Of "Little" Words; of Love and Want; or Why I am a Jew Who Frequently Attends a UCC Church

Hello My Dear One,

It has been awhile since I last wrote, and I apologize for the interruption in correspondence.  Forgive me as well if I write more than usual, because I have left so much unsaid these past days.  I feel as though I have a synaptic sort of gap in my creativity.  The ideas are there, but the ability to communicate them isn't firing correctly.  So, I've tried to bring together as much as I can, yet it's never exactly what I want.  And that's the heart of the matter right there, what I want.  It's true.  I want, I want, I want.  I always want more or less than what I have.  I want more stuff, less stress, more money, less debt.  I want security and safety, and I want excitement and fun.  I want to experience as much as I possibly can, yet I want the predictability and routine that is the backbone of my existence.  I want.

Some months back I spent a night with some dear friends, one old friend, "S"of 25 years, a new friend "T", my best friend my wife, and an old soul friend "IR" whom I have a "casual but deep" relationship with.  IR is a  man who shares a love for Jewish learning and reflection, for relationship with something larger than ourselves, and for serving the world in ways that are truly unexpected.  He is a lay Reb, a one time lawyer, a performer, a writer, a musician, a son, a husband, an uncle, a questioner, and all around mensch.   

That night we had all been together at one of IR's performances in the sleepy little resort town that S and I grew up in.   The show was hysterically funny, ridiculously relevant, and musically phenomenal, but one song in particular has always been a favorite of mine.  It deals with the desire to have, and to be something that will fulfill temporary earthly desire, but will ultimately lead to death when the emptiness of the want is met.  It is also set within a meticulously crafted four part a cappella song, sung by four talented male performers dressed in full drag.  Did I mention that some of my dear friends are enormously talented political satirists who perform biting attacks on current events, the human condition, and the implications of religion upon a theoretically secular world?  Did I mention that they are also known as The Kinsey Sicks?  Well, if I didn't, now you know.  And you should find them online www.kinseysicks.com, on Youtube, or live in concert, and then you should buy every one of their albums and listen to them as many times as you can.  Oh, and remember to buy a t-shirt and a magnet too.

At any rate, the The Kinsey Sicks' song that was performed, "I Want to be a Dead Princess"* was written shortly after the death of Princess Diana.  The song tells of a person's want to be a "dead princess," i.e. revered, cherished, idolized, and perhaps immortalized at the highest peak in their lifetime.  The verses ask for a fame that will encompass the neediness that is eating away at the core of the vocalist(s), while the chorus and the ending repeat the phrase "I want."  And that is the place of pain and brokenness that resonates most deeply for me.

My wants, my desires to be adored, even at the cost of the security of those around me, even my own life, seem to pour out of me when I least expect them.  And as I think about this message of exchanging life for human praise, I am reminded of the daily deaths that we all endure as we suffer injustice, human frailty, and human nature.  We choose to let our emotional and psychological neediness trump the needs of others.  When I buy something I want, something that has no inherent usefulness to my life, be it an original Da Vinci or a plastic thingy from the dollar store, I have made a statement to myself, my neighbors, and my G-d, that my wants are more important than anyone else's needs.  I want.  


As I think about that sentence, those two words, I want, my mind travels to another set of words, those "three little words," "I love you." Those words that can be too quickly blurted out or too infrequently breathed, into the ears and hearts of those around us. "I love you," three little words.  How intriguing it is that we label them as such, little.  There is nothing little about love.  There is nothing little about I, or you, or the relationship we create when those words are spoken.  Think even briefly of Martin Buber's seminal work, "I and Thou."  Yet, somehow we feel pressed to minimize them, their meaning, their value, their vulnerability.  We are afraid of not hearing them back.  We are afraid of what a relationship of love might actually mean.  We make small that which is too big for us to handle.  Much the way we do when we speak of G-d, or the relationships we are called into when we let G-d be within our hearts, our minds, and our souls.  We confine love to create the illusion that we are in control of forces that are uncontrollable.

I believe that this matter of control is a core issue for many people and their relationship with G-d.  It is hard enough to feel accepted by another human being, even one who truly loves and accepts you unconditionally, the way my wife does, let alone with a deity, force, creator, G-d who may be seen as judge, jury, and jailer all in one.  Relationship with G-d requires a level of vulnerability that can be so overwhelming that we never even attempt such a relationship.  Being open to a G-d that has promised to love unconditionally, and to drastically change your life if you are willing, is to strip down to your barest soul and expose the wounds of a lifetime of pain.  Being in relationship with G-d is that process of revealing the brokenness, to G-d and to yourself.  It is also the process of letting go of that pain as we allow G-d to be within the pain.

So, instead of revealing the brokenness and allowing G-d to repair and replace the emptiness of my core self, I attempt to fill the spaces with the things I want on my own.  I seek out that which will temporarily gratify my neediness and my emptiness, giving relief to the pain I cover as I walk through life.  I want. 

And what I really want is a religious community in which to travel this journey with.  Unfortunately I live an hour away from any synagogue, Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, "non-denominational" or otherwise, so my need for a physical Jewish community is largely unmet.  Yes, I know and have Jewish friends in the area, yes I have Jewish family members, and yes I celebrate most all of the Jewish holy-days.  But its not the same.  Being a Jew, means being a Jew in community.  As an Eastern European Jew in particular, it means returning to our shtetl our village, to live our faith as a group, most often in conflict with the secular world around us.  It is a culture in unto itself, and it defines a large piece of who we are.  It is about finding solidarity in our otherness especially in comparison to the culture(s) we live in.  It is a community of faith, one that promises that we will be suppoerted in our joys, our triumphs, our disappointments, our sorrows, and our persecutions, both real and imagined.  Community.

But here's the catch, I am in fact a part of a faith community right here where I live, and I have travelled millions of miles with them throughout the past 15 years of my strange and wondrous journey.  And they are not a Jewish community.  Rather, they are self defined as a United Church of Christ, a christian church.  It is a  place where there are weekly explorations of the life of Jesus of Nazareth, and his ministry in Israel over 2000 years ago.  Yep, there is a cross on the altar, an enormous stained glass window with a very white looking man with long hair, flowing white robes, and a sheep above the altar.  There is christian iconography throughout the building.  There are excerpts of scripture posted on the walls.  There is a common understanding in the community that Jesus of Nazareth was and is the promised messiah of the Jewish people living in the Promised Land millennia ago.   And yet, they are the faith community that I return to over and over again.

Why?  Because I want the love of my wife, who is truly, and honestly a believing and practicing christian in the UCC.  I was there when she was confirmed as a teen.  I was there as she explored other traditions, but always came back to her roots.  And I  have been there as she has brought our sons into this community, taught them, and raised them with a rock solid foundation of what it means to be a loving, forgiving, and growing person of faith.  She has provided for our family a common faith to live in. 

Why?  Because, we need and want the love that we receive from the people who form this community.  We want to experience the love that we can share as a community.  And I want to be a part of a faith community, even if by definition it is not my own tradition's.  

And why do I frequently attend this UCC Church? Because every Sunday morning as the service begins the following words are spoken:

     "Whoever you are, and wherever you are on life's journey, you are welcome here."

And the most remarkable part is that they do mean it.  There are lakeside residents who belong to synagogues back home, who attend services every summer, sometimes more faithfully than the locals who straggle in only on Christmas and Easter.  There are people who identify in all manner of spiritual ways who attend on any given Sunday morning.  And I am one of them.  I am accepted, exactly for who I am, and for where I am on life's journey. 

And in the end, that's what I really want.  To enter into relationship, to want, to love, and to know that for all the vulnerability I will share with others and with G-d, I will be accepted as I am. 

 Thank you for accepting me as I continue on my journey.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

_______________________________________________________________

*http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/kinseysicks2#

Of a Lump in My Throat

Hello My Dear One,

I began writing while still hospitalized for a virulent bacterial infection, and although I am now back home safe and sound, I want you to hear what my thoughts were at the time, and what they are now.

I have been sitting here for days, in hospital, battling through a PeriTonsillar Abscess caused by a virulent strain of Strep A that attacked me nearly 2 weeks ago.  I have been pumped full of meds, had 2 CT scans, a procedure done at 10:00pm on a Sunday night with only a few shots of Lidocaine, a needle, a knife, some clamps, and the warning "Don't Move."  I have been on a restricted diet, monitored day and night, and have learned that apparently I don't breathe all of the time while I sleep.  And all of this because of a lump in my throat, a puss filled abscess on the back side of my left tonsil, that grew from 1cm to 2.5cm in less than 48 hours.  I have been subjected to a battery of tests, all because of a lump in my throat.

And all of this has led to a different lump in my throat, not a physical one, but a figurative one that is often described as the way one feels when faced with a sadness that is too great for initial speech.  We even refer to it as "getting choked up" in the U.S., when we are overcome with emotion that might make us cry.  Because here is the U.S. we are not as quick to show our sadness, particularly as men, and more so when in public.  We say that we are "choked up" because we cannot speak the words, or cry the tears when faced with the flood of real emotion in times of sorrow.  This to me is in itself a sadness, however I am just of guilty as this as most of those around me.

Now all of this could well lead into an exploration of cultural norms and mores, how men and women react differently to emotions, and what it means to be a member of a society that prizes violence and heroism over intimacy and relationship.

But I want instead to talk about the lumps in my throat.  I want to explain what has brought me to this place of a physical lump, and to the figurative one as well.  I want to explore the feelings that got me into all of this and also out of this.

I got sick with Strep A nearly 2 weeks ago, and I started a course of antibiotics almost immediately.  I felt a little better, tired, but better, and thought I might even be able to return to work at the end of the week.  But all too quickly I was much sicker, and I was failing fast.  After 2 emergency room visits I was sent to a larger hospital and began a lengthy process of recovery.

But I wondered, why did I grow this crazy puss filled thing in my throat in the first place.  Why me?  I know I have amazing skills at growing cysts, this is at least the 5th in the last 15 years, but really?  An abscess on a tonsil?  One that was growing at an alarming rate, and slowly blocking my airway?  I was literally getting choked up by this growth in my throat.

I knew that from a medical standpoint it was a potential that comes whenever someone has strep throat, and it can happen especially if there is a history of tonsillitis, and/or a weakened immune system, such as mine.  Having diabetes has always been a liability, but sometimes I forget how much of one it can be.  My health is often more at risk than others and I need to protect myself through preventative measures in a more aggressive fashion that I frequently do.

Further, I work in an elementary school and am exposed to all manner of bacteria, viruses, sickly kids, and other environmental health risks.  It can be a highly stressful position, where I never feel like I have enough time to complete everything I want to do in my day.  That sense of unfinished business can be trying at times no matter how much I try to walk away from it when I am not there.  And I never really stop thinking about the kids I work with.  I want to bring them my best self, my most creative ideas, and something that might make learning a little better, a little easier, a little more enjoyable than it has been in the past for them.  I want to engage them and make them lifelong learners too.

But even with all of these factors, I'm not sure I can blame this round of illness on much of any of that.  No, I think deep down that my own emotional conflicts over theological school, call, meeting the needs of my family, and ignoring my own health were the real culprits this time.  My inability to put my own physical, spiritual, emotional, and intellectual needs ahead of anything else is always detrimental to my body, as it decides to shut the whole system down to keep me from wreaking any more havoc on myself.  Just like the encapsulating cysts that I excel at growing, my body eventually encapsulates me in a cyst so that I too must be drained of the puss that I have accrued within my spirit.

Much like the physical abscess I had blocking my airway, my emotional airway was blocked by an unwillingness on my part to acknowledge that I was doing too much.  I had taken on projects, and work, and commitments I could in no way fulfill, and yet I tried to take on more.  From my innermost self that wants to be loved, I continue to put myself into those vicious circles of offering too much in return for too little.  Over extending myself is not truly a sign of flexibility or the ability to multitask, rather I see in my own life that it is merely a way of running oneself ragged and incapable of doing anything.

I was in so much denial about how overwhelmed I was that I had even stopped really caring for my diabetes.  I suspect that this a key player in my prolonged illness.  Diabetes is an autoimmune disorder, and when it is improperly managed, the body cannot respond to bacterial or viral attacks with enough strength to properly fight off the illness.  My blood glucose levels had been rising and my overall average was up as well.  I drank coffee laden with sugar, creamers, and sugary syrups.  I ate candy bars, donuts, cakes, cookies, and way to much protein.  I lowered my immunity and suffered the consequences.

But what about those figurative lumps in my throat?  Well, as I sat there, stuck in that bed, I began to see how much I missed my wife and children.  I realized how much I missed my work life.  I realized how much I missed my freedom to go to a grocery store and by some fresh fruit and vegetables.  I realized that I missed my life.  And that, that missing of my own life, was what brought the true lumps to my throat.

For nearly 40 years I have suffered from the belief that my existence was not truly important to the world, or even my own family's.  I didn't feel that my wife really needed me to exist, and of course she doesn't need me to exist per se, but to have a loving and fulfilling life we need each other.  Our existences are dependent upon the love that we create and share as two grown adults in the life altering bond of marriage.  We need each other.  And that emotion was overwhelming enough to bring a lump to my throat.

And so too, being a present, loving, nurturing father to my two magnificent sons.  Likewise my colleagues, my students, my friends, and the people with whom I share my stories of what it means to be intersex and transgender.  I meet each person exactly where they are and allow them the space to share with me their struggles and their triumphs.  What greater importance could there be in life?

And we have all been granted this opportunity.  We are given the gift of our lives to live into and share with others.  We are connected by our experiences, by our comings, and our goings in life.  We are connected by something as simple as a smile, or as profound as a lifelong relationship filled with hardships and joys that push us to be better people than we could have ever imagined.

Yet there is one more element to this magic, G-d.  Because I believe that it is the G-d outside of us, and the G-d within each of us that creates these opportunities to experience this brief flicker of time we have been granted.  And perhaps this brought the biggest lump to my throat.  The knowing that the G-d within me and the G-d within each housekeeping staff member, CNA, nurse, and doctor created a place of care, healing, and recovery for me, for my family, for my work, for my friends, and for the very people who cared for me during my illness became a truth that changed my life.  I mattered.  They mattered.  My existence here and now has meaning and value, and my absence would be a loss.

As a new week begins, I come to it with an appreciation for another day to be.
I am here, and my life has meaning.  Thanks be to G-d.

Thank you for having meaning in my life, in the lives of others, and for choosing to be a part of the lump in my throat.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

Of Call, Of Discernment, and of Teaching

Hello My Dear One,

It is now Autumn, the season that brings a cooler breath to our lungs, more vibrant colors to our eyes, and the needed space for a quieter reflection as the earth begins to prepare itself for the coming hibernation.  For many, this is a time of contentment, a time of settling into a deeper place that came with the activities of summer.  It is a time of discernment for all of us as we prioritize what we must do in order to make the coming months safe, warm, and nourishing in all ways possible.  It a season of planning ahead.

In my own days of fall, I am in the midst of a discernment process, one that I have experienced multiple times before and will undoubtedly repeat in years to come.  It is listening to my call to ministry and what exactly that call is.  It is a remarkably, and achingly difficult thing to do, to sort out my own emotions from my delusions, my desires from the needs of others, and whether the voice I hear is G-d's or my own.  This process is what gives us the ability to serve others the way that G-d wants us to, but only if we can truly, truly listen.  And for a person with mental health issues, well it is even trickier to know what to listen for.

So, I have once again explored the possibility of attending theological school.  I have even visited a campus and reveled in the academic opportunities and enjoyments that come with being in a graduate school setting.  I loved the camaraderie, the jokes, the intimacy, the theological discussions, and the hope for a deepened faith life and practice.  I was nearly giddy with the thrill of course work, readings, exegesis, and frozen yogurt runs at 11:00 at night.  Yes, the sheer exuberance that comes with academia for a lifelong learner, is like an alcoholic beverage to me.  I am intoxicated by the very potential for more study.

To make the letters even sweeter.

And I believe that as a Jew, this is normal.  It is, I suspect, an inborn calling within all who are members of the 12 tribes of Israel, to physically long for learning.  We get our first taste of the Aleph-Bet with actual honey, to make learning a sweet process, thus ensuring that we will want to continue.  It will also probably lead us to being diagnosed with some form of pre-diabetes or diabetes within our lifetimes, but so what? Being able to read is more important than a functional pancreas, right?

We become "men" and "women" at our Bar and Bat Mitzvahs when we have learned how to read Torah well enough to participate in Shabbat, speaking ancient words, sharing the sacred space where words take on meanings that we would otherwise not ascribe to them.  And in some communities we still gift the newest "adult" of our group with a fountain pen, to further impress upon them, and us, that reading, discussing, and writing about G-d is what makes us truly "grown-ups."  Funny story, one of my young cousins, herself preparing for her upcoming Bat Mitzvah, was attending a Shabbat service with all of us to celebrate my Uncle's 80th birthday.  After we celebrated the occasion during the service, my Uncle jokingly asked where the new fountain pen was, and my dear, sweet, modern cousin, asked in earnest, "What's a fountain pen?"  Apparently, we should have said something like a stylus for your iPad.

Heck, we even call our spiritual leaders, Rabbi, a word that means teacher.  It is as if Jews see the need for someone to provide educational opportunities in order to grow, as well as someone who can provide comfort during our times of trial.  And Rebs of old inspire and teach through the Talmud, a collection of explorations and answers to every possible life scenario, and most importantly at least 2 answers that completely contradict each other.  That's right, there are multiple answers to life's questions and there, codified in volumes of texts, is the very answer to the mystery of spirituality itself.  There is no one right answer.  We humans cannot grasp the enormity of G-d, and when we try to answer questions with an either or solution, we show our limitations as created beings.  With G-d there are no "either/or" answers to life, rather, it is "both/and."  Within the first few verses of Torah, in Genesis, the term for G-d used during the creation of humans is a plural, meaning the divine.  G-d is both/and, singular and plural, greater than the entire cosmos, yet within each atom that it is composed of.

So, in my current (perpetual) discernment process, I am seduced by the opportunity to delve again into the words that create meaning within my life.  I have a visceral response to the idea that I could spend hours upon hours sitting in a library, pouring over texts, writing, thinking, imagining, believing, and dreaming about what each letter could mean.  It's true, I would love a life of academia, filling my mind to the brim with every last bit of knowledge I could fit in there.

And yet.

And yet.

For as much as I have a call to learning,  I have a deeper call to teaching.  And of course the two calls are really one in the same, but it is how one chooses to live into them that can have remarkably different effects on the people around you.

If I choose to throw myself headlong into a world of academia, a world of abstraction, and a necessary laser like focus, I will likely lose the connection to my family, friends, and community as I become ensconced in my world of books.

If I choose to throw myself headlong into a world of teaching, a more concrete world, and a necessarily large world view, I will likely grow in my relationships, and have more to offer to those I love.

And, as the Talmud would offer up, both options are right, both options are wrong, and there are infinitely more options than those that I have created.

In my life today though, I know that for as much as I love academic challenges within higher education, I learn far more when I am teaching those who require a little more, a little extra, another set of eyes, or ears, or hands, or neurons in order to learn for themselves.  Everyday, every single day, I am blessed to be able to go to work, experience totally different world views from my own, and get hugs from people half my size.  Being an educator in an elementary school is the best thing I've ever done in my life, save for being a good husband and father.  Being a positive male role model for boys and girls who may not have one is a priceless gift that I have been given to share.  Being allowed to be myself grants me more knowledge than I will ever be able to contain.

And that brings me right back to my discernment process and my own sense of call.  Those dreams of academia, of discussing and debating, of questions that lead to more questions, of philosophical dilemmas worked through in the early morning hours over beer and sleep deprivation, each dream more tantalizing than the next.  But they are just that, dreams.  They are not goals.  They are fantasies, and in all truth, they are fantasies that I have already fulfilled in my seminary days.  I've lived them all.  And I have a life that calls me now to dream new dreams, make goals, and live them out in the here and now.

It is seldom easy to put a want on hold.  It is seldom easy to prioritize which task must be done first.  Should I work on the outdoor tasks before the snow falls?  Should I work on tightening up the inside jobs in my house before the cold winds blow through the cracks in this old farmhouse?  Are the questions I pose literal, figurative, or both?  In the end it probably doesn't matter, whether or not they are reality nor the actual order of the tasks.

In the end I know that whatever decisions I make will have consequences for more than just myself.  Each choice will affect my wife, my sons, my job, my community, my faith, my sanity, and my time to enjoy the changes in the seasons that continue to fly past me.  Each choice isn't about me, it is about the family I have created, and the family that I have chosen to be a part of.

It has been nearly a year since my Deconstruction, and I can't bear to think of putting my loved ones or myself through that again.  Ultimately, I know that a choice to return to theological school, regardless of the reasons would eventually lead to that, and that is not a choice I wish to make.  I am a far better man than I was a year ago and as such I know when it is time to put the good of myself and of my family first.

Teacher, Scholar, Family man.

So, will I regret not attending theological school?  Maybe.  Would I regret not being here for my family, for my students, my community, my friends, or even my own life?  Yes!  I recently read that one should live the way you want to be remembered in your eulogy/obituary.  Meaning, that I want to be remembered for my love and devotion, my volunteerism, the differences I made in others' lives, the way I helped shift understanding of what it means to be transgender, intersex, and interfaith.  I want to be remembered for the good that I did, the Tikkun Olam, and not the times I left my family for my own personal gains.  

So, it is time to plan ahead then, to prepare for the coming hibernation of the wintery world that is coming.  And my plan is to stay the course.  I have found my call in teaching, and in so doing, I will always be able to fulfill my desire to learn.  There are exams for me to take, classes to complete, and teaching that needs to be done.  And there is the constant learning of being a husband and father to my ever evolving family and its growing needs.

May it be so that there is always more to learn.

Thank you for continuing to learn with me, and to teach me on this journey together.

Be well.  Love your neighbor as you love yourself.  And remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

Of a Different Deconstruction; Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Summer Church Camp

Hello My Dear One,

I apologize for my delay in correspondence.  Summer ended, school and teaching duties resumed, and I found myself in the beginning of a new realm of reality that includes re-entering theological school.  Crazy, huh? 

Of course, in the Jewish calendar we have experienced Rosh Hashanah, a nearing of newness with every breath, and as we welcome a new year of new opportunities, we will also be called to look back over the past year and make our atonement, our at-one-ment with G-d, ourselves, and our neighbors.  Yom Kippur will figuratively and literally bring us back in time to see where we slipped away from our connection to G-d, those times when we shoved our relationship with G-d as far away as possible, and those times that we shoved our neighbors as far away from ourselves as possible.  It is the season of letting go of the past and getting ready for what is to come.  

View from camp.

Not surprisingly, I experience this spiritual process more often than just once a year.  In particular, one of the times I experience this is during a family tradition of the past 7 years or so, where we spend the last weekend of summer at a summer camp, owned and operated by the state level organization of our denomination.  Yep, it’s summer church camp.  And it is a place that I first came to when I was 14 years old, the summer that my life first began to break apart.  So, coming here as an adult with my own children who love this place, who dream about it, who experience enormous spiritual joy here, I suffer an intense inner conflict because I am often disappointed and depressed throughout most of the weekend.  I don’t find the peace that they do, and this makes me even more susceptible to the doldrums that I am prone to slogging through.

The summer that I was 14, the entire year of 1989, really, was a defining one for me and for my family.  I finished junior high school a month after my grandfather had died of complications of Type 2 Diabetes.  I was about to enter high school and the ongoing stress of being transgender and intersex, in a culture that didn’t even have those words in its vocabulary yet, was greater than the weight of the world on my shoulders.  I identified as gay, but I knew that it wasn't who I really was.  But, it was better than trying to convince others and myself that I was a heterosexual female.  Point of note: I did consider myself to be a heterosexual male, I just couldn't figure out how to get other people to see this.  I was also beginning to exhibit the signs and symptoms of Bipolar 1 Disorder, however that diagnosis was another 12 years away.  I saw the tiny fractures in my being, delicate, yet sharp, and there wasn’t anyone or anything that could keep the breakage from spreading that year.  

That summer it was here at this summer camp that the beast of my mental illness made its first real appearance.  Here in the darkness of my own madness, I fell headlong into the pit I didn’t even know was in front of me.  I will always remember that Alice in Wonderland descent, and the strange world I found inside my mind.  

I remember that I had returned to the cabin, the toxic mixture of resentment, anxiety, hormones, gender identity disorder, and a learned coping skill of destructive behaviors mixing violently in my brain.  I sat on my bunk, surrounded by other bunks in a tiny cabin, with teenage girls coming and going, because of course I was “female” back then, and I felt a physical shift within my body.  The beast of my mental illness was struggling its way up and out like a nascent dinosaur breaking out of its hardened shell.  I had severe insomnia, I was paranoid, I was unable to focus, I began to speak abusively, I was anxious, and at the pinnacle of my 1st slip into madness, I threw a flashlight at a girl in my cabin because I felt left out of the plans that she and another girl were making.  This action resulted in my spending a night in the nurse’s cabin, and having some long talks with the adults, and apologizing to a now frightened teenage girl.  

In retrospect, I see why my actions were inappropriate, but at the time I really didn’t understand.  This behavior had been modeled for me for more than 14 years, and I believed that this was the correct response to frustration.  It’s true, having had objects thrown around and at me, my entire life, had desensitized me when it came to using physical violence toward others when I was emotionally dis-regulated.  Simply put, when I was upset, I felt that the best option was to chuck something as hard as possible at whatever was handy.  

The truth of course, is that this is not OK behavior, and it is what I work on with my students on a daily basis, i.e. “Use your words.”  And for as much good as that may do with those youngsters, it is just as likely to elicit the same response as it did from my beast that night, “Go to Hell!!!!”  And, sadly when I have reached that point, I am already in hell, and I am bent on bringing everyone else down with me.  That raw beastly growl from within bursts out like sulphuric lava, spewing every ounce of hatred, depression, and fear from within me.  And the me that I know and that I can make function has been drowned out by the panicked screams of a suddenly freed monster of mental illness.  It is a terrifying feeling, this loss of control, and I suspect, it is an even more terrifying place to be if you are on the outside of it.

So, on the night that the beast and I really met, that night when my hand threw a heavy flashlight into a wall, narrowly missing a girl’s head, a piece of my sanity was replaced by the pain that had exploded out of me.  The beast got its first real taste of freedom that night, and I knew, I felt, that I and the life I had were never going to be the same again.  

Swimming to another side.

As the story of that summer unfolded, my mental illness was swept under the rug, excuses were made by my family, and my need for help was replaced by a new evil that took over our house just a few weeks later.  Yes, it was the same year that my father began a 6 year affair with a woman whom he chose to house in the same home as his wife and child.  It was the beginning of a new familial madness, one that would lead to fires, abuse, broken hearts, broken families, broken relationships, desperation, alcohol and pornography addictions, and a crazy that defied labeling for its unparalleled perversion and sickness.  

The link that I finally find, nearly 25 years later is that this place, this camp, this spiritual center for so many members of my family, is in fact a place of immeasurable sadness and brokenness for me.  It is the epicenter of my first psychological meltdown.  It is also the place that when I finally left my parents to spend a week on my one at the age of 14, that while I was gone, my family fell apart.  As a youngster, a teen, I blamed myself for taking my focus off of my job, keeping our family together, and attempting to meet my own spiritual and reflective needs.  To this day, I carry with me the belief that when I divert my attention from holding everything together, and I actually stop and care for and about myself, that my world will soon fall apart.  It may stem from the grandiosity that accompanies Bipolar Disorder, or it may be a result of the blame that was poured out on me during my life.  With no insane, controlling, violent, abusive, or mentally ill adults to bully me into submission, I am able to meet my own needs.  Ironically, fifteen years later, I am frequently that very same horrid adult bullying myself into submission, making certain that I must suffer for the good of everyone else.

As I reflect further on this I see the lifetime belief of unworthiness, revealing itself in places I never even thought to look.  Taking responsibility for my parents‘ marriage, or taking the blame when they told me they were “staying together” for me.  As if living in a house where adultery, and quite honestly polygamy, were acceptable realities for a 14 year old child, and then to tell the child it is for their benefit.  I was being molded into a warped and unstable individual, I, the very reason for the bitter, screaming, and burning hell that we all lived in.  And I carried that with me for so long, feeling responsible for the scars on my psyche, and my body, that had been caused by "loved ones."  That is a Hell.  And true atonement for those sins comes with my forgiveness, and my letting go of the stranglehold on my own life.  
Those experiences of my past have shaped who I am, but as is so often the case, what humans have done with malice, G-d can use for good.  You see, the pain of what was, has become a gift of true understanding of the horrors that other people experience.  I am not desensitized to the pain, rather I have a shared compassion as someone who has survived the darkness that a tortured soul finds himself or herself in.  As I work with little children, I can honor their brokenness and help them to find their own voice.  I can stand with them in their fear, and I can stand strong for them until they can stand for themselves.  Just as I now can stand for myself, always knowing that is G-d standing with me.    

So, here we are, a new year and I am reaching for my own at-one-ment and I am caught in my interfaith life even more than I once would have supposed was possible.  And ultimately that is exactly where I am supposed to be, living into Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Summer Church Camp, and yes, theological school.  If I truly believe that I am made in G-d's image, then the plurality of my life is inherent.  I have been given an opportunity to live as more than just female or male, more than just sane or crazy, more than just smart or artistic, more than what I have been told I can be.  I have been granted the gift to live as exactly who I actually am.  I have been granted the chance to share my story and be present for those who need to share their stories.  I am a very blessed man. 

Sharing my stories, my songs, and myself.

Thank you for sharing in and being a part of my stories.

Be well, remember to love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

Sex, Gender, and Performance, Part 2: Of Transgender Youth and Personal Aging

Hello My Dear One,

How are you?  Has the summer been going well?  I hope that your activities have been fun, uplifting, renewing, and restoring.  My activities have varied from babysitting, to laundry, to gardening, to laundry, to speaking, and yes, to more laundry.  But really, I've enjoyed my time relaxing, reading, and occasionally getting an opportunity to do my other "job," the one I love almost as much as I love nurturing my family.  

Real live transgender individual...

I recently gave a talk to a group of mental health providers at a transgender workshop who work with youth and young adults, about what my transgender life experiences have been like.  I love these opportunities to provide people with a more personalized learning experience.  I awaken early, primp, prep, and arrive at the engagement excited.  As much as I love my day to day work, which is quite a bit, I would gladly do this, my speaking and consulting full time.  I am most comfortable in front of a group, divulging personal information, with the understanding that I am (hopefully) broadening people's knowledge of and comfort with transgender issues. 

When I begin a talk I often challenge groups to find their own preconceived notions and assumptions about how they view people and how that determines their interactions with others/clients.  At this particular event this did not go the way I planned.  Not in the slightest.  The phrase "hot mess" comes to mind.  But let me start with what I usually do for my talks.  

I almost always come to an event dressed in a suit coat, button down shirt, tie, and nice pants and shoes.  I am often introduced to the group by one of the coordinators, and then I introduce myself to the group.  I tell everyone that there is not a single question that I will not answer, or that I have not been asked.  I assure them that they cannot offend me, and if they don't feel comfortable asking something out loud, to please write it down and make sure that it is passed to me before the end of the session.

The presentation begins with a little ice-breaker where I have participants stand up, stretch, look to their right, then look to their left, and then sit back down.  I explain that in those 5-10 seconds each person made assumptions about the people next to them, such as race, gender, socio-economic class and possibly a few other things.  I go on with an interactive review of the acronym for sexual and gender orientation, LGBTQIQA: Lesbian; Gay; Bisexual; Transgender/Transsexual; Queer; Intersex; Questioning; and Allies.  It is then that I ask the group what label or labels they would like to place on me, and with a little bit of help, the group offers guesses, or raises their hands when I say a term.  I intersperse this with humorous comments and try to form a shared group unity.

This particular time, knowing that the conference had just started with group rules and overview, and everyone seemed a little somber, I introduced myself, gave some details about myself, and asked what label(s) they wanted to assign to me.  And that's when it all derailed.  I rarely if ever am asked questions during this part, there were 3 or 4 interruptive questions, and I have never, ever been questioned as to why I was doing this exercise.  Perhaps because I hadn't started with the ice-breaker I had not properly set the tone, however, I've deviated from the script before and not had these results.  But this happened, one of the participants challenged me as to the validity of the exercise, the need for labels, and if I was trying to "trick" them.   I was for the first time in my life completely thrown off and unsure of how to handle the situation.  Thankfully one of the conference leaders, a good friend of mine, helped to explain that I was in fact trying to make people feel uncomfortable, as the participant had expressed, and that it was to help us all understand that no matter how objective we may think we are, we still bring our own assumptions with us to situations.  I was incredibly grateful for this lifeline and I felt a sense of security, that even if things weren't going perfectly, at least my message was still being heard.

Yet somehow I had a hard time resetting, moving on, and felt unable to really tell my story in the way that I normally do.  I was reeling from being heckled, and I wasn't recovering well.  I eventually pulled it together and answered as many questions as possible, sort of turning the event into a Q&A session rather than a narrative.  I received high praise from participants and was complimented by the group leaders.  Still, I left feeling weird, unsure of myself, and on edge.  I wasn't able to figure out what had happened and I wondered what I did or didn't do that had changed the outcome so drastically, at least in my eyes. I knew that my perception of the event was different from everyone else's and I took solace in knowing that I did impart knowledge, understanding, experience, and hopefully a more human picture of what living as a transgender individual can be like.

More importantly though, I decided that I had to use this experience as a learning opportunity for myself, and that I needed to assess why it occurred, and how I could have handled or might handle it in the future in different ways.

As I did this I came up with a couple of truths about myself that I have neglected to acknowledge whenever I do these events:

     1) I have not been a teenager for 20 years.

Although I know this intellectually, I have never really taken it in at an emotional level.  This is further complicated by the therapeutic work I have done, as it has helped me to leave much of my teen angst and trauma behind.  It's not that I don't remember it, it's just that I no longer dwell in it, and am no longer triggered by the memories themselves.  I have chosen to grow up, and I am no longer the immature, irrational, narcissistic, and tortured teen that I was.  I choose not to rehearse and relive my past, and at the same time my past is a large part of the narrative in my speaking career.  This leaves me learning how to retell my history so that it still has emotional meaning and connection for an audience.  And I can draw on what was, hopefully with a compassionate objectivity, that allows others to feel the pain as well as the hope that I now have.


   2) I have no idea what it means to be a teen in today's world.

I grew up in the 1970's, and the 1980's.  Life was simply different in those years, the influence of media was a tiny fraction of what it is today.  If I had been exposed to as much as the average teen is today when I was 15, I might not have ever ventured into the world at all.  For all the conveniences that we are afforded, the use of anonymous hatred spewed out at others through the internet comes at a higher price than we care to acknowledge.  Being a teenager is hard enough, I cannot imagine what it is like when you have people from all over the world "hating" you.  And there is the crux of the matter.  I am not a teen in today's world, feeling the hatred of others, trapped by my own hormonal hell, with images, and words bombarding my every waking minute.  

Instead, I am a grown man, a husband, a father of 2 sons, and a true blue friend to those I love and care about.  I am a professional speaker, writer, and consultant.  I am a dedicated educator and employee.  I am not a kid anymore, watching the world speed past me, rather I am the adult who is an active participant in his life.  I am no longer a tortured teen, flailing through a world I both fear and want to conquer, all at the same time.      

As I have spoken to providers who are working with teens right now, in the 2nd decade of the 21st century, I have realized that there is a far greater range of gender expression, gender fluidity, and terminology today.  There is information readily available from the internet, psychologists, counselors, and people like myself, who are willing to talk about what this thing called "transgender" is and what the process has been like for us.  And as I have developed as a speaker over the past 15 years, the questions I am asked have changed. I no longer need to answer technical questions about hormones and anatomy.  The how-to's of transition have been replaced with more thoughtful questions about my role as a husband, father, teacher, and friend.  And in retrospect, I see that this is what those providers most needed to hear.  

And that is what I have realized was the problem for me at the particular speaking event I did.  I reveal myself completely, make myself totally vulnerable, and dive into aspects of my life that are simply not easy to talk about.  I am willing to expose myself because I know that when I do so I open doors for people, doors for individuals who are like me, and doors for those who work with and attempt to help those like me.  That day, it was my vulnerability that was being challenged, and that is why I was so shaken by it.  My vulnerability, my own self, was not respected or treated with dignity, because this individual was unable to get past their own walls of discomfort.  And I was unable to meet this person where they were.  I couldn't see them as a beloved child of G-d because I was having a hard time seeing it in myself.  Looking back I can see it clearly, and I can try to remember it when and if this happens again. 

So, was it worth it?  Was putting my vulnerability out there helpful to the group I spoke to?  Will it make a difference in the life of a teen who is feeling completely alone in a world of shame?  The answer is ultimately an unknown, but I hope that the answer is yes.  

A Different View of
Vulnerability

I believe that my story, my history is still valid, even if it is not the same set of realities facing young trans folk today.  How I felt as a child, knowing that I was male, even though the rest of the world believed otherwise, is exactly what today's youth are experiencing too.  What it feels like to live with an enormous secret and fear that dominates your life.  I am called to share my past, the teen years that were as defining at that time as they are for youth today, and how I have moved forward.  That's the message the teens I talk to need to hear, just as much as the adults who are helping them.  That here I am, a living breathing transman, who has made it to the other side of transition, stronger and better than I was before. 

And I know that when I speak for a group the next time, I will take with me the truths I have learned from my struggles, and I will offer the gift of hope to those I share my story to.  It is what I have to offer and I thank G-d for the opportunity everyday.

Thank you for being a part of my story.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari 

Of Mental Illness, Accountability, and Adoption

Hello My Dear One,

How are you?  I am busy, and not in that good way when you feel productive after finishing a project.  No, I'm just busy, flitting from task to task, chore to chore, and wondering why everyone thinks that educators have summers "off."  The truth is we continue to work all summer long, prepping, studying, shopping, planning, raising our own kids who have the summer off, and a majority of us take 2nd and 3rd jobs to supplement our incomes.  As an hourly worker, this is especially true for me.  But even the salaried employees frequently take on extra work to support their families.  And, "summer" is not June, July, and August - three glorious months of fun and sun, but really the last 2 weeks of June through the first 3 weeks in August.  If we're lucky that's 10 weeks total.  

At any rate, in the hectic pace of my summer I have been writing a lot, in my head, which although valuable in its own right, fails to share my thoughts as effectively as when I actually write them down.  As I have continued my work in providing parenting for my 2 sons and "sitting" for 2 other boys, while dispersing contents of my mother's home, I have found myself less and less motivated to write.  Which ultimately means that I need to spend even more time writing if I am to save my sanity.  So, here I am, present to the true needs of my life, having survived another brutal heatwave, questioning my often self-defeating behaviors.

I've had many therapy sessions this summer, most of which have been delving into my learned patterns of sacrifice and martyrdom.  It is a vicious cycle that was modeled for me throughout my entire childhood and continues to be utilized by both of my parents to this day.

1) Feeling unworthy of love and/or generalized unworthiness.
2) Attention seeking words and behaviors.
3) Offering myself and my resources to others in unhealthy ways due to fears of rejection.
4) Resentment for being treated poorly or underselling myself.
5) Self inflicted sacrifice of my needs and wants because of feeling unworthy of love.
6) Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.

Intellectually I can fully understand this crazy loop and that I ought to be able to find ways to prevent it, stop it mid-cycle, or at the very least stop the sacrificing of my needs and wants when I realize what I've done.  If only it were that simple.  The patterns of these thinking and behavior have been seared into my very being.  It reminds me of trying to merge on or off of a roundabout in Paris, France or Augusta, ME, either you go full bore into it and make the loops until you can actually get off or you freeze before entering and decide that abandoning your car is the safer and easier choice.

All of this has its roots in my family of origin and my upbringing.  I could spend pages upon pages concerning incidents that cemented the behaviors I have nurtured and used to torture myself and others, detailing each wrong or hurt that I experienced.  Instead, I will attempt to pull the meaning out of the minutiae, leaving the disturbances behind, in the past where they belong.  And this is what I have spent the most time working on during the past few months, learning to sift through the muck of my past and see where the real accountability needs to be placed.  I am learning to separate my parents' accountability for their actions from their mental illnesses, and subsequently my own negative patterns and the choices I have made and sometimes still make in my daily life.

My parents' influence on me and the molding and shaping that they did from before my birth is the starting place. From the beginning of their marriage they were an unlikely pairing.  They had known each other since the 1st grade, from sunday school and church, and from living in a really small town. The two families were actually related, and my parents' are indeed 5th cousins.  Having gone their separate ways after high school graduation, mom and dad re-met at a Christmas Eve service, both having recently ended relationships.  They were engaged less than a year later.  The wedding itself occurred mostly because my aunt had decided not to marry her fiance at the last minute, and my grandmother was bound and determined that there would be a wedding come hell or high water.  So, my parents married and began a miserable life together, each sacrificing their own wants and needs for the "happiness" of the other.  My mother relinquished her New York City operatic career, and my father left his friends, family, and academic career to move to a tiny beach town next door to his in-laws so that his wife might act "less crazy."  I think that from the outside most anyone could have seen the disaster that was already underway, but from the inside, it must have been harder to visualize.  My father resented the fact he had sacrificed, as did my mother, the marriage itself was a sacrifice for both parties, and my birth was the ultimate sacrifice for both of them.  But one must remember that they both made choices.  This concept has become very important to me as I have dealt with my own struggles.

In the end, I found that I had to ask and then answer some difficult questions.  Does all of their sacrifice mean that they were not accountable for their thoughts, behaviors, and actions?  Because they both suffered from mental illness are they exempt from culpability when it comes to the suffering and pain that I endured?  Do their life choices, because they were made through lenses of borderline personality disorder, anxiety, PTSD, undiagnosed autism spectrum differences, ADD/ADHD, and their own learned behaviors from their parents, grandparents, and other family members excuse what they did to me?  Do their lives trump mine?  Are their beasts of mental illness stronger than mine?  Are their beasts allowed a greater freedom than mine?

In order to answer those questions I realized that I had to turn to my own learned behaviors and how I have enacted them throughout my life journey so far.  Up until recently my preferred method of dealing with emotional conflicts was through passive-aggressive mutters, whines, and rants along with physical isolation, hiding, running away, driving at unsafe speeds, and putting my loved ones and myself in danger.  I reenacted almost all the scenes from my childhood with minor adjustments to fit the situations.  I got stuck in that loop of ugliness and just kept going around and around it until people around me moved farther and father away from my reckless spinning through life.

These frightening revolutions have been devastating to my personal and professional life over the years.  Much the same way as they were for my parents.  That cycle of unworthiness that sometimes seems to ooze right out of my skin has been at the foundation of my sense of self.  I loathe myself, and then I loathe others, and then back to loathing myself.  It is like a tire stuck spinning in mud, sinking deeper with each revolution.  The more you try to gun the engine to move in any direction, the more you are sucked into the mire below you.

It is an ugly truth of my life, the mud I have spun myself around in has led me to abandon those I love for selfish and self-centered reasons.  And in the end it comes down to a single word that I fear more than most, choice.  If I have choices to make and I make poor ones, and I have mental illness, am I accountable for the consequences, and to what degree? Some of my choices have indeed been driven by my beast of mental illness when it was untreated.  But many of my choices have been driven by me.  The hard fact is that I am the one who is ultimately accountable for my beast's actions, because I am the one who can choose to let it run boundless in through my world.  I am also accountable because I can choose to go to therapy, take medications, make healthy living decisions, have a spiritual life, and pay attention to myself and others when my beast tries to raise its wild and flailing self in the middle of my life.  Whether I like it or not,  I have the choice to let the madness take over, or I can choose to keep the madness in check.

And this is where I choose, I choose accountability as a husband and a father, as well as the numerous other titles I use throughout my travels.  Instead of blaming my mental illness for the mistakes I've made, I am learning to own them, to claim them, to grieve the harm I've caused, and to celebrate the ways in which I have helped and can help others in the future because of my experiences.  I am beginning to see that I am responsible for what was, and for how I acted in many situations, and that each one is in the past and I no longer need to dwell there.  I am learning that I can make different choices whenever I want to, in word, in thought, in deed, and even in my perceptions of what is happening around me.  I can be that man, that father, un homme de dieu - a man of G-d - in heart and in vocation.  As I make choices, rather than believing that I have made sacrifices, I am granted control of myself and my beast.  I am finally the one telling my beast what to do rather than allowing it to tell me what to do.   

So, what am I telling my beast to do?  I am telling it that it doesn't need to fear being a father to my sons.  Now, I have been their parent since the day each one was conceived, albeit through extra measures that did not include my DNA.  And when each beautiful, wonderful, and miraculous son was born I was there, laughing, crying, present to the moments of becoming for all of us.  What I wasn't was able to be listed on their birth certificates, because at that point in time my own birth certificate still had the wrong sex listed on it.  I was also not legally married to my wife because gay marriage wasn't legal yet.  When we did legally marry as man and woman, after my birth certificate and driver's license were corrected to say Male, the State of Maine recognized me as my own children's step father.  In the legal analysis we determined that I would have to adopt my sons in order to correct my status as their father and to get new birth certificates for them.  

Now, what does my beast have to do with all of this?  It turns out, that the answer is, everything.  I/it was afraid that my wife would leave me, and take our boys away from me because of my mental illness.  My beast was trying to convince me that it would be less painful if that happened, if I was never legally their father anyway.  My beast and I were terrified of losing two of the greatest joys in my life.  And after much therapy, I saw this for what it was.  It was an excuse to stay in that cycle of unworthiness.  By allowing myself to believe that the worst would happen I was perpetuating the model that I had learned and lived - I am not worthy of love - and would punish myself and others because of this.  

As I cried in therapy, literally for the first time after 2 years with my therapist, I realized how much I do love my sons and that I am accountable for my role as their father.  I saw that I must show them that they are truly worthy of love by my choice to adopt them.  That I am choosing them over my own anxiety, fear, feelings of unworthiness, and my beast.  I can model that they deserve to be people who can receive G-d's love and shine it back out into the world.  That their worth is more valuable and precious than anything else to me.  I can give them exactly what I was not given, unconditional, affirming love from a parent who had to make a conscious effort to do so.  I am stronger than my beast and want them to feel that right down to their very cores.  That is what I am accountable for.


So, as I enter the legal and financial process of making our family whole on paper, I am committed to making our family whole in love.  As I break that vicious cycle of pain, suffering, and deconstruction, I find that I can grow as a man, and that I can then help my sons grow into men as well.  Perhaps this is the greatest gift, to be the father I am called to be and choose to be that man, no matter what.  I thank G-d for being a G-d of second, third, fourth, and even hundredth chances.  I thank G-d for the chance to be a part of a real family, created on a foundation of dignity, respect, and worth.  I thank G-d for calling me into choice.

Thank you for being present to my accountability.

Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself and remember to actually love yourself.

-Ari

Of Sandwich Baggies Filled with Pennies, Glitter, and Angel Wings

Hello My Dear One,

My apologies for not writing sooner.  With the beginning of summer and the end of the school year it has taken a few weeks to adjust to my new routine.  It has been an evolving one and given my usual resistance to such things I believe I'm doing as well as can be expected.  

So, I've wanted to write about Borderline Personality Disorder from a slightly more academic perspective for some time, but somehow I just can't seem to do it.  I simply cannot wade through millions of words telling me what I already know.  

Still, I know that I need to explore what this illness has done to me from a different vantage point. I need to find my own answers, to bring a spiritual voice to the scientific one, to know that there is an inherent gift within the madness that balances the destruction of the fury.  Simply put, I need to see G-d within the storm.

So, the other day, as I delved even more deeply into the memories of my past, during a therapy session, I saw the core place of brokenness within myself.  I've long dealt with a crippling belief that in order to keep the peace I must sacrifice my own wants, needs, and desires to be happy so that the other person(s) I am in relationship with will love me.  It is a debilitating condition that has led to hurt feelings, mistrust, anger, resentment, depression, and a host of other complications.  It has always been my job to make others happy, and throughout my life it has usually been at the expense of my own happiness.  One of the most devastating memories resurfaced during the EMDR session and I saw that it was still playing out in my day to day life even though the event occured nearly 25 years ago. 

I was a young 14 year old, a freshman in high school, awkward, and with massive underlying mental, physical, and emotional disturbances that were yet to be diagnosed and my family had just undergone a radical upheaval.  My grandfather had passed away less than 4 months before and that summer I had been biking around town and found my father embracing a woman, who was not my mother, at my special beach.  There in plain view it was obvious what was happening, and after getting his attention I pedaled home as fast as I could to tell my mother what I'd seen.  They soon arrived at the house and the lies began.  Everyone knew they were lies.  But they continued anyway.  Within a month, this interloper was living in the apartment above our home along with her son who was only 8 months older than I.  Suddenly I was living in an obviously polygamous home that no one dared claim for what it was.  

Within a few months my mother finally garnered the courage to confront my father and his mistress about the truth.  I had gone to my grandmother's house next door, and was working in the basement shop to feel connected to the grandfather who had died too soon.  I was sad, but also hopeful and expectant that this hell I had been plunged into would be over.  Once the truth was out, there was no going back, and I would be free from the nightmare of this love triangle.

As I sat and fiddled with the tools in my grandfather's workshop, I heard my mother come in and she sat down on a wooden stool next to me.  "So?" I said, and she stated the truth of the affair, all the gory details of the confrontation, ad nauseam.  "So when is he leaving?" I asked 15 minutes later as her ramble had slowed to a dull roar.  "He's not."  she said.  "WHAT?!?!?!?" I screamed?  And in her Borderline Personality Disorder reality she explained why he was staying, that she had been unwilling to force him to make a choice between the two of them.  In fact, I remember the comparison that he gave to her, saying that having to choose between his wife and his mistress would be like having to choose between vanilla or chocolate ice cream.  

Seriously.  Even at 14 years old I knew that this was a blatantly ridiculous and infantile response to being caught breaking your wedding vows and that any damn fool who believed it was as pitiful as the one who said it to them.  Yep, my 48 year old parents had reverted to being 4 year olds, unable, unwilling, and irrational toddlers who along with a 40 something year old mistress had decided to throw a collective temper tantrum in the sandbox of my already horrifying life.  

I was put into an untenable position, informed that my happiness was not important and that if I wanted any attention at all I had to play along and sacrifice what I knew was what I wanted and needed in exchange for "love."  This message was the one I incorporated into myself and have continued to play out all these years later.  The why of it all became clear as I saw the "adult" players in the drama.

My mother was incapable of facing the truth that her marriage was over and that despite the financial hardships that were possible, she actually had monetary and emotional support from her extended family.  But the beast of BPD stood its ground and bellowed and hollered at the prospect of being abandoned one more time.  It was in that moment that the person whose only job was to protect me from harm had decided to abandon ship and save her own warped security over mine.

My father's mistress, a woman who had her own traumatic past and mental illness was driven to believe that this arrangement was a perfectly viable option.

My father, the adult alpha male of the pack, not wanting to lose out on the attention and sexual rewards of finally having 2 women fighting for him chose to hide within the perverted gratification of his new life.  Having grown up knowing he was unplanned, that his mother wasn't supposed to be able to have more children, that his older sister was the golden child, and going through puberty at the age of 8, led him to crave the all of the encompassing insanity that passed as "love."  Now, at long last, he had 2 women, the madonna and the whore, the replacements for the mother and sister who treated him as less than, and he held onto it for 6 long years clinging to belief that he deserved this reward for all that he had suffered and sacrificed.  My father once confessed to me that he had moved away from his academic opportunities, friends, colleagues, and his own parents, because a doctor had told him the only way to manage my mother's instabilities was to move her as close to her parents as possible.  He bought a house 1/8 of a mile from them and regretted it until the day he sold it more than 25 years later.  

But here is where I can start to see G-d in the storm.  In all of this madness there was a home, next door to me, the very one I was sitting in that day, where my grandparents moved when I was 3 years old.  It was my refuge.  It was my sanctuary.  It was my safety.  And there was G-d enfolding me with the love that I needed through my grandfather and grandmother.  Although Grampa had just died, the love and caring he gave me still filled my heart.  And my Grama, who was literally right above me at that moment, continued to support me for the next 3 1/2 years before her own death.  I was loved, and it was in part because my father had taken the advice of random physician so many years prior.  Were it not for that act of Divine Intervention, would I have known the grace that my grandparents gave me?  I don't have an answer to that question, but I am grateful and grace-filled regardless.   

So why now?  Why am I revisiting all of this now? Why did it come up in therapy when I felt that I was nearly done with this mess?  Probably because I have almost finished emptying out the house that my mother drove away from nearly 6 months ago.  I've been packing, cleaning, hauling, dragging, loading, selling furniture, planning several yard sales, online sales, and picking up the pieces of rubble that surrounded her home.  I have literally collected the broken shards of glass, seashells, plastics, etc. that were spewed around the building, one by one, and I have thrown them away.  Discovery During one of the last times I was there, I was cleaning out a dresser and found a sandwich baggie filled with pennies and glitter wedged behind one of the drawers.  Inside were maybe a dozen coins and over a hundred beads, and multicolored stars, doves, and angels made of shiny plastic and metal.  It was the perfect metaphor for my mother's life.  This see through plastic bag, tied off with a weird knot, full of valueless items mixed with sand, grime, and who knows what else stuck in an obscure location, almost lost and forgotten had someone not chosen to clean up the mess.  This discovery said it all.  Her life has always been in full view for everyone to see, and it is filled with things that a child reveres, but an adult knows to be too little to support a life.  It is shiny and filthy all at the same time and the painful emptiness of it is hidden away from the outside world.  Her beast had stashed it away from the peering eyes that could have seen the truth of who she really is.  And it was I who found it, just as I always have, and always will. And this is where I truly find G-d at the eye of this storm.  It is my nearly 40 years of living on the edges and often in the middle of the whipping winds of her hurricane that I have learned compassion for others with mental illness.  I have struggled through my own beast's madness, and I have absorbed the only gifts my mother was truly able to give to me.  Her crazy has made me tolerant and accepting of individuals who have fallen victim to their own beasts' sadistic ways.  More importantly though, it has given me the compassion and love for myself and my own beast that she could not.  I can finally see the crazy in myself, accept it, tolerate it, love it, and manage it because I know that G-d is present. As I reprocessed the traumatic event in therapy, my therapist asked me what the 14 year old me needed to know to help deal with the event and the subsequent pain.  I said aloud "Little One, you are already loved, and you will make it, you have made it, you are surviving the madness, and you are choosing to live in spite of the deconstruction of your life around you."  I continued on, "You are so loved, you will be able to show and give this love to others who need the compassion that no one else will give them.  This is a gift.  You will spread out your grand white wings, surround yourself with G-d's love, and then be able to enfold others with the graceful feathers that will soothe and comfort each and every person you meet."  I told that 14 year old kid to know that the 38 year old was ok, and that in time those horrible years would be relegated to the past.   "Hold fast, Little One, you are loved." And those are the words I say in my heart each day when I meet grown and little ones who don't yet know that there is hope for them.  That is my gift.  I thank G-d for being in that storm of my life and in the lives of others, letting us find our own wings to prevent more damage to our fragile selves.  I thank G-d for the chance to embrace each person I meet with my wings, and to attempt to help them find their own in the process. Pennies, Glitter, and Angel Wings And so, as I looked over the baggie filled with pennies and glitter again, I finally saw the angel wings gently surrounding it.  I saw that my mother's uncontrollable beast had left behind a secret hope, that one day someone would love it too, that someone could see the value and the worth of its seemingly meaningless and disconnected contents.  This tiny capsule of madness was a reminder to look beyond the obvious, to search for meaning in chaos, and to remember that G-d  is always in the storm.   And with that I begin the process of freeing myself from the madness that was only surrounding me.  And I can finally unpack my own sandwich baggies of mental illness and search for the gifts my beast and G-d have hidden away for me.          Thank you for sorting through the pennies, glitter, and angel wings on the journey. Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself. -Ari