My First Transgender Suicide Attempt, 1985

Hello My Dear One,

Important Preface: I am in no way currently suicidal. I have no suicidal ideation, no plans, no causes, no reasons for wanting to kill or harm myself in any way. Repeat: I don't want to kill myself. I am under the care and supervision of medical professionals and am 100% safe. Trust me, you can hold me to this one.

All that said, I want to share what my first suicide attempt was like and some of what I've learned about myself from it.

It was 1985 in the house I grew up in on the floor of my parents' bathroom.

I was 10 years old and I wanted to die.

I know that it may seem shocking, my young age, but that was the first time I realized I could end my life if I had the right resources. On that particular day, I happened to have the right resources. I had a bathtub full of water, a towel, a door with a lock, and a large block of dry ice we'd received with frozen steaks in the mail. I'd been warned of the dangers of the solid form of CO2 and exactly what not to do with it. I knew that as it melted the resultant gas was toxic and caused suffocation. So, with that knowledge, I filled the tub, locked the door, rolled up the towel to block the crack under the door, and laid down. I was waiting for an end.

A spoonful of poison...

But how did I get to this point? How did I at 10 years old even conceptualize this? Why was I desirous of taking my own life when I had existed for only 1 decade? What could possibly make a child want to die?

It was because I knew that death was an end to suffering. Death was an end to the constant pain of believing that I was never going to be okay. Death was the end of both feeling and being different. Death was a permanent release from the self-loathing, the anxiety, and the utter hopelessness of my different existence. 

And my existence was very different because I was a boy, stuck being a girl. I was transgender, and I didn't have a word for it. In 1985 there were adults who had sex changes, not yet called gender reassignment or gender affirmation surgery, and I had heard of 1 man who became a woman in 1951. But without female examples or an LGBTQ vocabulary, I was left in a figurative and a literal no-man's-land. Being transgender wasn't a thing yet, but I was. Consequently, I thought of myself as a thing, an "it" caught between a mind and a body that didn't or couldn't match. Death seemed like the only (good) answer at the time.

Leading up to that day I had fantasized about violent and scarring accidents and attempted self-harm by the time I'd entered Primary school. One summer when I was 7 or 8 I threatened to break my leg by jumping off a swing so I wouldn't have to return to camp. Why was I willing to do something that drastic just to get out of swimming in a lake with leaches and a snapping turtle? The shortest answer was my bathing suit. It was a one-piece with ruffles and it accentuated the fact that I was fat and developing anatomically female traits. I hated being anywhere that I was seen and identified as a girl. I would be perceived as female at camp, the lake, and everywhere else I went then. At home, as an only child in the 1970s, I dressed as I wanted, but out in the world, I had to be her. And if I was injured or dead, so was she. And being her was truly and literally a fate worse than death in my mind.

So, back in 1985, the white smoke-like fog was bubbling up and over the side of the bathtub, quietly falling onto me. There was no smell or taste, just a physical heaviness, and the emotional heaviness of the anticipation.

But, being 10 I was impulsive and impatient, and I sat up because the process was taking too long. And I was confused. And I was scared. And as a person of faith, I believe that G-d was just as present as the CO2 was. I felt within me that maybe this wasn't the right choice. So I moved the towel, unlocked and opened the door, and left the bathroom. I pretended as though nothing had happened. But I secretly wondered if/when someone would've come looking for me. But mostly, I was glad I'd escaped parental punishment because I wasn't caught breaking the rules.

Funny isn't it, I was more concerned with my father's verbal (over)reactions and the punishment than my actual death. Not until now have I thought about what my parents' response to their 4th grader attempting suicide would've been. Or what it would've been like had I actually died. I honestly can't imagine that scenario, their response, or the final outcome.

And that's one of the most important things I've learned from this event and the others that would follow it. I am unable, unwilling, or unmoved to imagine or care what will happen to those around me if I commit suicide. It is the most selfish act that I can do. I would be telling those around me that they are not enough, that their belief in me is wrong, and that worst of all my wants are greater than their needs. Even though the horrors of being me at that moment supersede all rational or logical thought, it doesn't change the outcome for those I'd leave behind. The deepest truth of suicide is that by choosing to leave and never returning, my concern for myself is larger than any amount of love from or for others. 

Eventually, I also learned that no matter how hard I try, I'm unable to be someone or something I'm not. Even a dead body was still going to be the wrong body. And that body has slowly changed into the one I have now. It still may not be the dream but it's a million times better than the old version. And it's infinitely better than not having it at all.

The man I am today.

And among other things, I see that who I am is a direct product of those horrible times and conflicts within myself. I am exactly the man I am today because of the female role I played, the suicide attempt(s) and the pain I lived with and enacted on others. I am a father, a husband, an uncle, a friend, and so much more because I chose to walk away from suicide then, and many times later on. I am here because of all that was, and what I choose to do with it now. I am here.

Thank you for being here in the darker parts of the journey with me so we can both see the light together.

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

-Ari

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