Of At-One-Ment, of Being Enough

Hello My Dear One,
      Rosh Hashanah has come and gone, the new year [5775] ushered in, the shofar blown, and our sins sent out into the waters. Yom Kippur is over as well, and we have atoned for our wrongdoings and are sealed in the Book for another year. Sukkot, even if I do still have cabbages in the garden, with our celebrations of wandering, harvesting, and backyard huts is complete as well. There is a clean slate, an array of beautifully colored chalks, and an invitation to create anew. 
      But I do not feel it. I am uninspired. Instead I feel the weight of what is to come, burdened by the violence of the past year. I feel the fear. I taste it.  
      Why? Why do I choose to see the suffering, the sins, and the separations, especially after I have just atoned for all of them less than a month ago? Is there something more appealing about the negatives? Is it my Beast sniffing around, trying to prey on my weakness for a half empty glass? I don't know. 
      I do know that it happens every year. I know that I find the dark spots of myself almost delicious. It's as if I want to reveal how terrible I really am. Is it my doing or is it my Beast's? Is it a collaboration of the two of us? And how much of it will be shown to the rest of the world? How much do I actually want to be judged?
      I was just called to atone for my sins. Now, I personally define sin as: separation or the act of separating myself from G-d; to live outside of covenant; to choose an independent path, one that may or may not lead to a livable outcome. I performed a kind of spiritual surgery that dissects the comfortable, yet prickly habits of my mind, the downright dangerous grudges, and my failures to forgive. I broke apart the self-aggrandized acts of teshuvah that I congratulated myself for, from the real, and far less glamorous forgiveness I have experienced and have given.
      And I confessed all of the sins I committed this past year. I attempted to at-one-ment myself back into relationship, right-relatedness with G-d. I expelled the grudges. I offered forgiveness. I accepted that I had been forgiven by G-d. I moved out of the old year's agonies and into the new year's possibilities.
      But here I am, reveling in the evils that were, and making myself feel like a horrible person, not worthy of the forgiveness I've already been granted. And as I sit with this, I feel the realness of mental illness, the hardness of past abuses, and the deepest truth that I wrestle with each and every day.

I don't believe that I will ever be worthy enough. 

      In the face of therapy, medications, writing, praying, working, the assurances in Torah, and the tangible proof in my life, I still question my worthiness. 

In moments of true narcissism, I want to claim that I am the victim of some cosmic tragedy that has time and again left me with too few resources, be them financial, emotional, psychological, or spiritual. I want to believe that if something, anything had been different in my life, then I wouldn't be dealing with the perpetual disappointments of the everyday. I want to believe that my suffering entitles me to an extra helping of pity from the world. Most cruelly, I believe that others do not need to be forgiven, because of all the pain they have caused me.

      When I cannot see others, as my neighbors, I sin. When I fail to see the inherent worth of all of G-d's children, I fail to see my inherent worth as a child of G-d. If I am not worthy, then my neighbors are valueless as well, I whisper into the dark vastness I have placed between myself and G-d. 
      And I want G-d to whisper back, "Child. Why? Son, when will you accept My acceptance? When will you realize that you are truly worthy of love, respect, and safety? When will you finally let go of the pains of the past and come into the current? It is time child to accept forgiveness, and believe it. Trust Me. Every Child of G-d is forgiven. Every single one. And you are one. You are worthy. You are enough." 
      And when I listen with every fiber of my body, my mind, and my soul, right now, I can hear that whisper. I feel the sorrow, the compassion, and the release. I am present. And for a moment or two I am enough.
      Unlike G-d though, I am painfully human. I will take offense at perceived slights. I will feel insulted by offhanded remarks. I will lose my temper at my spouse, my children, the GPS on my smartphone, and probably many other people and inanimate objects. I will in all likelihood find a grudge, muckle onto it, and store it in the darkness of my own pettiness. I will forget that I am forgiven, that everyone is forgiven, and I will forget our collective worthiness as children of G-d.
     But for now, I can remember that I am whole, I am enough, I am more than I will ever know. Through this holy experience of welcoming a new year, seeking forgiveness and a page turn on the old year, I am assured that I am truly good enough for G-d.

Thank you for your forgiveness on my journey.

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

Worthy

-Ari 

Of The Holiday Beast of Mental Illness, Of Dave and Steve, and Of New Years

Hello My Dear One,

Happy New Year.  Happy New Beginning.  Happy January.  Welcome 2014, welcome to the hope that comes with the replacement of the old calendar covered with marks, tears, and dirt, with an unblemished shiny twelve new months.  Say adieu to the old year and bonjour to the new one.  But let's make sure that we don't lose the lessons learned from the last year.  Let's remember what was, and envision what might be, but let's keep an eye on the short term before and after now, thinking of what has just been and what might come.

Ok, so I'm not really that optimistic and flowery, not to mention I celebrate Rosh Hashanah as a more accurate New Year for myself.  But still, I look forward to the upcoming months and the inherent belief in the possibilities for change, renewal, and rebirth.  It is Winter, and therefore, we must suffer the dark and the cold with the hope that Spring will eventually come.  But before those first tiny buds of growth appear we must suffer the holidays of December, the potholes, and the problems that come with Winter. 

Last month, much as it is every year for me, was a doozy.  It was once again the "Holiday Season," the time of year when a merchandising and marketing blitzkrieg of overpriced, unwanted, and unfairly produced stuff occurs, a bombardment of things that could have defeated the Third Reich itself.  It was a commercial assault that aimed to blanket us with the insidious belief that "wants" are really "needs," and that you may not survive if you don't get what you "need." Yes, it was December in the United States of America, a month devoted to obsessively and compulsively shopping at all hours of the day and night, both prior to Christmas, and afterward for the big sales that follow.  It was the time of year that can bring out the best and the worst in people, as the act of giving becomes a battle to profess one's love through the quantity of gifts that can be bestowed.  Often, it is a losing battle for both the givers and the receivers, as added debts of money and guilt are placed upon each person, like necklaces made of millstones rather than pearls.

It was near.  The neon lights within the darkness.  The hope that the ice would eventually melt.  The candles that are the prayers for renewal were about to burn.  The time was very near.

Yes, even within the monetary battle for supremacy there is still a glimmer of the root truths of the winter holidays.  For all the glittery trinkets that surround us, there is a need for marking the darkest day of the year and the light that will follow.  Chanukkah, Christmas, Solstice, Kwanzaa, New Year's Eve are all celebrations that incorporate light into the darkness, both literally and figuratively.

But what if one is overstimulated by too much light?  What if the promises of hope are greater than the possible realities?  What if the darkness can blot out the light?

Unfortunately for me, and for my family, the beast of my mental illness has a particular nearness and problem with the issues of light in the darkness.  The beast becomes so engrossed in the mania of the holiday season itself, that the complimentary anxiety, depression, stress, anger, and overall dis-regulation strengthen into an all encompassing break with reality.  That horrifying moment of collapse and meltdown comes pouring out of him, out of me, creating pools of dark, gooey, urine soaked, and blood filled nightmares across the wooden floors of the world around me.  The pools ooze out further, seeping into the cracks between the boards, and contaminating every surface they touch.  It is like watching my own soul bleed out, and lying helpless as it happens.  And as the pools continue to spread, my loved ones cannot help but be touched by the mess I am creating as it rushes around their feet, their ankles, and their own souls.  

This is what the Holiday season has so often been for me.

And over the years I have lived in the shame of my beast's behaviors.  I have lived in the shame of feeling out of control, unable to contain the madness as I damage the life around me.  I have lived in the shame of feeling as though beyond the obvious mental illness that is wrong with me, that I am a cultural failure as well, hating Christmas, not out of my faiths but out of some deeper darkness.

So, I decided to do two things about it.  First, I decided to get the professional psychological and medical attention that I needed to rebalance the neurochemical disaster in my brain.  Luckily, or perhaps divinely, I was able to schedule an appointment that happened within 24 hours with my trusted provider.  This gave me an almost immediate respite from the chaos that had been encircling my day to day life.  It also gave me the opportunity to explore some of my Christmas angst in a safe and supportive space.  I was able to gain new insights, and some of that led to a direct change in how I approached Christmas this year.

Secondly, I have decided to share a piece of myself that I have until now kept hidden within its own tomb of deconstruction.  For the first time, I am willing to share two of the names of my Beast.  I say two of the names, because there are other names I cannot speak, that cannot be spoken, that even I haven't discovered or yet myself named.  But as J.K. Rowling, through the character of Albus Dumbledore said, "Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."*  And so, I must name the thing that has caused some of the greatest fear in my life.

Let me tell you about Dave and Steve.

One of the parts of my Beast is a mellow dude who brings the party with him wherever he goes.  He is a fun, relaxed, easygoing person who enjoys the unexpected happy moments of life.  He appreciates adventures, challenges, and travel.  This is the guy you want to go to the beach with, go out to eat with, watch a game with, frankly, do anything with that would be a stress free and delightful experience.  I like him. Heck, everybody likes him.  He's a great guy.

This is Dave.  Yep, Dave will attend events that I myself would rather spend hiding under a heavy rock than actually going to, graciously accepting invitations to things that I run screaming from.  Dave doesn't ramble about the elegance of ancient Hebrew scripture and how to parse each word apart to ascertain truer meaning of texts.  He can simply shoot the breeze, talk about cars, sports, and even "guy stuff."  Like I said, Dave is a great guy.

But for all the fun of Dave, there is another part of my Beast, and his name is Steve.  He is another of the anthropomorphic understandings that is my experience with Bipolar Disorder 1.  Steve is the screaming maniac who has the ability to traumatize, batter, break, destroy, and horrify anyone and anything in his rage driven path.  Steve has a darkness to him that can blanket out each candle of hope, each star shining down, each lamp along the way, and the sun itself shining its brightest on this floating sphere we call home.  Like Bipolar Disorder itself, the burning self-exaltation and the inkiest darkening of the world at large, these two identities of Dave, and Steve coexist in a state of constant competition for attention.  They battle a never ending game of Tug-O-War, where the losing side is always me, or the people around me.

And Steve has left a lasting mark on everyone in my family, my wife, my in-laws, and in particular on my sons.  Christmas this year brought out the worst of Steve, with a gory meltdown a few days before the 25th, filled with angst and angry words.  It was traumatizing for all of us and I myself was horrified by the magnitude of the psychological earthquake that rocked our home in a way that will need repairs both physical and emotional.  All I can say is that I am sorry for this and that I have been dealing with the fallout as best I can, combined with new medication and therapeutic sessions.

Dave and Steve originated over 35 years ago, and I suspect they were actually varying male identities of myself that I could name when I was a very young child.  And I could this while still being told how to act like a girl.  I needed to keep my split sense of self together by having inner male counterparts to exist even when the world around me attempted to make me conform to the body on the outside.

But the truth of the matter is, Steve is and was sexually open, fearless in conduct and behavior, and an alcoholic.  That guy is really an immature pit of illness made manifest as an excuse to relinquish personal accountability, and I regret most of my actions and behaviors while under the unmedicated influence of him.  And I'd like to atone and make right all that which I can. 

So, in this is the time of year, when we make resolutions, often to lose weight, exercise, quit smoking or drinking, have more money, or somehow be a "better" form of ourselves than we were last year, I am resolving to be less intimidated by Dave and Steve.  I have decided that in this new Western calendar year to stop and listen when I hear the low growls of Steve, or the all too exuberant musings of Dave.  I have decided this year to be a "better" version, not of Steve or Dave, but of myself.  I have come to learn that for all their chatter, I am a completely valuable and worthy human being.  Regardless of my past actions, and the sins - the separations from G-d and my fellow humans - that I have committed, I am a man of integrity, dignity, and honesty.  I cannot be anyone but myself, even when my Beast tries to tell me otherwise.

As I reflect over what I have experienced these past few years, I find myself in a new and different place.  The Beast that I was unable to acknowledge, has become the Beast that I can name.  An with his names comes my own ability to call him out directly, to say, "Dave, I'm good enough," or "Hey Steve, SHUT UP ALREADY!" And I will be able to say to them both that I am the one who runs the show, and when they try to, I will be ready for them.  

And this time, this time, I was more ready for them.  I was able to call them out for what they were, what they were trying to do, and even why they were trying to do it.  And instead of letting their madness overtake me, I ran to the professional help I needed, rather than running away and attempting something hurtful to those I love.

I know that I will always have to battle them.  I know that my Beast is a lifelong war that will never truly end.  I know there will be pain, suffering, and harm in all forms throughout the coming years.  And I know that as long as I have faith in G-d, faith in myself, and faith in the support that I receive, I will lessen the blows from my Beast.

Thank you for being there with me as I do battle.

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

-Ari



*Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

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

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

View from camp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swimming to another side.

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

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

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

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

Sharing my stories, my songs, and myself.

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

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

-Ari