Legally Crazy, in Transgender Sickness and Health

Hello My Dear One,
     Nearly 19 years ago, at our wedding, my wife and I recited vows we had written that reflected our youthful beliefs about our future. We were after all, "baby dykes," lesbians in our very early 20's, with idealistic gay pride dreams and plans for an "Out Loud and Proud," kind of life. Well, as out loud and proud as one can get in a rural college town in the northern woods of Maine.
     So, the timeless "in sickness and in health," phrase wasn't necessarily a direct quote in our marital pledges to each other. It was certainly implied, but not explicitly stated, and sometimes I wonder if that was an intentional oversight on my part, or just wishful thinking on her part. Maybe, at 23 we knew that we were invincible, and no disease was going to strike down two young, healthy, and attractive kids just starting their lives together.
     Of course, our reality has been nearly nineteen years of a partner (me) who has battled bacterial infections, dislocated joints, broken bones, viral attacks, Legionnaire's Disease, cancer, insulin dependent diabetes, Late Onset Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia, Bipolar 1 Disorder, and Gender Identity Disorder. And really, that's only a partial list. I've had at least a dozen surgeries, every test under the sun, treatments, therapies, medications, hospitalizations, and that infamous week in the psych ward. Currently, I am recovering from the flu. Sickness. A damn lot of sickness has been handed to my wife on the less than a silver platter of her spouse. Somehow, she manages, or exceeds at making it all work out, and I have absolutely no idea how she does it.
      But back to our wedding, to that rainbow pride flag filled day, with guests, and cake, and the promise of a fresh, new, and amazing start. Back to that moment when I saw the most beautiful woman in the entire world, floating down the aisle in pristine white and smiling at me with tears in her eyes. Eighty people disappeared from my sight as we met in the middle of our beginning. Time was standing still, and I remember little else from that afternoon, save the glitter that came exploding out of the air vents in my car as we drove away. Those responsible for this know who they are.
     What I am certain of, was my new wife hardly expected 14 years later she would be dealing with a female to male transgender husband who had been admitted to a psychiatric facility.
      Inpatient hospitalization happened that day for rapid cycling of extreme mania and immobilizing depression, withdrawal from FDA approved methamphetamine [medically prescribed stimulants for ADD], the refusal to take medications for Bipolar Disorder 1, and suicidal ideation and suicidality. There had been an attempt that morning as I drove myself to the crisis center, choosing at the last possible second not to plow into the telephone pole on my right. Only G-d could have been with me then, because I certainly wasn't.
     After the crisis center came the Emergency Department, then an ambulance ride, an elevator, and my delivery to the inpatient mental illness floor of the Catholic hospital an hour away. I was in a self-imposed and unsupervised detox, having mood swings of messianic proportions, and painfully suicidal. There was a team to keep me from falling apart. There were safety nets everywhere. And of course, there were bars on the windows.
      But what about my wife? Where was she in this chaos? Where were our children? And what could that woman possibly have been thinking? What was this sickness doing in her life?
     I don't have the answers about her emotional state, though I can guess, but what I do have are the memories of her presence each and every step of the way. I remember how she placed herself between my Beast and our boys. And how before I even arrived at the crisis center, she had reached out to family and friends to ensure that our children were safe, cared for, and loved. She was present for them as she reminded them their father still loved them, but he was sick. She was present when she told them that even though he'd stopped acting like the loving daddy they once knew, he was still there, somewhere. She protected them from the sickness, and from the Beast that was tearing his way through that man.
     And then, she was there at the crisis center, and then the ER. And when my Beast could no longer be contained she returned to our children, having faith that I would get the help that I needed. She was there at the psych ward, once even bringing those precious boys to visit the crazy man who had barely begun to accept the sickness and the Beast that were attempting to drag him into oblivion. A Beast and a sickness that were clawing at him from a hell that even he hadn't imagined, despite decades of mental illness.
      She was always present. Her love, support, and devotion were there every second that I was there, even though I couldn't recognize it at the time. The Beast tried to tell me otherwise, but pathological lying is a hallmark of that guy. And I know the Beast was wrong, because, almost five years later my wife is still present, still caring for, still worrying about, and still loving our sons, and me.
     And I believe that her ability to be present is a demonstration of love in action, the love that she has always known from and through her relationship with G-d. It is her faith that has been enough for both of us, has been enough for our family. It is her remarkably healthy faith that continues to combat and overcome the sickness in me and in our world, familial and otherwise. You should see her teach Sunday School sometime. So, the sickness and the health will always be present in our marriage, as will the faith that started with a hopelessly romantic fantasy, saw the births of two remarkable children, continued through years of immeasurable changes, and still persists in spite of all the reasons for it not to. And our family is blessed by a G-d who chooses to continue showing love through all of G-d's Beloved Children. 
      Thank you for living into the love in action along this journey.
Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

- Ari

Blessed by Love in Action

Of Progress, of Call, and of Footwashing

Hello Dear One,

As the end of my work year approaches, I am faced with being assessed and of assessing my own performance over the past months of my employment.  Needless to say this is not really my idea of a good time, however I understand it's importance, and that there are incredibly valuable life lessons to be processed and absorbed from the positive and negative experiences I've had.  I'd rather treat my supervisor and myself to ice cream and talk about the crazy stuff that happened, but that's not how public education actually works.  Rather, I must rehash the last six months of my work life, in too often painful ways, and hope that I will do better next time around.  That said, I will continue to repeat my mantra "water off a duck's back" as my "growth points" are highlighted for me.  And I will do my best to hear and incorporate the positive words and reinforcements that I know I will receive as well.

So, what have I experienced over the past six months?  As a student replied to me not long ago, when asked how many monkeys were dangling above the plastic barrel, "A lot."  And although the answer was correct, I happened to be going for a specific number value, and I suspect that my supervisor will be doing the same thing.  And yet, I also suspect that my supervisor will be looking at the "a lot" just as much as at the numbers.  You see, in public education, specifically special education, there is much that we cannot quantify with numbers or letter grades, despite the efforts of legislators, governors, and other elected officials.  The fact that I have been able to foster a relationship built upon trust, consistency, and genuine concern for the well-being of another person who desperately needed and desired this, simply cannot be summed up by any written symbol.  This remarkable evolution between two people is beyond the scope of ratings systems.  It is quite frankly beyond a great many people's comprehension.

More importantly, it is something that neither individual in this situation is expected to be able to do, based upon medical and/or psychological diagnoses.  Though I will never violate the confidentiality of my students, I can discuss my own struggles with making friends and forming appropriate relationships with other people.  I can and have discussed some of my past trials in education and the traumatic ways that it shaped me.  I was bullied as a child because of my "differentness" and I continue to work to build my self esteem and believe people when they compliment my efforts and my work.  Having learning disabilities, being on the autism spectrum, having a mental illness, having a parent with mental illness, living with the secret of gender identity issues, living with the secrets of intersex condition symptoms, and just plain being quirky have all shaped the man I am today.  And they were all reasons to bully, separate, harm, ostracize, exclude, and hurt me as well, most often by peers.  I did not have many friends growing up and my students rarely do either.  We are often just a little too different to be able to make, keep, and sustain traditional friendships, largely because our brains are not wired that way.  

So, the dorky, nerdy, geeky, dweeby, etc. kids eventually become friends with each other and find kindred spirits.  Sometimes they go on to wreak havoc in the world, committing crimes, seemingly senseless acts of violence, endangering others, and not "living up to their potential."  Sometimes, though, they turn out to be Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Mark Zuckerberg, Dr. Temple Grandin, Albert Einstein, or an Ed Tech in an elementary school working with kids diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum.  As the old joke goes, "It's either Jail or Yale..."

It is a great irony that is not lost on me that I hated, truly hated, going to school as a child.  And now, I get up every day excited and enthusiastic about going to work, in a school.  Yep, I have chosen to go to the very place that had a stranglehold on my young psyche, a place that I believed that I would never succeed in, no matter how hard I tried.  And G-d knows I tried.  By the time I was in high school I spent 3 times as long on homework and reading assignments as my classmates did, and although I was considered "smart" I struggled with written exams and being able to express my thoughts on paper.  My only real successes came in playing tuba in the marching band and being involved with the behind-the-scenes work of theater.  School was simply a nightmare for me.  I never imagined that someday I would find myself right in the middle of that environment by choice.  And yet, here I am, loving every minute of the educational team and practices that I am in.

And as I look back over the past 6 months I see other things that I have learned and incorporated into my life as well.  First and foremost I have learned to remove myself, or more specifically, my ego, from many situations.  I have learned that when something is bothering someone it is better to find out what is going on with them, rather than assuming that it has something to do with me.  Because as it turns out, very little of what the people around me are concerned with has to do with me in any shape, form, or matter.  Most people are focused on themselves and spend far more time and energy thinking about what they are doing and almost no time on the people around them.  So, I've learned to step back, breathe, repeat my mantra "Water off a duck's back," and wait.  Just wait, and find out what that person needs, if anything at all, from me.  I don't have to have all the answers.  I don't have to have any of the answers.  My job is to wait, to listen, and to do what is asked of me.  I have learned how to do that more successfully over the past 6 months than in any other setting in my life.

Second on the list is that I have learned to let things play out, to unfold as they will without my intervention, and if necessary to let the system itself fail.  Sometimes in life we believe that we know the answer, or we have the best solution, or that we are right and the other person is wrong when it comes to a particular challenge.  And in fact, sometimes we do.  Sometimes we are right about an outcome and could have altered the result to something more productive.  At the same time we cannot deny someone else the opportunity to fail, or the system that this individual is working within to fail.  Rarely do we learn from our successes that came without trial and many errors.  It is a vital life lesson to learn how to fail and be able to recover.  Each time I do not accomplish a certain goal I am able to reflect on why it didn't happen and what I can do differently in the future.  So for all those individuals who say that "failure is not an option" I believe that sometimes failure is the best option and it will lead us into greater triumphs if we are willing to follow the new direction we are offered.

The last major item on the list of what I have learned is that I have at last found my calling, and have been granted the human and the Divine approval that I need and deserve for reaching this place on the journey.  It has come in many forms to me that I am called to a life of behavioral and mental health ministry within the context of public education.  I am acutely aware and in support of the separation of church and state, particularly in the elementary schools of the United States of America, as ours is a pluralistic nation that has not been able to embrace a universal moral code of ethics to truly guide it.  There are a multitude of religious options available to the people who choose to live in the U.S., yet there is a distinct lack of tolerance and acceptance for the many options and for those who choose options that are not what is considered to be the "right" one(s).  Yet all of that does not alter my own understanding of a call to ministry within a secular setting.  

I have heard the words that came from Dr. Temple Grandin after I had shared with her about my choice to work rather than collect disability payments.  She replied, "That made my day.  Even if I have to miss my plane, that made my day."  She asked me what I did for work and I told her that I teach young children who have been diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum.  "And I bet you love it," she stated.  Yes, I answered emphatically, I love my job. "Good." spoke Dr. Grandin.  That was the Divine approval I had needed.  I was able to hear that I was following G-d's call for me.

I later found myself in the middle of a Mother's Day project in school.  The classroom teacher painted the hands and feet of the 19 children who then pressed them on to large sheets of paper to make flowers with great leaves surrounding them as pictures for their mothers.  As she applied the green paint with a brush that tickled their feet, she would then place them on the paper, imprints of fleeting childhood preserved as a reminder of the impermanence of these precious years.  And as I knelt beside her I washed each child's feet in the bucket of soapy water in front of me.  I was on my knees, cleaning away the paint, the dirt, and whatever else was on those little feet and toes, and I felt that Divine approval again.  I knew that I was serving.  It was my job to help these children do something they couldn't physically do themselves yet, particularly in a classroom setting.  Yes, the metaphor, the christian imagery, the religious nature of the experience was blatant, but the meaning was far deeper.  I knelt there smiling, happy, relaxed, comfortable, and comforted that I was able to do this and be myself at the same time.  Mr. Hilton was washing kindergarteners' feet.  I was there for them and not myself.   

Awhile ago I had a conversation about faith and religion with a colleague of mine.  She ascribes to a far more fundamentalist and evangelical brand of faith than I do, still she made an excellent point in stating that she didn't have to talk about G-d in school to keep G-d in her heart and share that love with her students.  

And recently while in a room with her during an incident I was reminded of her belief, and consequently my own.  I sat in a room watching another human being, a very young one at that, suffering from the sometimes beast of autism, learned behaviors, quirky wiring, confusion, fear, frustration, and pain that was physically spilling out of this little body and permeating all of us as well.  I sat feeling discouraged that I had not been able to intervene in a meaningful way.  I felt sad that it had come to this point.  I was unsure of my own abilities and what I was feeling as I witnessed it all.  And then I saw my colleague kneeling as she held the child's feet to prevent kicking, and I knew that my role at that moment was to pray.  And I prayed deeply from within myself.  I prayed from within my heart, the room already too crowded with distress, my prayers were silent to all except G-d.  I asked G-d to show all the love, comfort, support, and mercy that is G-d, to this child.  I prayed for safety for the child.  I prayed that the child would feel the love and support from G-d and from us.  I prayed for this child of G-d.  And in what felt like a few heartbeats, the calm, still, small voice of G-d breathed fresh air into that tiny room.  In a matter of moments the meltdown was over and it took less than 4 minutes.  It was a moment of true grace.

All of these things and so many more have been the beacon lights in my journey over the past 6 months and I know within myself how important, valid, and real my call to teaching is.  

21st century java!

And as for the human approval, well, I was nominated multiple times for "Making A Difference" Awards, and I recently "won" and got to choose a prize out of the goody bag.  It's a travel coffee mug with a warming base that plugs into a laptop.  Coffee and geeky.  Great combination.  




In fact, that very differentness, weirdness, otherness that set me apart from peers when I was young, now sets me apart from my peers in a brilliant, rather than in a tragic way.  I understand what my students are living through and I can help them all the more because of it.  I know what the hell feels like.  I understand being on the outside.  I understand being disliked.  I understand not being understood.  I don't have to try to put myself in their shoes, I already am.  And just knowing that is the best progress I can ask for from myself or my students.

Thank you for continuing to journey with me as we walk with the feet we've been given.

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

-Ari

Listening for the Call

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