakes or accidents as grounds for persecution. I do not view social interaction as a breeding ground for a highly orchestrated plot to attack me, and thus, I do not roam the world withdrawn and terrified.
-No one will blame me for not being well, and providing me with care will not be seen as burdensome. My medical needs will not be viewed as a character defect, a sign of laziness, or a personal fault. When I am unwell, my loved ones will be kind to me. Paying for what I need in order to live and function will be seen as a no-brainer.
-There is a greater chance that disability services will recognize my struggles and provide resources and services that accommodate them adequately.
-When I reach out for help, I am encouraged to tell my doctors everything they need to know so that I receive the best and most tailored form of care possible. I don't have to censor pivotal pieces of information so that my right to self-determination and direct involvement in the treatment process won't be curtailed. When I lay everything out on the table, I can say with a degree of certainty what is going to happen to me or what the consequences will be. And I will never, ever regret asking for help. I won't be kicked out of school, subjected to a mandatory evaluation, involuntarily hospitalized, or forced to undergo electrocution or chemical/medical regimens that I am adamantly opposed to. I will never have to choose between getting better and getting thrown into a cage.
-I can divulge a fundamental facet of who I am without worrying that people are going to be afraid of being around me, being alone with me, leaving their children with me, or being driven places by me.
-If I am fully conscious and a legal adult, it is highly improbable that my medical autonomy will be rescinded or that my desires will be blatantly disrespected.
-Clinical terms that pertain to my state of being will not be used with levity or worse, interchangeably with terms that carry damning connotations, such as when people substitute the word "psychosis" for "psychopath."
-I will only be subjected to imprisonment and treated like an inmate if I hurt another living soul.
-I don't have to take extra precautionary steps or excessively sugarcoat my demeanor in order to prove that I am not a threat to anyone else. If I hurt myself and no one else, people aren't going to automatically assume that I am just as capable of doing the exact opposite. I do not cease from raising my voice even when my anger is justified in order to dispel the myths that I will raise my hand, as well.
-If I am hospitalized, I don't have to look into the eyes of the nurses and feel like I am wasting their precious time or resources...and I can count on them to not share those sentiments.
-If I inflict bodily harm upon myself by tanning, smoking cigarettes, eating poorly, playing sports, or speeding in a car, no one is going to call me selfish or label me as an attention seeker. No one is going to suggest that I am not worth helping because I brought my predicament upon myself. If I am hospitalized due to my injuries, people will visit me and give a damn. If I die due to my injuries, my funeral and the ensuing dialogues concerning the manner in which I died will not become breeding grounds for victim blaming.
-The most important people in my life will not feel like my everyday problems exceed the scope of their friendship and the capacity to deal with them, the abilities of ordinary individuals.
-If I need medical care, I will not be deterred from seeking it due to stigma. Health care packages are more likely to consider my needs basic and quintessential. I can openly discuss my medical ailments in social spaces without having to worry that I am shooting myself in the foot.
-I do not have to think twice about riding the bus, going to the dining hall, attending class, walking down the street, or ordering food from a venue because I do not struggle with these basic tasks.
-I can navigate the public domain on my own because I won't become so crippled by my emotions or thoughts that I need help filling out forms, answering questions, talking to people, or traveling.
-When I am forced to be in crowded, busy locations and potentially stressful situations, I don't legitimately fear for my life or struggle to maintain tenuous contact with reality.
-My ability to study or absorb basic sentences is not compromised by racing or intrusive thoughts.
-I have the luxury of going without sleep or altering my sleeping schedule if I have work to do or want to stay out with friends, because the state of sleep deprivation is not going to send me spiraling into a state of despondency, suicidality, mania, self-destructiveness, or psychosis.
-I will never have to worry about the episodic abolition of the most often cited requisites for humanity-rationality, stability, and capacity for higher thought-and thus, I will never be demoted to sub-human citizenry in either my own eyes or the eyes of others.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
What Do Grown Children Owe Parents Who Have Hurt Them?
They enter our world. They could be anyone. Murderers. Child molesters. Drug addicts. People with psychopathic tendencies. Full blown psychopaths. The works.
Why is it, then, that parents always try to tell us that we entered their world instead...that they were kind enough to put us up, and consequently, we owe them everything we have acquired and achieved? They can fuck up royally when they raise us, but we are obligated to at least feel indebted to their efforts. The band Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young reminds us that even when what they do is extremely hurtful, parents have our best interest at heart. (Well thank god they meant well. The insurance companies inquire about that when we're sitting on a couch with a tissue box for 50 minutes a week, every week, for the rest of our lives.)
In a similar fashion, many people want us to focus on what lies underneath this facade of uncaring and fucking up royally. But my focus is on why the facade is there to begin with.
When my friends say-with good intentions-that I should reconcile things with my parents, one of the first conclusions they jump to is that my parents love me; they just don’t always show it.
Well, no shit. Most parents genuinely love their children.
But if someone hurts you consistently, is that love useful anymore? Does it remain relevant? Is it something you can build a life around?
The answer to all of that is, “No.” This love fails us, much as a recommended course of treatment that sustains our lives but causes much pain and suffering along the way.
If I had a nickel for every time someone told me to mend familial bonds, I still wouldn’t be able to do anything that I had not been able to do when nickel-less, because let’s face it. Nickels are a useless currency nowadays.
Imagine the lack of utility that is inherent in a stack of nickels. Hell, you wouldn’t even be able to buy Advil from a vending machine or do your laundry in the Rutgers dorms.
You might end up going to the gas station twenty-five times in order to afford the former in nickels, and fifty to afford the latter. And when you finally get there, the automated coin machine only takes quarters.
Those nickels are my parents. Their love is useless to me relative to how much money I am going to have to spend in order to fix the amount of damage that they have inflicted.
They enter our world, and then they take over our lives. They are the antecedent that we did not ask for, but are obligated to enforce and uphold. They intrude upon our existence.
If a partner or significant were to invade our personal space, issue threats, and deal blows, our friends would order us to leave them instantly. There is no such thing as that kind of abuser having redeeming qualities.
But an abuser of the parental variety is always given a second chance. Why is that? Why do those same friends and even some therapists push survivors to patch things up with the people who destroyed our lives? Is it because these very people have bequeathed us with that life in the first place?
My question is this: if you administer the CPR that saves someone from drowning after you push them into a freezing lake, should you be still be convicted of trying to kill them? Hopefully, the answer will always be yes.
This is no different. Just because someone has conceived you does not mean that they are entitled to destroy you.
When you are robbed of something during childhood, your entire life will be spent grieving the loss of what could have been. The mourning process will never cease.
Those who have robbed you will always owe you something.
The question is whether or not what they took from you is worth pursuing once it has already been taken.
Your relationship with them will be tantamount to the power struggle implicit in a perennial lawsuit. By pursuing damages, the victim becomes even more damaged in the process.
Undoubtedly, you decide to stick around into adulthood because on some level, you still feel as though you require their approval in order to carry on. Before long, you become possessed by the need to be approved.
But love, like any other emotion, is primordial. We can never allow it to get the best of us. Our willingness to be devoted to another life unconditionally should arise out of relevance and because it is applicable, not because a cesspool of phylogenetically ancient emotions has started to leak into our higher seat of thought.
The moment they extend ownership instead of guidance, families make slaves out of free human beings and turn ancestry into a chain.
Those who have a greater proclivity for guilt are less likely to walk away from situations that cause them to be broken. I have no way of knowing if I will be one of those people. What I do know for now is that the love I feel for my friends is a deliberate love, one born to conscious volition and effort, not the transient passions that dictate the puppy love between school children or the obligatory devotion that the birth canal drills into a child.
Why is it, then, that parents always try to tell us that we entered their world instead...that they were kind enough to put us up, and consequently, we owe them everything we have acquired and achieved? They can fuck up royally when they raise us, but we are obligated to at least feel indebted to their efforts. The band Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young reminds us that even when what they do is extremely hurtful, parents have our best interest at heart. (Well thank god they meant well. The insurance companies inquire about that when we're sitting on a couch with a tissue box for 50 minutes a week, every week, for the rest of our lives.)
In a similar fashion, many people want us to focus on what lies underneath this facade of uncaring and fucking up royally. But my focus is on why the facade is there to begin with.
When my friends say-with good intentions-that I should reconcile things with my parents, one of the first conclusions they jump to is that my parents love me; they just don’t always show it.
Well, no shit. Most parents genuinely love their children.
But if someone hurts you consistently, is that love useful anymore? Does it remain relevant? Is it something you can build a life around?
The answer to all of that is, “No.” This love fails us, much as a recommended course of treatment that sustains our lives but causes much pain and suffering along the way.
If I had a nickel for every time someone told me to mend familial bonds, I still wouldn’t be able to do anything that I had not been able to do when nickel-less, because let’s face it. Nickels are a useless currency nowadays.
Imagine the lack of utility that is inherent in a stack of nickels. Hell, you wouldn’t even be able to buy Advil from a vending machine or do your laundry in the Rutgers dorms.
You might end up going to the gas station twenty-five times in order to afford the former in nickels, and fifty to afford the latter. And when you finally get there, the automated coin machine only takes quarters.
Those nickels are my parents. Their love is useless to me relative to how much money I am going to have to spend in order to fix the amount of damage that they have inflicted.
They enter our world, and then they take over our lives. They are the antecedent that we did not ask for, but are obligated to enforce and uphold. They intrude upon our existence.
If a partner or significant were to invade our personal space, issue threats, and deal blows, our friends would order us to leave them instantly. There is no such thing as that kind of abuser having redeeming qualities.
But an abuser of the parental variety is always given a second chance. Why is that? Why do those same friends and even some therapists push survivors to patch things up with the people who destroyed our lives? Is it because these very people have bequeathed us with that life in the first place?
My question is this: if you administer the CPR that saves someone from drowning after you push them into a freezing lake, should you be still be convicted of trying to kill them? Hopefully, the answer will always be yes.
This is no different. Just because someone has conceived you does not mean that they are entitled to destroy you.
When you are robbed of something during childhood, your entire life will be spent grieving the loss of what could have been. The mourning process will never cease.
Those who have robbed you will always owe you something.
The question is whether or not what they took from you is worth pursuing once it has already been taken.
Your relationship with them will be tantamount to the power struggle implicit in a perennial lawsuit. By pursuing damages, the victim becomes even more damaged in the process.
Undoubtedly, you decide to stick around into adulthood because on some level, you still feel as though you require their approval in order to carry on. Before long, you become possessed by the need to be approved.
But love, like any other emotion, is primordial. We can never allow it to get the best of us. Our willingness to be devoted to another life unconditionally should arise out of relevance and because it is applicable, not because a cesspool of phylogenetically ancient emotions has started to leak into our higher seat of thought.
The moment they extend ownership instead of guidance, families make slaves out of free human beings and turn ancestry into a chain.
Those who have a greater proclivity for guilt are less likely to walk away from situations that cause them to be broken. I have no way of knowing if I will be one of those people. What I do know for now is that the love I feel for my friends is a deliberate love, one born to conscious volition and effort, not the transient passions that dictate the puppy love between school children or the obligatory devotion that the birth canal drills into a child.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Please Support My Important Personal Decision
Today, I picked up a Kurt Vonnegut novel and read leisurely for the first time in ages. Omnivorously, I absorbed the ideas, and all the while, I could feel my neurons generating useful abstractions. The cobwebs, no longer silent, extolled what I had to say. In that instant, a being of intellectual merit emerged from the wreckage of phylogenetically ancient needs that had threatened for months to consume me with their nothingness.
A semester's worth of irremediable and agonizing mental health issues has made me grow weary of echoing evolutionary sentiments. I want to be human again, not a hominid with impulses.
No longer can I allow the incremental nature of the civil right’s movement to pile up on my shoulders. Tetris is a terminal illness from which I must abdicate responsibility.
Consequently, I have decided to step down from my internship with HRC, an action that completely contradicts my character in every way. It is scary when you partake in a life that you did not envision for yourself. But it is also comforting to know that you are capable of initiating action that is conducive to your health and ultimately, your happiness.
As soon as I walked out of that building, I experienced a growing inclination to make it in this world. The misery dissipated with each step that I took in the opposite direction. The snowball effect that had been accelerating my deterioration halted in its tracks.
I wrote the bulk of this sitting at a table in Bryant Park on 40th. As I wrote, a woman-presumably homeless-babbled incoherently about how we are all victims of brainwashing and mind control.
The harrowing realization that we share so much overlap in terms of statistical vulnerability-bouts spent with nowhere to live, battling mental health issues-served as a reminder that losing our rational elements is an event so very austere.
I must take care of my perspective, for it is all that we have in this world. It is our sole means of self-defense.
Right now, I must fix my perspective so that I can make a toast to wonderful things without alcohol and heal without being a victim. I want to spent this summer feeling inspired rather than insipid, dangerously sleep deprived, and useless.
Which is why I plan on doing something completely unpredictable and wonderful this summer. In addition to obtaining professional help, I think I am going to volunteer on a Native American reservation and go on a Spirit Journey. I am going to travel the country, explore, learn, and create a self that I am capable of finding later when times grow dark again.
It is time to reestablish the roots that my parents snapped like guitar strings and tap into the intravenous potential of my own path.
There are very few things in my life that I have quit; then again, my life has never really asked for much. All it asks for at this point is the feeling of safety, a reminder that no matter what happens, perspective will save you. How you choose to view things is more important than what actually occurs. You can alter your own universe instead of creating an alternative one.
I have decided to alter my universe. For once, I am going to take care of myself and devote a significant portion of my effort to healing.
There are so many options for caged birds that now can at least sing. No longer do I operate under the illusion that I am trapped. After all, even a bar can be bent in half by an unassuming body of water.
A semester's worth of irremediable and agonizing mental health issues has made me grow weary of echoing evolutionary sentiments. I want to be human again, not a hominid with impulses.
No longer can I allow the incremental nature of the civil right’s movement to pile up on my shoulders. Tetris is a terminal illness from which I must abdicate responsibility.
Consequently, I have decided to step down from my internship with HRC, an action that completely contradicts my character in every way. It is scary when you partake in a life that you did not envision for yourself. But it is also comforting to know that you are capable of initiating action that is conducive to your health and ultimately, your happiness.
As soon as I walked out of that building, I experienced a growing inclination to make it in this world. The misery dissipated with each step that I took in the opposite direction. The snowball effect that had been accelerating my deterioration halted in its tracks.
I wrote the bulk of this sitting at a table in Bryant Park on 40th. As I wrote, a woman-presumably homeless-babbled incoherently about how we are all victims of brainwashing and mind control.
The harrowing realization that we share so much overlap in terms of statistical vulnerability-bouts spent with nowhere to live, battling mental health issues-served as a reminder that losing our rational elements is an event so very austere.
I must take care of my perspective, for it is all that we have in this world. It is our sole means of self-defense.
Right now, I must fix my perspective so that I can make a toast to wonderful things without alcohol and heal without being a victim. I want to spent this summer feeling inspired rather than insipid, dangerously sleep deprived, and useless.
Which is why I plan on doing something completely unpredictable and wonderful this summer. In addition to obtaining professional help, I think I am going to volunteer on a Native American reservation and go on a Spirit Journey. I am going to travel the country, explore, learn, and create a self that I am capable of finding later when times grow dark again.
It is time to reestablish the roots that my parents snapped like guitar strings and tap into the intravenous potential of my own path.
There are very few things in my life that I have quit; then again, my life has never really asked for much. All it asks for at this point is the feeling of safety, a reminder that no matter what happens, perspective will save you. How you choose to view things is more important than what actually occurs. You can alter your own universe instead of creating an alternative one.
I have decided to alter my universe. For once, I am going to take care of myself and devote a significant portion of my effort to healing.
There are so many options for caged birds that now can at least sing. No longer do I operate under the illusion that I am trapped. After all, even a bar can be bent in half by an unassuming body of water.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
The Life of the Activist
In theory, civil rights are unalienable, or something to that effect. So long as you slide out of a cervix onto U.S. soil-and your parents have done the same-then the lofty ideals of the Constitution will present themselves to you.
In practice, it's a bit more like chutes and ladders. And you slide into more sliding.
The bottom of the chute resembles the very groups that you are fighting for; it looks invisible, much like them.
There is no end in sight when you are always standing. You stand outside, rain or shine. You stand up to the slurs that are thrown not in your general direction, but at yourself. And then you must stand, all day long, until the pavement upon which you perch has been incorporated into your very ankles.
Civil rights movements are so very incremental. As I have previously stated, "I see now how unbelievably hard people at HRC work to garner support so that they can pay for lawyers, lobbyists, and advertising, simply so that they aren't outnumbered by right wing organizations 5:1. It thoroughly disgusts me that ENDA has been introduced in every Congress since 1994 (with the exception of the 109th) and that similar legislation has been introduced since 1974, and it's STILL legal to fire someone in 29 states for being LGB and 34 to fire someone for being trans. I can't even wrap my mind around how many people must have come before me, working their asses off, pouring hours, days, weeks, months, and years into this effort, and we still don't have these fucking basic rights. It's so demoralizing."
And so, I am quickly learning that only certain types of people can be activists. For starters, they absolutely must be passionate about the cause. My two directors each work seventy-six hours a week, and literally don't have lives. I can't even imagine how dedicated they must be. It is a humbling realization.
If they are as disillusioned and jaded as I already am, they do an impeccable job of concealing it. That alone would be impressive.
I wonder how the activist manages to convert tedium, borderline poverty, and dejection into romanticism. How are they capable of adjusting their attitudes so that they are able to survive the opposition they face daily? What frequency do they tap into that sustains their longevity?
At first, I thought that it might be possible to find empowerment through humor. So in my head, I attempted to turn every negative interaction with a stranger into an opportunity for stand up.
"Gay need Jesus."
Gay smash.
"Oh. I'm self-employed. And I don't discriminate against myself."
Haha. Very funny. Actually, wait, no. You should keep your day job, you talentless soul.
"Do you have a minute for gay rights?"
"Uh-oh."
Spaghettios. Anyone ever notice how they look like assholes? Now I see this guy's point. Gay rights do elicit an "uh-oh." And we can't be serving our five-year-olds anal sex in a can. It's just not right.
"Fuck you, faggot."
Fuck you too! But only if we can invite David Bowie, Mick Jagger, and the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Because gay people are into all of that at the same time. The rumors are true.
"I'm not gay!"
Not even for James Dean? It's not a bad place to start. And he probably wouldn't complain.
"We're working to end discrimination against gay and transgender people in the workplace."
"What? Why would you want to do that?"
Same reason you're allowed to have a face, even though you shouldn't be.
"HRC partners give a small monthly contribution."
"Wait. I'm straight. I'm not a member."
"You don't have to be gay to be a member!"
It's a five star club and we will give you free towels with Meryl Streep's face stitched onto the front. Aren't you thrilled about being able to bask in the exclusivity?
And then, I saw that there were some positive encounters interspersed with all of the daunting effort. There was the guy who looked like a broey straight douche fuck, but was actually only straight, and thought it was ridiculous that anyone should be denied rights simply based on who they are. There was the young woman who, in spite of being soaked, exhausted, and broke, said that she would at least stop to hear hear what I had to say because her background in social work had made her sensitive to the plight of disadvantaged groups. There was the adorable old man whose progressive views completely defied what I was (erroneously) expecting from someone his age. There was a young man in a yellow sweater who did not know much about LGBT issues but was completely on board with all human beings having basic rights. And then there was the man with a thick Scottish accent, a shirt that said "Blow Me" above an image of bagpipes, and an affinity for the cause that was so infectious, it must have paralleled my own. He gave me $20 and ardently thanked me for what I was doing.
This is why I kind of feel like I'm in the LGBT military. I'm miserable without detesting what I am doing. Never in a million years could I use the word "hate" in reference to the type of work that I must engage in. This is why that, in spite of how taxing this effort is on every nerve in my body, I will never stop being a part of it. I honestly believe that what I am doing is important, and-in a sense of the word that artificially inflates the value of my own opinion-right.
I also know that what I am doing is the only path to legislative success. Much like when I experienced major trepidation prior to taking testosterone, I realize that the only way out is through.
And the activists that get the job done can only make it with the help of ordinary, average people. Many of the services that we take for granted, such as those that are provided by Planned Parenthood, are only available to us because activists are willing to do the grunt work that makes it possible for them to exist at all.
Whenever you are out on the streets of the city and make the decision that the gym you are headed to takes precedence over what the binder-equipped activist has to say, you undermine the urgency of legislative action and make it that much more difficult for us to overcome the opposition of groups like Focus on the Family and Christian Coalition, organizations that contribute on a weekly basis to discrimination. Freedom-unfortunately-is a marketplace, and it is only by treating ideas as commodities and exchangeable assets that must leave the lips of one and enter the ears of another that our liberty will have any value.
However, we don't only need the finances that give us the sustained and ongoing grassroots support that are required in order for every single campaign to be a success. We desperately need your time of day.
When you stare straight ahead as if the activist is not there, and walk right on by, our intrinsic motivation to do what it is that we do on a daily basis becomes ghostly, as well.
All it takes is one positive interaction to boost the morale of someone who has been standing up, against, and out, all day long.
That basic kindness goes a long way...the entire length of the Statue of Liberty's cervix, actually, just to be clear, in no uncertain terms.
In practice, it's a bit more like chutes and ladders. And you slide into more sliding.
The bottom of the chute resembles the very groups that you are fighting for; it looks invisible, much like them.
There is no end in sight when you are always standing. You stand outside, rain or shine. You stand up to the slurs that are thrown not in your general direction, but at yourself. And then you must stand, all day long, until the pavement upon which you perch has been incorporated into your very ankles.
Civil rights movements are so very incremental. As I have previously stated, "I see now how unbelievably hard people at HRC work to garner support so that they can pay for lawyers, lobbyists, and advertising, simply so that they aren't outnumbered by right wing organizations 5:1. It thoroughly disgusts me that ENDA has been introduced in every Congress since 1994 (with the exception of the 109th) and that similar legislation has been introduced since 1974, and it's STILL legal to fire someone in 29 states for being LGB and 34 to fire someone for being trans. I can't even wrap my mind around how many people must have come before me, working their asses off, pouring hours, days, weeks, months, and years into this effort, and we still don't have these fucking basic rights. It's so demoralizing."
And so, I am quickly learning that only certain types of people can be activists. For starters, they absolutely must be passionate about the cause. My two directors each work seventy-six hours a week, and literally don't have lives. I can't even imagine how dedicated they must be. It is a humbling realization.
If they are as disillusioned and jaded as I already am, they do an impeccable job of concealing it. That alone would be impressive.
I wonder how the activist manages to convert tedium, borderline poverty, and dejection into romanticism. How are they capable of adjusting their attitudes so that they are able to survive the opposition they face daily? What frequency do they tap into that sustains their longevity?
At first, I thought that it might be possible to find empowerment through humor. So in my head, I attempted to turn every negative interaction with a stranger into an opportunity for stand up.
"Gay need Jesus."
Gay smash.
"Oh. I'm self-employed. And I don't discriminate against myself."
Haha. Very funny. Actually, wait, no. You should keep your day job, you talentless soul.
"Do you have a minute for gay rights?"
"Uh-oh."
Spaghettios. Anyone ever notice how they look like assholes? Now I see this guy's point. Gay rights do elicit an "uh-oh." And we can't be serving our five-year-olds anal sex in a can. It's just not right.
"Fuck you, faggot."
Fuck you too! But only if we can invite David Bowie, Mick Jagger, and the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Because gay people are into all of that at the same time. The rumors are true.
"I'm not gay!"
Not even for James Dean? It's not a bad place to start. And he probably wouldn't complain.
"We're working to end discrimination against gay and transgender people in the workplace."
"What? Why would you want to do that?"
Same reason you're allowed to have a face, even though you shouldn't be.
"HRC partners give a small monthly contribution."
"Wait. I'm straight. I'm not a member."
"You don't have to be gay to be a member!"
It's a five star club and we will give you free towels with Meryl Streep's face stitched onto the front. Aren't you thrilled about being able to bask in the exclusivity?
And then, I saw that there were some positive encounters interspersed with all of the daunting effort. There was the guy who looked like a broey straight douche fuck, but was actually only straight, and thought it was ridiculous that anyone should be denied rights simply based on who they are. There was the young woman who, in spite of being soaked, exhausted, and broke, said that she would at least stop to hear hear what I had to say because her background in social work had made her sensitive to the plight of disadvantaged groups. There was the adorable old man whose progressive views completely defied what I was (erroneously) expecting from someone his age. There was a young man in a yellow sweater who did not know much about LGBT issues but was completely on board with all human beings having basic rights. And then there was the man with a thick Scottish accent, a shirt that said "Blow Me" above an image of bagpipes, and an affinity for the cause that was so infectious, it must have paralleled my own. He gave me $20 and ardently thanked me for what I was doing.
This is why I kind of feel like I'm in the LGBT military. I'm miserable without detesting what I am doing. Never in a million years could I use the word "hate" in reference to the type of work that I must engage in. This is why that, in spite of how taxing this effort is on every nerve in my body, I will never stop being a part of it. I honestly believe that what I am doing is important, and-in a sense of the word that artificially inflates the value of my own opinion-right.
I also know that what I am doing is the only path to legislative success. Much like when I experienced major trepidation prior to taking testosterone, I realize that the only way out is through.
And the activists that get the job done can only make it with the help of ordinary, average people. Many of the services that we take for granted, such as those that are provided by Planned Parenthood, are only available to us because activists are willing to do the grunt work that makes it possible for them to exist at all.
Whenever you are out on the streets of the city and make the decision that the gym you are headed to takes precedence over what the binder-equipped activist has to say, you undermine the urgency of legislative action and make it that much more difficult for us to overcome the opposition of groups like Focus on the Family and Christian Coalition, organizations that contribute on a weekly basis to discrimination. Freedom-unfortunately-is a marketplace, and it is only by treating ideas as commodities and exchangeable assets that must leave the lips of one and enter the ears of another that our liberty will have any value.
However, we don't only need the finances that give us the sustained and ongoing grassroots support that are required in order for every single campaign to be a success. We desperately need your time of day.
When you stare straight ahead as if the activist is not there, and walk right on by, our intrinsic motivation to do what it is that we do on a daily basis becomes ghostly, as well.
All it takes is one positive interaction to boost the morale of someone who has been standing up, against, and out, all day long.
That basic kindness goes a long way...the entire length of the Statue of Liberty's cervix, actually, just to be clear, in no uncertain terms.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Why Marriage Equality Is No Longer My Cause
Yesterday, I posted the following status:
"Dear Civil Rights Movement,
Please. Guide me in the right direction this summer while I work for HRC. Help me to reconcile my disillusionment with the neoliberal/albelist/classist/racially unjust/trans exclusive LGB"T" movement and its emphasis on assimilation as a determinant of respectability and equal protection with my faith that the same pragmatic approaches and principles that worked so many years ago will once again motivate genuine social reform. I am torn between promoting change from the inside slowly but surely and the knowledge that I will be enabling an agenda which focuses on the privileged majority and ignores those whose very existence obfuscates its image to the masses..."
That status was triggered by my escalating resentment with a nearly seven year long career in queer activism that has seen one issue beaten to death, and, well...to be perfectly blunt, queer (mostly trans friends) actually beaten and their access to justice occluded by the lack of visibility that is perpetuated by the umbrella LGB movement.
A few weeks ago, one of my closest friends attempted suicide. A lot of his distress resulted from his status as a trans person. To receive the news was nothing short of devastating. I realized to my chagrin not long after that he had joined what I like to call the "How The Other Half Lives" club. Since 50% of trans individuals attempt suicide by their 20th birthday, I use this term to denote those of us who incredulously ask our trans brothers and sisters who do not try to take their lives, "Really? How does the other half actually live? How do they do it when this world is so inhospitable to our existence?!"
Today, I received a Facebook message that did it for me. This message was sent by a trans friend who has already been severely taken advantage of by the system in regards to his trans related health care. He is commenting about Rainbow Perspectives at Rutgers and how invaluable it is, since he faced many difficulties at his old school due to his trans status:
"I would have had a much higher chance of being able to graduate living in that situation. I feel like such a failure dropping out but I just can't live like this anymore. I'm really happy that situations like your exist and I really hope that more students are given that option. I'm so happy that you are where you are. I'm sure you'll use your education to do great things and I hope to see you this weekend."
It made me cry. It still makes me cry that HRC employees made trans activists remove the trans flag from the view of cameras at a protest in Washington D.C. that had been organized by those who wanted to see DOMA and Prop 8 rescinded.
What moves me so much about the Freedom Rides of 1961 is that both black and white people were willing to die so that all Americans could have rights.
But it is 2013 and I feel like I am watching my trans family drop like flies around me. I am sick of feeling as though there is something so egregiously wrong with our identity that those in power are ashamed to expand legislation in our name.
They hone in on our protection-worthy status without even bothering to know us as people, and by focusing only on our vulnerability, and not the damaging perceptions that cause others to target us in the first place, we become this burden, a Scarlet Letter facing a situation so grave that the LGB group begrudgingly adopts our cause in the name of purported fairness.
But they are not really willing to die for us, and with us, as I undoubtedly would have been willing to do for my black brothers and sisters, provided that I had been born in the 1960's and able to participate in the Freedom Rides.
At this point, we remain a knob of disenfranchised and severely disadvantaged nerve endings that are easier for those in power to amputate than repair.
This post is for every trans person I have met who has has attempted suicide (nearly all of them), who has been homeless for who they are, who has been physically or sexually injured because of who they are, who has turned to sex work or lives in poverty due to employment discrimination, and who has cried in despondency before Google search results that yield no promise of conditions improving for trans individuals anytime soon.
And this is why I have pretty much stopped giving a shit about marriage equality.
"Dear Civil Rights Movement,
Please. Guide me in the right direction this summer while I work for HRC. Help me to reconcile my disillusionment with the neoliberal/albelist/classist/racially unjust/trans exclusive LGB"T" movement and its emphasis on assimilation as a determinant of respectability and equal protection with my faith that the same pragmatic approaches and principles that worked so many years ago will once again motivate genuine social reform. I am torn between promoting change from the inside slowly but surely and the knowledge that I will be enabling an agenda which focuses on the privileged majority and ignores those whose very existence obfuscates its image to the masses..."
That status was triggered by my escalating resentment with a nearly seven year long career in queer activism that has seen one issue beaten to death, and, well...to be perfectly blunt, queer (mostly trans friends) actually beaten and their access to justice occluded by the lack of visibility that is perpetuated by the umbrella LGB movement.
A few weeks ago, one of my closest friends attempted suicide. A lot of his distress resulted from his status as a trans person. To receive the news was nothing short of devastating. I realized to my chagrin not long after that he had joined what I like to call the "How The Other Half Lives" club. Since 50% of trans individuals attempt suicide by their 20th birthday, I use this term to denote those of us who incredulously ask our trans brothers and sisters who do not try to take their lives, "Really? How does the other half actually live? How do they do it when this world is so inhospitable to our existence?!"
Today, I received a Facebook message that did it for me. This message was sent by a trans friend who has already been severely taken advantage of by the system in regards to his trans related health care. He is commenting about Rainbow Perspectives at Rutgers and how invaluable it is, since he faced many difficulties at his old school due to his trans status:
"I would have had a much higher chance of being able to graduate living in that situation. I feel like such a failure dropping out but I just can't live like this anymore. I'm really happy that situations like your exist and I really hope that more students are given that option. I'm so happy that you are where you are. I'm sure you'll use your education to do great things and I hope to see you this weekend."
It made me cry. It still makes me cry that HRC employees made trans activists remove the trans flag from the view of cameras at a protest in Washington D.C. that had been organized by those who wanted to see DOMA and Prop 8 rescinded.
What moves me so much about the Freedom Rides of 1961 is that both black and white people were willing to die so that all Americans could have rights.
But it is 2013 and I feel like I am watching my trans family drop like flies around me. I am sick of feeling as though there is something so egregiously wrong with our identity that those in power are ashamed to expand legislation in our name.
They hone in on our protection-worthy status without even bothering to know us as people, and by focusing only on our vulnerability, and not the damaging perceptions that cause others to target us in the first place, we become this burden, a Scarlet Letter facing a situation so grave that the LGB group begrudgingly adopts our cause in the name of purported fairness.
But they are not really willing to die for us, and with us, as I undoubtedly would have been willing to do for my black brothers and sisters, provided that I had been born in the 1960's and able to participate in the Freedom Rides.
At this point, we remain a knob of disenfranchised and severely disadvantaged nerve endings that are easier for those in power to amputate than repair.
This post is for every trans person I have met who has has attempted suicide (nearly all of them), who has been homeless for who they are, who has been physically or sexually injured because of who they are, who has turned to sex work or lives in poverty due to employment discrimination, and who has cried in despondency before Google search results that yield no promise of conditions improving for trans individuals anytime soon.
And this is why I have pretty much stopped giving a shit about marriage equality.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
What Changing My Name Means To Me
I always thought that being transgender was such a hindrance to my humanity. It seemed that all of the time, money, energy, and emotional faculties that I invested in the tenets of survival reduced me to nothing more than needs and a contempt that turned every act of improvement into a hybrid of new beginnings and an abyss that would never be filled.
Over time, the extra steps that I had to take in order to assert who I really was became infused with a skepticism that dampened my passionate response to existence. The Dionysian spirit of self-empowerment decomposed as the methodical certainty which I so desperately sought receded with the distance of a repeating decimal. I knew exactly what I needed to do in order to live. But every fiancial barrier, primary care protocol, and suggested guideline (note how they are promulgated by cisgendered people, never trans folk) which demanded that I be soluble in someone else's standards and more palpable to the masses only served to reduce me to a set of criteria that could be used by others in order to discern the authenticity of my identity.
Within the constraints of the contemporary Trans Rights movement, I was always made to feel as though my gender identity and the perennial struggle to achieve the secondary sex characteristics that my brain mandated I develop at all costs was a burden. The great lengths, the hurdles, and the leaps and bounds seemed to detract from who I was-or rather, who I could have been-and necessitated that I be a pioneer before I was a person, a patient and a diagnostic category before an individual.
My feelings have changed entirely. Today, after assuming a name that I paid for with my own hard earned money and imbued with rich personal significance and history, I realize more than ever that being transgender is a source of pride and a uniqueness so profound that I cannot help but rejoice at having been...well, born this way.
While many people spring out of Zeus's forehead, their gender identity fully-formed and intact, I had to work ten times as hard simply to be recognized as male. I realize now that I am a stronger person, a more resilient person, and a more empathetic person precisely because my armor germinated as a product of hard work and sacrifice.
Every dollar of my own money that I put towards transitioning and every doctor's appointment, counseling session, and support group that I attended by myself enriched, rather than poisioned, my character.
This journey forced me to be dependent on other sources of identity, ones that decorated a previously untrodden path, and I am so much better for it.
My unique journey has afforded me the opportunity to earn, and I mean REALLY EARN a title, an affirmation, a symbolic gesture. I call myself "Jordan" after "Jordan Todessey," the person who plays the transgender character "Adam" on the show Degrassi. He was introduced to the show during the summer when I realized that the term "transgender" applied to me. I decided to assume the middle name "Wayne" after my grandmother's brother, a beautiful human being who founded the first gay synnagouge in Manhattan and whose humor, charm, and kindness radiates our familial history with the light of his life in spite of the darkness and inner turmoil that emanated from his closeted status. Enamored by the type of man that he was and firm in my conviction that this was the type of man that I aspired to be, I chose to assume his name as part of my own so that I could carry him in my heart, always.
By choosing a name, I am able to disseminate a fundamental facet of myself to the world.
While others are fixated on finding the self, I, and countless other trans folk, are at liberty to CREATE a self, from scratch, devoid of even the most trivial of preconceived notions.
In a previous blog entry that I posted the night before I started using testosterone, I evaluated my transition through the lens of The Overman, a figure who, according to Friedrich Nietzsche, overcomes his humanity by creating a new set of morals under which he decides to live. The Overman is a self-creating figure, one who derives power through self-empowerment.
This is what I wrote:
"For a split second, I curse the scientific method, and that avenue in which we are analytic at every turn, because it has become more of an alleyway than an asset. It is a scene that incriminates, deprives us of blood, bruises us when we rebel, infringes risk upon us, and paves our road with regret instead of who we really are.
I am afraid, but I am also the Overman. I am, not less than a biological male, but something more than, something in addition to, and that in-addition-to is the implication of strength, courage, and empathy that I would not possess, had I not been born something other than a biological male.
The Overman. I have decided to challenge the gender binary. We are taught to leave the world a better place than when we found it, to venerate those who live in a manner that is consistent with altruism. But I venerate those who live in a manner that is consistent with entropy, those who leave the world in an increasingly chaotic state. It would be a privilege to add disorder to the universe, to expend from the system every iota of wisdom that we take for granted, to compel other people to mark up and annotate the nuanced gender spectrum, and ask that they leave it acronym-laden."
I spoke so highly of these ideals without fully believing that their weight resounded inside of me. I now understand that it was only by experiencing life in a transgendered body that their true value could be actualized.
I wrote,
"My beliefs will rub their decibels against each other like diamonds that don't have the heart to tarnish the surface of something that they can sympathize with. Everything that is important enough to define me will endure."
I wrote that. I wrote about being so steadfast in who I was that inner conflict could only make me stronger.
Now, I BELIEVE that.
Over time, the extra steps that I had to take in order to assert who I really was became infused with a skepticism that dampened my passionate response to existence. The Dionysian spirit of self-empowerment decomposed as the methodical certainty which I so desperately sought receded with the distance of a repeating decimal. I knew exactly what I needed to do in order to live. But every fiancial barrier, primary care protocol, and suggested guideline (note how they are promulgated by cisgendered people, never trans folk) which demanded that I be soluble in someone else's standards and more palpable to the masses only served to reduce me to a set of criteria that could be used by others in order to discern the authenticity of my identity.
Within the constraints of the contemporary Trans Rights movement, I was always made to feel as though my gender identity and the perennial struggle to achieve the secondary sex characteristics that my brain mandated I develop at all costs was a burden. The great lengths, the hurdles, and the leaps and bounds seemed to detract from who I was-or rather, who I could have been-and necessitated that I be a pioneer before I was a person, a patient and a diagnostic category before an individual.
My feelings have changed entirely. Today, after assuming a name that I paid for with my own hard earned money and imbued with rich personal significance and history, I realize more than ever that being transgender is a source of pride and a uniqueness so profound that I cannot help but rejoice at having been...well, born this way.
While many people spring out of Zeus's forehead, their gender identity fully-formed and intact, I had to work ten times as hard simply to be recognized as male. I realize now that I am a stronger person, a more resilient person, and a more empathetic person precisely because my armor germinated as a product of hard work and sacrifice.
Every dollar of my own money that I put towards transitioning and every doctor's appointment, counseling session, and support group that I attended by myself enriched, rather than poisioned, my character.
This journey forced me to be dependent on other sources of identity, ones that decorated a previously untrodden path, and I am so much better for it.
My unique journey has afforded me the opportunity to earn, and I mean REALLY EARN a title, an affirmation, a symbolic gesture. I call myself "Jordan" after "Jordan Todessey," the person who plays the transgender character "Adam" on the show Degrassi. He was introduced to the show during the summer when I realized that the term "transgender" applied to me. I decided to assume the middle name "Wayne" after my grandmother's brother, a beautiful human being who founded the first gay synnagouge in Manhattan and whose humor, charm, and kindness radiates our familial history with the light of his life in spite of the darkness and inner turmoil that emanated from his closeted status. Enamored by the type of man that he was and firm in my conviction that this was the type of man that I aspired to be, I chose to assume his name as part of my own so that I could carry him in my heart, always.
By choosing a name, I am able to disseminate a fundamental facet of myself to the world.
While others are fixated on finding the self, I, and countless other trans folk, are at liberty to CREATE a self, from scratch, devoid of even the most trivial of preconceived notions.
In a previous blog entry that I posted the night before I started using testosterone, I evaluated my transition through the lens of The Overman, a figure who, according to Friedrich Nietzsche, overcomes his humanity by creating a new set of morals under which he decides to live. The Overman is a self-creating figure, one who derives power through self-empowerment.
This is what I wrote:
"For a split second, I curse the scientific method, and that avenue in which we are analytic at every turn, because it has become more of an alleyway than an asset. It is a scene that incriminates, deprives us of blood, bruises us when we rebel, infringes risk upon us, and paves our road with regret instead of who we really are.
I am afraid, but I am also the Overman. I am, not less than a biological male, but something more than, something in addition to, and that in-addition-to is the implication of strength, courage, and empathy that I would not possess, had I not been born something other than a biological male.
The Overman. I have decided to challenge the gender binary. We are taught to leave the world a better place than when we found it, to venerate those who live in a manner that is consistent with altruism. But I venerate those who live in a manner that is consistent with entropy, those who leave the world in an increasingly chaotic state. It would be a privilege to add disorder to the universe, to expend from the system every iota of wisdom that we take for granted, to compel other people to mark up and annotate the nuanced gender spectrum, and ask that they leave it acronym-laden."
I spoke so highly of these ideals without fully believing that their weight resounded inside of me. I now understand that it was only by experiencing life in a transgendered body that their true value could be actualized.
I wrote,
"My beliefs will rub their decibels against each other like diamonds that don't have the heart to tarnish the surface of something that they can sympathize with. Everything that is important enough to define me will endure."
I wrote that. I wrote about being so steadfast in who I was that inner conflict could only make me stronger.
Now, I BELIEVE that.
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