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.
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
You know...as difficult as it was for me to learn to call you by your chosen name, i couldn't for the life of me even remember the name you were called when we first met at BTS. Until the hint you alluded to in this beautifully written and heart-achingly honest reflection. Thank you for sharing what must have been profoundly difficult to write. Terri
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