Of Saying Goodbye, of Death

My Dear One,

Oh, how life changes in an instant.  One moment we are happy, laughing, and living in a precious time, and the next we are rocked by news that barely makes sense.  And yet, it makes all the sense in the world at the very same time.  Such is that phone call of a loved one to tell you that another loved one has died.  That call came to our house this past week, as my great aunt June, in tears, let us know that my great uncle had passed away Saturday morning.

Harry Garrison Silleck, Jr. was 92 years old, gravely ill, and his body had been deteriorating for years.  But his mind, his intellect, and his wit had persisted until the end.  And although it seems obvious that he would be ending his time here on this crazy planet, it is still unsettling that he is gone.  That a man of his seemingly undying nature would actually die.  I am struck by the reality that I will never again hear his voice.  I am strangely stunned that the man I knew was indeed mortal, and succumbed to death as we all will and all must.  It is a wounding fact that we do not live forever, and it is accentuated when one we have known all our lives passes on.    

And I am saddened that I was unable to say goodbye, particularly because I missed the last phone call he tried to make, and my answering machine cut off before he ever spoke.  My aunt had tried to put him on, but had taken too much time, and the computer didn't know that this was the last time he was trying to talk to me.  He managed to get through to my mother, and ultimately I know that she needed that more than I did, and so I have other memories to think about.  But the questions I have of what he wanted to tell me will linger for some time.

The comfort I needed was met when I saw him last, more than 2 years ago, as he was walking on his own two feet into the emergency room, and still himself.  I spoke with him on the phone a few months ago and he was ever the grand gentleman he had always been.  And just a few days ago, in that now unfulfilled call, I learned from my great aunt that he had loved the birthday card that we as a family had all signed and sent to him for his 92nd year.

So, as a tribute to my Unc, I want to share a tiny part of his story.  Although Unc and I often butted heads, he was the reason I was able to go to college and pursue my dreams.  He fully accepted who I was and who I became.  He danced at my wedding and he loved my wife and my sons as much as if they were his own.  He was a true gentleman and I am grateful to have had him in my life for nearly 40 years.  I hope that you will see through these thoughts and feelings how much I loved him and how his life shaped my own even when I had the total hell of my family attempting to break me apart.   

Uncle Tommy (Tommy was his family nickname and no one outside of the family ever referred to him as such) was born March 19th, 1921, at home, in Putnam Valley, NY to older parents who already had a 6 year old daughter, Margaret Doris Silleck, my grandmother.  My grandmother loved him dearly, and although she passed 20 years ago, he always spoke of what a wonderful sister she had been to him, and her immeasurable love and care for his wellbeing.  Her love for her brother eventually translated into a deep love for me and is much of the reason I survived my brutal childhood existence.  Her ability to care for and about me when my own mother could not, literally saved my life many times.  She gave him and me a foundation that granted us both a tremendous resiliency to a harsh and too often unforgiving world.

Interestingly enough I just found his baby book a few weeks ago as I was cleaning out part of my mother's house.  Though it is over 90 years old it reads much like the ones of today and his milestones were documented by his mother as carefully and lovingly as any parent would now in the 21st century.  Along with it I also found one of my favorite photos of him and my grandmother.  They are posed before the camera, a beautiful little girl and a wide eyed toddler, and the love between them is palpable.  That was the gift of unconditional love that has passed into me even through the insanity I have suffered.

Harry and Margaret circa 1923

Unc, like his sister was extraordinarily bright and both siblings graduated from high school early, she at 16, and he at 15.  He went on to college and graduated at the age of 19, then to law school, earning his J.D. at the ripe old age of 22.  I heard many of his collegiate antics, hardly able to comprehend that he was so young, and interacting with 22 year old men when he was just a boy of 16.  I should note that my grandmother also went to college, a private all female school in upstate New York, graduated and later became a social worker for the State of New York.  She was a feminist to the end, and she taught us all to be strong, independent individuals no matter the adversities we might be facing.  Both sister and brother excelled at defending those who could not defend themselves, albeit in different ways.

The week of his law school graduation he was drafted into the United States Air Force and became a navigator stationed in England flying in bombers from 1943 to 1945.  He received almost every available medal and returned a "hero."  But, like so many others who served during the Second World War, he never spoke of the traumas he endured during his time of service.  It is sad for me to think that another of our WWII veterans has passed on, leaving fewer who remember the realities of a war that involved so little modern technology, or who remember the survivors who were saved from the horrors of concentration camps and extermination, and the victims who were not.

He practiced corporate law for his entire career, working in a prominent law firm in New York City into the 1990's.  He had many lunches with the future President Nixon, another lawyer in the firm, even though my Unc was a lifelong Democrat.  He dealt mostly with railroad law, working cases that would drag on for 20 or more years in courts as disputes were settled.  Yet he was always willing and able to help friends and neighbors with wills, estates, and the like in his tiny hometown in upstate NY.  In the end though he travelled extensively for his career and sacrificed a personal life in many ways for this.  

He met his wife in 1961, they dated for 16 years and finally married in 1977, by which time he was 56 years old and she was in her 40's.  He loved her dearly and conceded to her wishes most of the time.  I know that she loved him too, and that as she faces this next chapter in her life, the first time in 52 years without him, I prayerfully hope that it will be a short one of separation for them.  I do not wish her ill, or dead, though she has been unwell for many years, rather, I hope that they will be reunited in whatever form that takes for them soon.  They were each other's worlds, and I cannot begin to imagine the grief and the emptiness that she must be feeling right now.  So, I look to G-d to offer comfort and peace that will give her what she needs to be on this part of the journey.  

Sadly, they never had children of their own, though I was given incredible status, particularly since I was the only child/grandchild/etc. in my entire family.  A monetary bonus from a case he won in the 1970's was put into a high yield account and 20 years later I had a college fund that would pay for 4 years of college even now.  I was given gifts of financial and personal value, money yes, items like and an electric pencil sharpener I received at least 25 years ago that still sits on my desk, of course.  But I was given so much more in the stories, the time we were able to share, the Holidays he came to Maine for, the uncompromising sense of fidelity that he imbued to me through word and deed.

And I was also given the gift of culture and a world view, visiting Manhattan on a yearly basis.  Going to museums, libraries, concerts, broadway performances, off broadway performances, theaters, films, the planetarium, Central Park, the Russian Tea Room, the Plaza, a horse-drawn carriage ride, and the ability to study abroad 3 separate times, were all gifts from my Unc.  I learned to love the life that he and his wife had, and as much as I love my life here in a rural town in Maine, there are days when I wonder what it would have been like if I'd gone and lived with them in my teens when I had the chance.  In the end I know I wouldn't be the man I am today and I wouldn't want to be anyone else.

Looking back on this suit and tie wearing serious lawyer there is a wonderful juxtaposition of the man in the office and the man at home who indulged a playful whimsy in me whenever possible.  As a tot he would become a scary "monster" growling in my face as I squealed with delight and fear.  He would become a horse on all fours for me to ride around on when he was already well into his late 50's.  Of all the memories I cherish there is one that demonstrated his true love and acceptance of my childhood needs.
I was 7 or 8 years old the summer I purchased a stuffed Snoopy doll at the famous F.A.O. Schwartz toy store, and I was ecstatic with my treasure.  That night I dressed him in his "Saturday Night Fever" tuxedo, and he was allowed to sit at the head of the fancy dining room table at dinner in my Unc's 69th and Lexington condo on the Upper East Side.  I remember drinking milk "on the rocks" and reveling in the inclusivity and welcome that my Uncle was offering me that night.  He fostered in that moment a belief that family could exist even when most days it didn't seem possible.

As I grew older my Uncle challenged me at every turn, wanted the best for me, and loved me in a way I probably never realized when he was alive.  He had told my mother, and myself, that I had more courage, because I chose to transition genders, than he had.  That he would never have had the courage to do or the ability to risk what I did to become myself.  I could never believe this after knowing his history, but I see now how we shared something in that as well.  He did not see his own courage any more than I saw mine.  We both did what we had to do in order to survive.  His battles were fought dropping bombs over Germany, while mine were fought in doctors' offices, hospitals, rural towns, and within myself and my marriage.  We were both heroes in each other's eyes.  Funny how I can only just see that now, I hope that he saw it as well.

There are of course so many more stories about Unc that I could share, his pranks, his vast knowledge of films, his deep appreciation for the arts, his love of horses, the fact that he lived in his boyhood home until he was 90, and everything else that made him who he was.  But just as there is not time for us to live forever, there is not time to tell all those stories now.  I will tell them as they ask to be told, to my sons, to my friends, to my family, to you, as I find myself in the images of a man I would be proud to be, even on his worst days.  I know that he would have done the same for me.


Thank you for travelling this twisting path of the journey with me.

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

-Ari  

Of Birthdays, Worries, and Lessons

Hello My Dear One,

So here I am, one day away from my birthday, anxious, and largely dreading the day as I always seem to do.  Only 2 cards have arrived in the mail, there have been some early well wishes on Facebook, and I got to wear a paper crown that said "Happy Birthday Mr. Hilton" at work on Friday.
Kindergarten definitely has its perks.

My Birthday Crown!

I am not ungrateful for all that my family does to make my birthday special.  Rather, I am disappointed in myself for not being able to appreciate it in an "appropriate" manner, one in which I don't mope or seem sad.  And, I am disappointed that I am unable to express what I want to do in advance so that I could avoid plans that are not what I really want to do.  The worst part of it is, is that the plans that are made are always lovely, thoughtful, and often fun.  But somehow I get lost in the sadness of the day and the fact that I have not accomplished what I set out to in the past year.  I am embarrassed that I am another year older and still not who I thought I would be by now.  I am disappointed that I am not successful in the ways that I always imagined I would be, particularly as I approach 40 with lighting speed.

And yes, I know what a tumultuous year this has been for me and for my family.  I recognize the hell I have been through and the hell I have put everyone else through, and this only serves to remind me of the failures instead of the successes of the year.  Even though getting off of FDA approved meth, voluntarily committing myself to inpatient care in a psychiatric hospital, and getting hired to a position that is challenging, life changing, and most days fun, I find myself dwelling in the remorse of missed opportunities and fear of change.  I get stuck thinking about what could have been instead of what was.

And I look back now and I can see how so much has happened in my life during the past 12 months.
 
I nearly killed myself multiple times.  I spent a week in a psych ward learning that my Bipolar Disorder was painfully real.  I went through a myriad of medications.  I physically hurt myself and objects around me.  I emotionally hurt my loved ones, my wife, my children.  I spent countless hours in therapy.  I got a job.  I said goodbye to a mother that never was, while the physical remains of her latest endeavor still sit in an empty house while she rebuilds herself again halfway across the country.  I have watched my entire world crumble and seen the dawning of a new life that frightens me no matter what I try to tell myself.

I can also look back and see how much I have grown and changed during the past 12 months.

I have strengthened and grown my faith and come to terms with the dualities that I have chosen to live into.  I have committed to writing this blog and have followed through in a way that I never imagined possible.  I have become a better husband, a better father, and a better man.  I have reached out time and again for help when I needed it.  I have seen the true brokenness of my life and I have told the truth.  I have begun to tell the nightmarish stories of my childhood and young adulthood with honesty and frankness.  I have stopped lying to myself and others that what happened to me was OK, and that the people involved were doing the right thing.  I have let myself be vulnerable in an attempt to be healed and hopefully help others on their own paths to recovery. And I have spoken to hundreds of people here and in person about my life experiences and what love, kindness, and faith can do to make us all the individuals we are called to be.

And yet, there is a nagging worry within my psyche as I look toward the future, and what I have to offer, and what I will receive in the coming year.

I worry that I will not advance in my career.  I worry that I will not achieve the secret desires of my heart.  I worry that I will not be fully living into my call as an advocate and professional speaker.  I worry that I will spend the next year worrying.  But then again, as a good Jewish (though practicing secular humanist) friend has reminded me, "If you don't got something to worry about, you got something to worry about!"  It's true, as he also says, "Worrying is how my people pass the time."  And I suppose after 6000+ years of real and perceived persecution, we're a slightly more jittery lot than gentiles.  This internalized cultural sense of self as potential victim has definitely taken a toll on Jews and Judaism.  It leads to a lifelong paranoia that unfortunately has real roots that can be seen even today.  This year 2 synagogues in my state have been vandalized with spray painted on swastikas.  And no matter how much my wife may love Disney, I still cringe when many of the villains have stereotypical Jewish looking features.  I want to believe that being Jewish is something that is as valued as being Christian in this society, but one never sees Passover decorations in the storfront windows of rural Maine.  So, I worry.

Today, as I worry about tomorrow, which of course I rationally know is pointless, I think about every birthday that has come before and what I will experience tomorrow.  I worry that it will be like all the rest, a letdown, a hassle, a disappointment, a disaster, a day filled with activities I don't care for, and enforced "happiness" and celebration.  And in a way I will experience this due to self-fulfilling prophecy.  And yet, I will experience other things as well.  I will be present to my family and I will listen for the positive messages that have been surrounding me and I will remember the good I have been able to do.

The other night, I gave an hour and fifteen minute talk/lecture to an introductory psychology class at a local community college, on gender, transgender, intersex, sexual orientation, and related issues.  It started at 7:45 at night and lasted until 9:10 because of the questions the students had for me.  We laughed together, we learned about each other, and I remembered how much I truly love getting to be a part of someone else's growth and development, if only for a brief moment in time.  Teaching has always been my call.  Walking the path with someone as they learn new information about the world around them and consequently about themselves is by far the most rewarding experience I get to have.  And I am blessed to get to do this several times a year.  And of course I get to do this with 5 and 6 year olds 5 days a week during the school year.  It is my gift to them and their gift to me.

And maybe this is the real gift I have been wanting and the gift that I need to allow myself to receive on my birthday.  I need to accept the kind words of students, no matter their age, who compliment my abilities, no matter what those abilities are.  In kindergarten my drawing, cutting, and gluing skills are stunning.  In undergraduate classes my abilities to discuss my life experiences in a fun, innovative, educational, and relaxed manner that puts students at ease, and creates a safe space for all of us to learn, are stunning in an entirely different but equal way.  When a 5 year old tells me how well I drew and  colored a picture, and that same night a 20 something tells me that I really have a way with people, I know right down to my core that I am living into my call 100%.

Unfortunately, sometimes I lose complete sight of this, particularly on a day like today when I look inward and see the past, the darkness, the resting but ever restless beast, and the nearly 4 decades of birthdays that most often sucked.  And that's when I am called to ignore the beast of mental illness and its dangerous messages of regret, pain, and worry.  I must listen for the still small voice of G-d as I hear the words that were sent to me today, "G-d chose the day you were to enter this world...You, of all of us, should celebrate!"  Amen.

Thank you to all my family and friends for seeing the good and the G-d in me as much as I can see it them, especially when I cannot see it in myself.

Thank you for the celebration of being on this journey with me.

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


-Ari

Of Passover and Easter

Hello My Dear One,

It is nearly Spring, nearly Solstice, and nearly the time for the holiest events in 2 of the major world religions.  It is a time of great ritual and practice that is occurring during these weeks in March.  And for me it is a time of great reflection and deep digging into the core of my faith life.  I find myself particularly challenged as I experience the many ways that my families of origin and choice celebrate this time of year.  This renewal of Spring when we are released from the darkness of Winter.  It is the dawn from that darkest point that we have all been living in.  It is redemption from a fruitless season to growth and newness.  It is obvious that we need to get out of the hibernation and begin again to bloom from the holes that have kept us safe from the cold and dark of Winter.  

Having spent many of my birthdays in the middle of Passover and Holy Week, a time of internal faith struggle for me to begin with, there is an added layer of reflection on the anniversary of my entrance into this world.  I am forced to accept that even as the world around me continues to renew itself with plant and animal life, I am another year older, and my time here, though never guaranteed, is shorter than it was before.  This is a daily occurrence of course, however most of us are able to block that thought out in order to be more present to what we are doing.  If I spent everyday obsessing over when I will die, and today might be that day, I would never get anything done.  For some people this knowledge acts as a motivator to live life to the fullest, but I've never liked this 'live as if you were dying philosophy,' because it emphasizes the death part of the equation rather than life. I choose to assume that I will live another day and so I continue to fulfill my daily responsibilities.  It has to do with knowing I will die, but tomorrow morning will probably come whether I like it or not.  And honestly this means that there will be a new day with new opportunities.  For all of my inherent pessimism, this is one of the areas in my life where I turn into an optimist.  And this construct of life and death, life vs. death, life and death within each other, spurs my desire to know why these holy celebrations of life and death are both necessary and challenging for me season after season.

When it comes to Passover and Easter, I value both traditions in my life, however, having both creates immediate conflict as one denies the other, despite the fact that the one has come to being because of the other.  Christianity took Passover and turned it into the Resurrection Story and therefore the premise of the entire religion.  Judaism, although deeply rooted in the celebration and necessity of Pesach, is not solely defined by that series of historical events.  It is a rich and foundational part of Judaism, but it need not exist for Judaism to exist.  The belief in the one G-d of our ancestors is enough, though greatly enhanced by this act of redemption from slavery and salvation from imminent death.  This is frankly a recurrent theme throughout all of the Hebrew scriptures, a nomadic or exiled existence that seeks a physical address to call home.  And time after time our forefathers and foremothers sought a  location, a place, or even an idol to represent this sense of a spiritual home.  And usually, this did not end well.  This may in fact color my own religious experiences as I feel uncomfortable trying to confine G-d to a specific place, let alone a religious doctrine that excludes other faith practices.  And I believe that it reflects my own sense of wandering through a world wherein I did not have a stable foundation to build my life on.

So, the newer religion of Christianity, which was built upon the foundation of Judaism, took the historical act of Passover and used Jesus of Nazareth as both a new Moses and the embodiment of the Exodus, and the Promised Land.  I respect the incredible job done by the writers of the Christian scriptures who wove together all the important parts of Pesach into a format that would speak to the Messianic Jews of 1st century Palestine.  I also respect the work of all of the writers of the Hebrew scriptures, who gathered the oral traditions, the rituals, and the laws that were created throughout the millennia of early Judaism, to create a cohesive and meaningful storyline that would maintain a people who were being scattered to the 4 corners of the earth.  The difficulty therein for me is that I see both the Hebrew and the Christian scriptures as divinely inspired, yet written by humans with their own agendas.  And during this particular season, I have an ongoing battle over denial and acceptance that both stories hold truth for me.

Jesus was a prophet in a long line of Hebrew prophets, spreading the message that you need to love   G-d and love your neighbor as you love yourself.  Jesus' accurate condensing of the 10 commandments correlates with Moses' delivery of them during the time in the wilderness.  Some call us to love G-d and some guide our relationships with others.  So Jesus simplified the message for people who had gotten caught up in the details.  He was looking for reform, just like every other prophet, and he suffered the consequences of telling the truth.  For that I have deep respect and understanding that truth or even Truth is something that most people don't want to hear.  It is far easier to live with yourself if you can deny that some of your actions are harmful to the people and the world around you.  From snotty attitudes to global warming, from getting a bargain on cheaply made goods to buying genetically modified foods, from ignoring the suffering around you to holding tight to grudges that lost their significance decades ago, we all separate ourselves from the Truth that who we are is not what G-d calls us to be.  And when we do this we stop loving G-d and we stop loving our neighbor.  Jesus was trying to impart this message to the people of his time and like most who dare to speak up he was killed for his passion.

For believing Christians the story doesn't end there though, Jesus is revealed to be the Son of G-d and will be granted a resurrection from death because he is in fact partly or wholly G-d, depending upon your understanding of trinitarian theology, and therefore offer eternal life to those who believe this.  Now, the thought of eternal life in and of itself is not necessarily a bad thing, but it runs contrary to the Jewish understanding I have had throughout my life.  I see eternal life a little, ok a lot, differently than angels, and humans, playing harps and singing songs of praise to G-d, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit after an apocalyptic massacre of non-believers and the destruction of the Earth.  Of course not all Christians believe this, but the majority I have known and studied with in seminary do believe in some sort of afterlife wherein a heaven exists and we will be united with dead loved ones and live in this beautiful calm for all eternity.  For me, this is not what I was hoping for.  Honestly, the thought of that makes my stomach turn.  Because I see eternal life as a return to the components that have caused me to be here on Earth in the first place.  I understand my corporeal state as temporal and made up of atoms, molecules, and chemicals that are spinning around so fast that it gives the illusion of a solid existence.  Yes, I hold to a relative belief in string theory, and that there is complete validity to the Higgs-Boson theory as well.  I believe that when I die those particles, those atoms, those chemical compounds will be returned to the Earth, and the galaxy, and the universe from which they came.  I will simply be reabsorbed into the world that made me and become a part of millions of other things.  And that is a far more satisfying belief for me, that I will have a purpose in the ongoing Creation that G-d has made.

You see, I still believe in an ever present and unconditionally loving G-d, and I believe that this G-d is so much larger than anything that I can imagine that He/She/They/It/We doesn't need a tiny group of humans singing to it for ever and ever and ever.  I believe in a G-d that is in every molecule of my being and that seeks to create again and again and again in new and exciting ways that will create wonder, and joy for each new creation.  I believe that every creature experiences the awe of being, and that love is the foundation for that awe.  And simply put, I don't need an embodiment to give me a reassurance that I will continue on even after my time on this planet in this form is complete.  I don't need it because I witness it daily as the leaves rot and turn into life giving soil, and dead animals are turned into fuel for other animals, and their bones slowly return to calcium to feed the plants that they used for fuel when they were alive.  It is an endless daily cycle of death and rebirth that G-d has created and continues to be in each and every moment.

So, where does this leave me in the middle of this holy time?  It leaves me with a deeper sense of wonder for Creation, for enslavement, for liberation, for redemption, and for salvation, because it is happening every moment.  I am able to see the beauty of the world around me and the universe that contains such a tiny speck that allows me to sit here, at a machine, writing down my thoughts, and beliefs, and share them with more than just myself.  For that to be, I must believe in a G-d that is within each and every particle that exists.  And therefore I can believe that G-d was just as much a part of Moses as G-d was a part of Jesus.  We all are.  And that is the greatest saving grace of all.

Thank you for your continued sharing of the journey we are all on.

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

-Ari

Of Birthdays and Blame

Hello My Dear One,

So, at my latest therapy session my therapist "dropped a pebble in the pond" to try blogging about why my birthday month is depressing and/or triggering for me.  And I figured, why not?  I've written about far more traumatizing things than that, so what's the harm?  Of course the answer to that question is, of course it will be traumatizing, precisely because it is the beginning of my whole crazy story.  And as we all know the minute you say, "What's the harm?" there will be harm coming out of your eyeballs in a mere 20 seconds.  Anyway, here's the deal.

There are two parts to this story, one that is something that I have worked to keep private with an almost unreasonable intensity.  The other, something I am completely open about and have used as a personal core understanding of myself and of my writing.  And, because interesting stories have multiple layers and dimensions, the two parts are inextricably woven together.

The first part, if I must delineate one, has to do with my name.  Most writers have a pen name and I myself am called by another name in most of the circles I travel in.  That said, my name Ari, is my true "sense of self" name, and I use it when I write because it is the most authentic voice that I can channel my thoughts through.  But, being a transgender, intersex individual I was also given a birth name that is neither my name now nor my writing name.  And this is what keep private as best as I possibly can.  Now, I realize that all of my family, most of my old friends, and even some of my newer acquaintances know what my "old" name was.  It is not a secret to them, and quite honestly a simple search on the internet will divulge my past names in a matter of clicks.  That said, I continue to hide it whenever I am asked, and I refuse to share it when I give lectures, presentations, or lead discussions about transgender and intersex conditions.

I do this because there is an enormous degree of anxiety that comes with even hearing my "old"name let alone disclosing it on purpose.  When people slip and use incorrect pronouns after learning my previous gender presentation, I outwardly cringe.  When people use my "old" name I am horrified, and have a visceral reaction, often involving a distinct feeling of wanting to vomit.  So, in attempt to be true to the story I will use indirect references that through deductive reasoning could reveal my name, with the most heartfelt request that you refrain from using it or trying to comment about what it must have been.  And as I explain the story, perhaps you will understand why I ask this, and why the name itself has these painful and damaging qualities.

The other part of the story has to do with the dual religious seasons that occur in the Spring, often on or around my birthday.  This too has great significance as I wrestle with the interfaith life I have chosen and the stories that surround my birth during a particularly busy time within the liturgical year.  I was born during Pesach (Passover) and Holy Week, and from the beginning it was my fault for messing things up.  I did not arrive when I was "supposed" to, coming a few weeks early, and it set the scene for a lifetime of never feeling good enough.  If I was unable to be born correctly, well, how was I ever supposed to succeed?

But because babies are born when they are born, not when told to, I arrived at 1:25 AM on a Monday morning, the day after Palm Sunday.  My mother was then and continues now to be a church organist, and often a choir director.  And despite being in labor, she played the Palm Sunday service because her, or her beast's, need for attention outweighed the reality that another person needed to enter the world.  A mere 12 to 14 hours after performing for a packed congregation, I was born, thin but tall, and as I would hear from childhood on, the birth itself was truly an incredible achievement for my mother.  Over the years I have often wondered if my presence at it was secondary, if not tertiary, since the main character of the story was always her.  It was never about how amazing it was that I had come into the world.  That was certainly noted, but it reflected upon my mother's ability to help create life and then bring it into fruition, not my existence.

As I grew, I learned that I was a wellspring of inability within the first hours and days of my life as I was unable to latch on properly thereby preventing breastfeeding from ever occurring.  Yep, that was my fault too, and the myriad of formulas that were tried on me, left my tiny digestive system perpetually in flux.  To this very day, seriously, I will hear of the difficulty that my mother had trying to breastfeed me and how I "just didn't like her milk."  Somedays I think that perhaps my infant self knew that this would have never worked out anyway.  Given her instability, and insanity I might well have starved to death if not for formula.

Oh, and I was also born with a dislocated hip, this was treated by double diapering i.e. putting two diapers on me, and I have no idea if this was standard practice for the time, or if it would be the practice today, but it has led to lifelong issues with my pelvis, hips, and knees.  I am certain that I was blamed for this too, particularly during my teens when I spent more time with an orthopedic doctor for injury after injury, than I did in school.  I also know that this caused constant scheduling changes for my family, and that the trips to see the kind doctor were always tinged with annoyance and bitterness on the part of whichever parent was driving me.

Sadly, this is the reality of what Borderline Personality Disorder looks like when left to fester. It will smolder and smoke until the flames can burn more brightly when fed by the oxygen of narcissistic attention.  And it will in turn attempt to destroy everything around it.  From the beginning of all preverbal time in my life I was taught that whatever I was doing wasn't "right."  I was taught that I personally wasn't good enough.  And I was taught that it was my job to meet this woman's wants, wishes, desires, and needs, regardless of my own health and wellbeing.  And remember, I couldn't do anything RIGHT.  I have carried this painful mixed message for nearly 40 years and it has permeated every relationship I have ever had with anyone, personal, professional, or otherwise.

I have lived a life built upon the whims of another person, and I have translated this directly into my adult relationships, bending into unthinkable emotional positions to make sure that the other person was happy and perceiving me as "good enough."  And regrettably, I have done this as parent as well, often caving to my children's desires rather than risk their dislike of me.  Intellectually, I know that my wife and my sons love me regardless of what I do or who I am, but I never feel as though that what I do, or who I am is ever good enough.  It is a frustrating hot mess for all parties involved, and thankfully my continued work in therapy is slowly resolving this negative self identity.  Still, every day is a struggle to believe that I am good enough.

By returning to the issue of my birth name I believe that this will reveal the rest of my sense of not being good enough.  Before I was born, much like most parents do, dear old mom and dad had picked out a name for me, two actually, since they didn't know whether I was going to be a boy or a girl. Ironically, I feel like I might've had the last laugh on that one though.  Unfortunately for me, however the name was specific to when I was supposed to be born, the actual name of the month I was supposed to be born in.  And apparently, this was going to be my given name no matter what, since they were unable to come up with any other choices for names.  Other, less mentally ill parents might have reconsidered this choice, or at least reframed how the child learned about their name.  But the mental illness in my family prevented this from happening.  Indeed, I learned from preverbal days that I was named for what should have been, rather than what was.  I absorbed the message that I had messed up my own birth time, and would therefore have to suffer the consequences of this mistake.  It is an agonizing feeling to think that I was not good enough to be given a name of my own, but as we all know that problem was eventually resolved, even if it required an extreme amount of work on my part.

Over the years I attempted to get decent nicknames, or use my middle name, rather than my own.  But the nicknames never stuck, and I received my middle name as a gift to my godmother, her name, and it really wasn't "me" either.  Further, my godmother, a white South African pastor's wife, was an alcoholic. Even worse was the convoluted and diseased relationship she had with her deeply devoted husband, a Methodist minister who was exiled from South Africa for preaching against Apartheid in the early 1970's.  He would drive her to the airport on a regular basis so that she could return to South Africa to continue her adulterous affair with her male lover.  They eventually divorced, but sadly, alcohol was a better partner than his wife and he suffered an early death from cirrosis of the liver.  Somehow, this name never truly inspired me, and when I did change my name I removed it from myself as well.

At the age of 30, as I began my transition from living as a female to living as the male I actually was and am both mentally and physically, I changed my name to what I had always known it to be.  Granted, I did so with some spelling modifications to achieve a more androgynous effect, in order to ease the transition for others and myself.  Because like it or not, when one transitions from one perceived gender to another, there will be people who are opposed in strikingly hurtful and even violent ways.  The reality of becoming who you are is always a difficult one, no matter what direction you have decided to go.  For myself, as a transgender individual, with an intersex component, transitioning was a million times harder to live into than any other choice I've ever made.  

And for all that, it's true, I changed my name in a way that would make other people happy instead of entirely changing it for my own happiness, because some habits are incredibly hard to break.  But, my name is mine no matter the spelling, and it actually provides me with a special distinction.  Basically no one spells my name the way I do, and whenever I tell someone my name I have to spell it for them and they are always intrigued by it's uniqueness.  Sometimes I bring it back to my two faith traditions, and sometimes I use it as a gentle introduction to "Transgender 101" when the opportunity presents itself.

I have come to learn to love my name, my chosen name, for what it is, because at the end of the day I did choose it.  And I choose to live into it with all of the quirks and oddities it carries, because it is a reflection of me, and the inner pieces of my puzzle; Asperger's, transgender, intersex, anxiety, ADD, Bipolar  Disorder and all the rest.

So, as I continue to be triggered and frustrated by the profound sense of not being good enough, I ask your patience during this time.  I will continue to work on allowing the broken parts to be mended, and to trust that the G-d who does this, will make those broken places stronger than they were before.  I will do my part of the job too, taking my meds asking for healing, exercising and strengthening my faith, changing and adapting my thoughts and behaviors, and learning to trust that those around me love me for who I am.  And I will continue to let go of falling back into my beast's behaviors when I can't remember how to act.  

It is a long and often arduous journey, but it is still a gift, and I will do my best to honor that each day.

Thank you for staying on this journey with me.

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

-Ari

Of Medications and Minefields

Hello My Dear One,

So I was going to preface this whole thing with some background and history about the past few weeks and the changes in routine and what was going on in my day to day life that could have precipitated the recent events in my mental health life.  But when you're dealing with mental health, sometimes no amount of history will explain the crazy that can happen to you, no matter how much you want it to.

Unfortunately, it turned out that history played a huge part in the crisis I found myself stumbling through, but I didn't know that at the time.  And that's the hardest part of dealing with my beast of mental illness.  It never wants to remember the mistakes or the harm it caused it wants attention and it wants it now.

So, I had been more than a little irritable for about 10 days and at 5:30am one morning I had the full meltdown.  The "scary" voice returned, the one I remember my mother screaming at me in my childhood, and how even when it comes out of my own mouth now, I flinch in fear.  I was sobbing with depression intermixed with a rage that was uncontrollable, and I began to wish that suicide was a valid option.   My beast was grabbing at the wheel of my life and screaming out of control at a hundred miles per hour.

I tried to rationalize all the stress, all the triggers, all the schedule and routine changes that have occurred in my life recently.
I tried to feel the calm of the woman I love beside me telling me that it was OK.
I tried to believe that I could handle this.
I tried to believe in anything.

And in that moment, I knew that there was more to this than all the stresses and triggers in the world.  I thought about how the insomnia had been creeping in.  I thought about the extensive cleaning I had been doing.  I thought about how angry I had been at my family for no apparent reason.  And as I thought that, I knew that my tried and true response to problems in my life, was itself the real problem in my life.  I had been feeling depressed and I wanted to fix it with medication.  I wanted a pill to take away the pain.

I had begun taking a low dose of an anti-depressant once a day and then after one week, followed the direction to take a second dose later in the day.  This was the chemical part of the crisis prior to the emotional explosion.  And although this is a widely used anti-depressant, known for its efficacy and low occurrence of side effects, I'm "special" when it comes to medications.  I have what can be liberally called an unusual biochemistry, that causes me to experience rare side effects, even to the point of anaphylaxis.  I am known as an "outlier" on the statistical charts for reactions to medications.  And this safe, low dose drug wasn't working the way it was supposed to, at all.

I began to feel exactly as I had when I was taking stimulant medications.  I half-jokingly refer to myself during that period of time as an "FDA approved meth addict."  And to be honest, I was.  Trust me, on stimulants, I make the 'crazy-homeless-guy-walking-naked-through-the-park-in-a-snowstorm-carrying an-umbrella-and talking to his-own-beard,' look completely and totally sane and rational.  As I once heard someone say, "Meth is a hell of a drug" and I know how real that is.  I spent over a year on prescribed meth, yes the medications are more refined than the street versions, but the chemical compounds are essentially the same.  And that first high, you'll never get it again, no matter how hard you try.  You'll need more and more, and get less and less.  And yes, I'm still talking about prescribed medications here.  So, the antidepressant I was on can be used as a substituted stimulant/amphetamine for people with ADD who can't tolerate stimulants.  It has many similar characteristics to methylphenidate, and therefore I became a "meth addict" again for a week or so.  And I am not a pretty addict.  No one is.

In the short period of time since my Deconstruction or hospitalization/institutional stay less than 6 months ago, I had managed to forget how horrible it feels to be out of your mind, ramping into a manic episode.  I had forgotten the hellishly insane man that I am on these drugs.  I had forgotten the destruction I create for my family, my wife, my sons, when I am in that place.  I had chosen to forget.

I was falling apart and had no vision of how to put myself back together.

And all of this led me to understand some vital truths about myself.

I want quick fixes to my problems.
I want to numb the horror and run away from the pain that I have lived.
I want the nightmare of my past to vanish without the pain of dealing with it.
I want my beast to be vanquished.
I want to be "normal."

But I learned something else in that moment too.

I have changed.

I have changed, because the pain I was feeling led me to a completely different place than it ever had before.  I looked at the anguish and knew that I needed to do something about it.  And this time, it wasn't choosing to fling myself deeper into the rabbit hole, watch myself burn and take everyone around me down that twisted path to Hell.

Instead of choosing to suffer, and let my beast take over, I chose wellness and wholeness because I could see exactly what was happening.  I called my provider and told the truth.  And I was given the gift of compassion, respect, dignity, and the ability to schedule an appointment to get back to where I needed to be.  And I was given the gift of being able to stop taking the medication and come back from the cliff my beast was ready to plunge off of.

For the first time, I was able to turn to my beast and stop it in its tracks.  I was able to start walking away from it.  I was able to listen to my wife when she said that this was not me, and that the meds weren't working.  I was able to see that I was in trouble and no amount of rationalization, denial, or avoidance was going to make it go away.  And I knew that this was a turning point in my life.

For the first time ever I was able to honestly admit that I am an addict.  I had been enjoying the high of the mania and all that I was accomplishing.  I was loving my new found energy and my heightened awareness.  I was being seduced by the grandness of the manic swells, and I was slipping into my addiction without even realizing it.  And when I saw it for what it was, well, I knew.  I knew the pain.  And for the first time, I didn't want it.

So, today, I admit that I am an addict.  Not only to the drugs that can sometimes numb the pain, but to the pain itself.  I am addicted to the beast and the attention it craves as much as my mother is addicted to her beast.  And I am choosing sobriety instead of addiction to the meds, the pain, and the beast itself.  And yes, this too is a first.

Though words are often never enough, I will say them anyway, to at least begin the journey back to who I am called to be:

I ask forgiveness for the harm I have committed against my loved ones.

I ask forgiveness for the the pain I have caused, and at times reveled in, in myself.

I ask forgiveness for the separation, the love of the pain rather than the love of abundance, that I have put between myself and G-d.

It is time to heal.  And it is time to start putting the pieces back together, but this time in a new way.
My crazy mixed up million piece puzzle with no box, is once again laid out before me on the table of my life. And by the grace of G-d, there is more than one way to put it together. I'm ready to make a different picture this time, and with G-d's help I know that I can.

Thank you for looking at the puzzle pieces with me.

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

-Ari