My November Beast of Bipolar Mental Illness

Hello My Dear One,

The writer T.S. Eliot said that April is the cruelest month, but for me, November is far worse. There is something about November that brings out or up the crazy that can normally be dealt with most other months of the year. It's a special holiday crazy if you like. Honestly, I don't like it one bit, but My Beast of Mental Illness seems to revel in it.

Maybe it's the creeping darkness here in the northern part of North America where I live. Maybe it's the cold, wet, and snowy winds paired with the final descents of the autumn leaves. Maybe it's the chemical hailstorm that occurs every 5 to 6 months regardless of the seasons. Or maybe it's the lead up to the Christmas Season, and its pressure to feel happy, overjoyed even, about the origin story of a 2000-year-old religion turned national holiday of gluttony and selfishness. And don't forget Thanksgiving, Black Friday, Chanukkah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, and a million other reasons to feel that material items will bring light into your darkness.  But most likely it is a combination of all of those things in largely unequal measures.

And here I am, sitting in a knee-deep pile of November wondering what I hope to accomplish with the rest of my life.

November is the harbinger of endings, and there is something deeply unsettling about that for me as a person with Bipolar Disorder 1. My sleeping Beast of Mental Illness is awoken by my nightmares of purposelessness and potentially futile endeavors. And he pounces on this with full force and full ferocity. He is nothing if not consistent in his attempts at convincing me of my worthlessness. Within this time of self-reflection/self-loathing, there is ample material for him to sculpt and manipulate me. Creativity, though limited to an almost singular subject, is my Beast's strong suit. There are always new and inventive ways for me to experience existential angst with a side of paranoia and mania at no extra charge. Trust me, this guy is a pro.

November 2001, a mere 18 years ago, was the first time my Beast took the reins and I couldn't take them back. I experienced rapid-cycling, meaning mania followed by severe depression, as often as 4 times per hour. Every 15 minutes I would swing from believing I would be the next solution to all of the world's problems, to holding a pillow over my face while attempting to suffocate myself. I would reach highs that would've made meth addicts jealous. Then the lows that followed would've made those same meth addicts' crashes feel like tiny tumbles onto a cushy floor covered with cashmere.

I was officially diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder that year, and perhaps that's why I see November as the ending of me. Or at least as the ending of who I thought I was. November is the anniversary of the loss of my prior identity. At 26 years old I was suddenly someone who needed massive amounts of psychiatric drugs to go grocery shopping. I was no longer "creative," "eccentric," or "unique," rather, I was "sick," "crazy," or "insane." My Beast was no longer a worry in the back of my mind, but a full-blown reality in my frontal lobe.

I was dis-eased in every way possible. And each day was a battle for even a gram of wellness. Some mornings it felt like I'd lost a kilo of sanity the night before. With each increase in one of the medication dosages, I would feel worse for a while, then better, and then back to worse as my mind and body would adjust and adapt to the neurochemical dance. Most often I would sleep for untold hours, ironically wearing athletic clothes while I laid on my couch for days on end. I gained more than 110 kilograms (50 lbs) and saw my not quite manageable diabetes become unmanageable in almost every way.  

Yet, I chose to keep going, fighting through my last semester of university, and even applying and being accepted into graduate school. I completed a 79 credit Master of Arts while taking 2000mg of Depakote and 60mg of Paxil every day for 5 years. I also became a parent of 2 sons and underwent Gender Identity Disorder therapy, medical treatments, and 2 surgeries. But that's another topic for another day.
    
So, where am I now, nearly 2 decades later? I'm not suffering through those original night terrors, but, yes it's often still a nightmare to try to exist in this space. My Beast and I have fallen all the way down since, and 7 years ago I finally received better treatment in an inpatient mental health facility. But, here's a small part of what my time now looks like:

Medications tweaked. Emotions addressed. Rollercoasters to ride and prayers that they end. Meltdowns that erupt. Apologies to be offered. Relationships to be repaired. Actions that attempt to make things better. Fear, anxiety, self-loathing, depression, and self-pity. Elation, exuberance, unrealistic expectations, mania, and unfounded superiority over others. And the never-ending battle for control between My Beast and myself. 

It's an arduous task to attempt every day. And in all likelihood, it's even more so for everyone around me. I am regimented yet unpredictable. I am a loose cannon yet afraid of confrontation. I am the monster in the closet and yet I too am hiding under the covers of the bed.

I am living with My Beast, and others live with both of us. And each November we all find ourselves frustrated, afraid, angry, disappointed, joyous, optimistic, and secretly worried that this might be the last November we all have together. And in the end, that is the darkest part of this cruelest month, the knowledge that the light may not return. But after 18 Novembers that have come and gone, I have faith that number 19 will pass the same way, and we'll all still be here for another try.

Thank you for choosing to live on and through this journey with me.

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

-Ari

Transgender Male Privilege

Hello My Dear One,
     When I transitioned from female to male I had a lot of expectations. I wanted to feel like myself. I wanted to feel appropriately masculine, manly, male, or whatever I imagined that was at the time. I wanted to walk through the world finally being seen as who I really was. I wanted people to treat me the way that they treated other men. I wanted people to stop wondering what my gender was, and to accept the one that I presented. I thought that being male meant that things would be easier for me as I continued on my journey in life.
     And I was correct about life being easier in many ways. Yes, there were people who knew me prior to and during transition who struggled with my new voice, my new look, my new body. But, for the most part, becoming physically male was indeed a step up. Not surprisingly, being a white male in America is more than just good, it's like being better than everyone else.

All. Of. The. Time.

     Initially, I was struck with the injustice of how women were treated in a more visceral way than I ever had before. Although I knew that misogyny and harassment were part and parcel of my daily life, I didn't have the male perspective to see all of the moving parts and pieces. The intentional disrespect, the intentional and unintentional dismissals, the painful inequalities, and the underlying disregard for women that so many men have. And yes, there are good men out there, but even they, even I, don't see all of the ways in which we treat women as less than.
     Recently, I have found myself aware of this problem again, and the way in which I use male privilege in my daily interactions. It's true, after 13+ years living exclusively as a male, I now take for granted that I will receive better service, be treated as though I know more, and be expected to occupy space as though I own it. I walk into settings where being a man is an advantage, almost all settings really, and I run with it. I can claim my rightful place as better than, simply by entering the room. And after 30 years of having been treated as significantly less than, simply because I was a woman, I will admit that it feels good.
     But, I am a transgender man, not a full member of the brotherhood. I was not born with certain physical attributes that allow me to join the club. I live with a body that is not 100% male, and never will be. Everyday, I am reminded that I am not like most other men I meet. There are discrepancies between my anatomy and my gender presentation. There are even greater discrepancies between my gender presentation and my thinking.
     After 30 years of being instructed, taught, and forced to express a female gender identity, often with disastrous results, I still question what I do in public as a man. I question my choices of vocabulary, my clothes, the way I'm standing, and the pitch of my voice. I question my order at the coffee shop. Do "real [heterosexual] men" order caramel macchiatos and lavender infused scones? And I still have fear when I enter a mens' room. I worry that someone will think that the sound of my peeing isn't quite right, and I will be questioned, or harassed, or attacked. I still fear the hypothetical man in the dark parking lot, until I realize that I am that man in the parking lot. I'm no longer supposed to fear sexual assault, rather I am now seen as the cause of it.
     So, what does all this mean for how I use my male privilege in the world? Does it make me kinder? Does it make me more compassionate? Does it make me treat others, particularly women, with a deeper respect? Do I model what it means to be a good man?

Sometimes.

     Like all discrimination and biases, it is far easier to ignore that which might change our own status. It is much more convenient to rest into privilege than challenge oneself to see the harm they may be doing. And I am no different in that respect. Being a man in the Western world affords a path that avoids many of the troubles that women face. And why would anyone pass up the opportunity to save themselves from discomfort or distress?
     Well, the answer for me is, yes, because I am a father of two sons. Two cisgender, probably heterosexual, teenagers who are rapidly becoming men in this world. And it is one of my most important duties to show them what it means to be a good man, particularly in respect to women. First and foremost that their mother is a complete and total human being. That she is a Beloved and therefore Equal Child of G-d. And before she was their mother she was, and is my partner, my wife, and my best friend. For them to truly respect her, they must also respect the relationship that she and I have. To be real men they must show love, commitment, and respect to all people.
     Is this always easy? Is it comfortable? Is it possible? No. Not always. But, it is something that must be done in order to change how we as people treat each other. Males/men, females/women, intersex, gender non-conforming, and everyone else in between is a Beloved Child of G-d. We all deserve dignity, love, respect, hope, and the knowledge that we are more than the sum of our parts. Body, mind, and soul. And that is no privilege. That is a G-d given right.

Thank you for honoring me with your continued presence along the journey.

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

-Ari

Losing Our Words and Losing Our Meanings

Hello My Dear One,

I've found that I'm losing my words. Or, more accurately, I'm losing my ability to communicate with words, out loud, with other people. Oddly, it's not been with my Hebrew or Yiddish words, I use them rarely anyway, or my ASL signs. Neither have I lost my understandings, or lack thereof, of French, Italian, German, Latin, or Mandarin Chinese. No, it's not the "foreign" languages that bother, it's my "native" one, English, that I seem to struggle with.

To say that English is my first language is a partial truth. As someone with learning disabilities that include dyslexia, as well as Asperger's Syndrome, language itself is a construct. My native tongue is a cobbled together, linguistically questionable one called "Arin." It's an unofficially unrecognized dialect of English...probably.

Poetically, I see my language as a Monarch butterfly caught between a windy current and a milkweed leaf, like a moment where magic sometimes happens. Sometimes the ideas, sounds, and scribbles float aimlessly and uncontrollably, and are blown away in the gusts of air that propel them. A sudden aphasia of confusion descends and the meanings are caught in a cycle of knowing and unknowable. Other times, all the thoughts, letters, and words come together in an incredible array of colors, patterns, and visual textures. The message lands softly on the perfect spot, and holds fast creating an image of detailed beauty.

In reality, it's more apt to be like strands of wet spaghetti thrown at a wall. If the pasta sticks, it's done enough to eat. If it slides down into the dust bunnies in the corner, not so much.

When I write, I have the time to think about each word. I have the time to sit and look at each one as it appears on the page. I can pause for minutes, hours, days, weeks, and even months at a time. I can write, delete, rewrite, delete, and rewrite a thousand times more. Each sentence is handcrafted one consonant, vowel, and grammatical convention at a time. There is a natural space between the words, and a cohesiveness to the ideas. And there is a hope, that the words themselves carry with them, of clarity and understanding.

When I speak, however, my language comes in fits and spurts. It's like a "rough draft," that is poured out hastily so that nothing will be forgotten or lost. Therefore, many, many edits will need to be made. And when speaking, that sounds like the speaker has an inherent indecisiveness. Or worse, that they are incompetent about a subject.

Perhaps, some of my communication troubles are linked to my writing. People who know me, have in all likelihood read emails, letters, posts, or text messages from me. I can write a good email, as long as I take my time. Texting goes ok, again with breathing spaces during the conversation. And hopefully, my longer missives are finely crafted communications.

Perhaps, some of my difficulties stem from the rapid nature of communication today. With the constant deluge of information of daily input, we have come to expect an instant response to our inquiries. We await that return text as though our lives depended on it. We cannot stand to sit still in our unknowing, when we can search for answers to billions of questions in a matter of nanoseconds.

In the end though, I know that the majority of my communication problems stem from within. I think and feel in a way that is not neuro-typical. I see and assess my surroundings in ways that take longer and more circuitous routes than those who are wired in non-aspie/non-spectrum ways. The pathways that the neurons take in my brain are in radically different formations than that of someone who is not on the autism spectrum. I reach conclusions that are atypical, a word I first learned in grade 7, when I had to use a thesaurus for a Language Arts (grammar) quiz. Ironically, my teacher marked my response using the word atypical as incorrect because she thought that it was not a word. But I stood my ground, and in what I see as an ironic twist, she left education for waitressing a few years later. Maybe she realized that if the student could be right, the customer was always right.

Regardless, I know that how I say my words will be a challenge for me and for those around me. The meaning may be good, but the terms and the syntax may prevent the listener from hearing the message. Sadly, the older I get the less tolerance I have for those who try to wordsmith what I say as I am saying it. I know full well that I may not have expressed my concerns, hopes, or whatever other thoughts in the best way. But, I am doing the best that I can. I wish that those listeners would wait a breath and hear me before they respond. Maybe we might both be heard more clearly if we paused for a moment.

Just Listen

And maybe, that's what we all really need if we want to be heard. If we don't want to lose our words. If we don't want to lose our meanings. We need to stop and listen. We need to breathe before we spew out a response. We need to wait into the conversation and hear what each other is trying to share.


And when we do that, we will gain more words, more meanings, and more trust in each other's abilities to work together.

Thank you for taking the time to listen to this part of the journey.

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

- Ari

Losing My (Genetic) Identity

Hello My Dear One,

Last December I gave a sample of my DNA in a saliva filled tube to a popular company, and waited for some genetic answers to my ancestral past. I was hoping to learn more about my history, my ethnicities, and the other exciting things that came with the promises on the box. Like, does dark chocolate make me sneeze?

I guess I should've known that the testing was going to change things for me from the beginning. When I submitted the kit and filled out the online information, I checked the box that said male. But less than a week later I received an email that said I needed to go to my online profile and answer a question. The DNA sample submitted was from a female, and they needed to know if I had checked the wrong box, mixed up samples, or was it a gender identity issue?

So, I changed my profile to match my DNA, because I had to correct a purposeful lie. I'm not really a male of the species. I am a man, which describes my gender identity and expression, but not a male, because that has to do with my biological sex. And according to my DNA, I have 2 X chromosomes, and am for scientific classification purposes, female. I often identify as transsexual rather than transgender, due to medical interventions such as hormone therapy and surgical procedures. Yet, my DNA is forever encoded to produce a human whose first introduction to the world would be "It's a girl!" A thousand years from now if someone tested a single remaining cell of mine, they would never know that I had lived as a man.

A few weeks later when the test results came back, knowing a good portion of my family tree, I was not surprised to see the British Isles genomic markers, or the French/Germanic results. Learning that I have 306 traits of Neanderthal genetics, making me approximately 4% "caveman," wasn't all that odd either. But, it was the absence of some genes that was an issue.

According to my DNA, I am not (genetically) a Jew.

In all likelihood, it's a matter of an incorrect birth certificate several generations back. No, I don't want to do more digging, that information was not what I wanted in the first place.

Regardless, having been raised with a mix of Conservadox Judaism and Protestant Christianity, I've always felt like I'm in the middle of a religious road. Moreover, there is a G-d shaped 18 wheeler bearing down on me at a very high rate of speed.

Now, several months later, I find myself having gone through a wild ride of emotions and thoughts. How do I process this information in the first place? How do I reconcile my sense of self, with my genetic self? What does all of this mean to my faith and spiritual life? Does it make things easier or harder? How much do I actually have to reconcile anyway?

I learned all of this before Chanukah this year, and it shook me. It was so unsettling that I didn't retrieve my menorah from storage, and I never lit a single candle, though I frequently caught myself singing the blessings in my head. Although I try to live my life with no regrets, I decidedly regret not shining light into the darkness.

In the following weeks and months I continued to struggle with this new genetic understanding of myself. Oddly, it's been far more difficult to wrestle with this than with my gender identity genetics. You'd think that my biological sex being proven as the exact opposite of who I know myself to be would be far more traumatizing, or crushing, or painful. But it isn't. That biology doesn't really affect how I walk through the world. With hormones and surgeries I "look" male, and I feel male. Even my brain works and communicates differently than it did prior to transition, or at least that's what my wife tells me.

And, honestly, my gender identity and expression is not who I am at the end of the day. I've always known what my gender identity is, that I was a boy, and now a man. Even when the outside didn't match the inside, I still knew exactly who I was. Rather, it is how I act, how I speak, how I may have helped or harmed another, and how I reconciled that with G-d. Hormones and body parts don't change that reality. They are simply a part of the human packaging.

So if I'm able to make that immensely complicated genetic scramble into something so simple, why has it felt nearly impossible to do so with what could've been as little as 12.5% of my DNA? Who am I if not this flesh and most importantly blood self? How do I know myself as a Beloved Child of G-d, an "Un Homme de Dieu," and a thousand other names for a faith believer? And in the end will it really matter?

The answers to those questions are so massive that I cannot answer them all just yet. Maybe I can't even answer them at all. But, a telling thing happened to me and I guess it provides a hint of what may come.

I was introduced to a young man who is a practicing Muslim, and I immediately said, "Salaam Alaikum!" which is an Arabic greeting meaning peace to you. It is nearly identical to the Hebrew phrase "Shalom Aleichem," which also means peace to you. I happened to be cooking sausages and I shared that I didn't eat pork either since I was Jewish. I quickly pointed out that the people around us, the other members of the church, were not Jewish, but that I was. Yes, I am a member of a church, and apparently, when faced with with someone of a different faith in that setting, I find myself claiming my otherness. And, to be clear, I always greet someone I know to be Muslim with the words Salaam Alaikum, because I want them to know that a white person can be welcoming of who they are. And I do this during presentations as well. I see interfaith dialogue as the only way to truly living out G-d's Dream.

So, there's an answer to all of this. I am an interfaith Beloved Child of G-d, a muddled man of faith, un homme de dieu à plusieurs parties (a man of G-d with multiple parts,) and Heaven knows what else. And hopefully, without sounding too presumptuous, like G-d, I am who/what I am.

Thank you for being on this genetically scattered journey with me.



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

Ari