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 Red Geraniums, Orange Marmalade Cakes, and Yellow Towels; Of Mother's Day

Hello My Dear One,

It was Mother's Day recently here is the United States and instead of perseverating on the painful relationship I have with my own mother, I chose to focus instead on my wife and her journey as a mother.  This year was the 10th anniversary of the burial service for my wife's mother, Linda. She passed on Christmas Day, 2013 and because of the icy winters of the Northeast, we were unable to return her to the earth for nearly 5 months.  This is a painful reality for those of us who live in climates that render the ground beneath our feet frozen solid, immobilized against all manmade equipment.  So, we preserve the body, have the memorial or funeral service, and after the thaw we relive the pain of the loss as we part with our loved one again.  Although there is a sense of completion at this second service, it is often lost to the reopened wounds that have only just begun to heal and scar over.

In our case, the wounds ran deeper, as the burial took place the day before Mother's Day, 2004.  My young wife, not yet 30 years old, had lost her mother less than 5 months before.  And the next day, Mother's Day, would be her 1st as a mother herself with our then 10 month old son.  What an aching duality she must have felt at that moment.  To be watching the body of her mother leave her for the last time, while holding the gift of the new and unbridled joy of healthy, happy child who was loving her as she had loved her own mother.  I have not experienced this in my life, nor will I ever, yet I can feel her sadness a decade later as I recall that day.

But let me return to the burial itself.  Let me tell what can happen when one is open to the G-d that has more for us than just grief.  Often there is something special, extraordinary, and inexplicable that occurs at these "plantings," these burials of our already long gone friends and relatives.  There is something out of the ordinary that brings us a renewed sense of the continuation of our lives and the presence of the Holy within and around us.  In our case, it was a hawk.

I have a physical remembrance of standing near the graveside, hearing words, looking at my wife, and wondering what solace might be found there.  As I felt the air moving around us, heard the birds in the trees, smelled the fresh flowers, and saw the blue sky through the treetops, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and saw the smile of a friend as she pointed up to the sky.  There, circling in majestic arcs was a hawk, surveying us and all that was around.  As she spoke the word "look," my wife and I both looked up and saw the magnificent sight.  It was as if, in that moment, G-d had given us a a reprieve from the darkness of looking down into a grave.  Rather, we were compelled to look up and see the soaring hope of the life that was still ahead of us.  We gave meaning to presence.

When we ascribe meaning to parts of our life experiences, we create truths for our own comfort and resiliency.  Within the Jewish and Christian traditions, the physical reminders of our covenant(s) with G-d contain the ancient rituals of breaking bread and drinking wine while speaking prayers of blessing.  Every time we share in a meal where we give outward thanks, we create a truth about experiencing the Holy with our most basic physical needs of food and drink.  I believe that all of creation can be a witness to G-d and the blessings that can be had when one is open to them.  From bread and water to the most sacred of religious practices, we are in the presence of Holiness when we use the material gifts that G-d has supplied us with.  Like manna in the wilderness or fish for the multitudes G-d gives us tangibles to access a G-d that is too great to be comprehended by us.  In our family this Mother's Day there were 3 things of material existence that were given spiritual significance, and allowed us to access that Holiness, that enormous G-d.

Red geraniums, an orange marmalade cake, and a yellow hand towel.

Long before my mother-in-law passed she always said that if reincarnation was possible, she wanted to return as a red geranium.  I am sure I could delve into all the reasons for this, but frankly I enjoy the mystery of it more.  Every year I buy my beloved wife a red geranium, on or around Mother's Day, as a reminder of Mom's wish, and as a reminder of my shared memories of Linda.  This year I found a beautiful hanging basket filled with the bright red flowers and tons of buds waiting for their chance to bloom.  It was a remembrance of the gift of a human life and how love had the power to change so many lives.

Mom's Red Geranium

The orange marmalade cake has its roots, not in my mother-in-law, but in my wife's love of a series of books by the author Jan Karon, The Mitford series.  In it, there is a character who bakes this special cake for friends and family, often annoying her husband during the holidays due to the cost of the ingredients.  It is more than just a delicious treat, it is actually an expression of love and caring as the baking process requires many steps, attention to detail, special ingredients, and a lot of time and patience.  The cake was a gift of gratitude for the love that continues to change the lives of our sons as well as our own.

Orange Marmalade Cake

The yellow hand towel has a unique place in this trinity of everyday sacraments, reaching back over 20 years.  In the late summer of 1993 my wife was preparing to attend college, 2 hours away from home, and would be living in a dorm for the first time in her life.  As she collected the necessary items for her new journey, her mother also purchased things for her to bring.  Numerous toiletries, clothes, and bedding were secured for her future life in college, but there was a need that Linda provided with her unique pragmatic approach to life.  She bought a set of mustard yellow hand towels, high quality no less, that if one were being generous in describing them would say they were ugly at best.  The reason for this was intentional, because Linda believed that no one would steal these towels due to there color.  And sure enough she was right, because twenty plus years later, we still have those hideous towels.  They've never been stolen, no matter how much we would have wished them to be.

The "Still not Stolen" Yellow Hand Towel

And here I choose to ascribe one more bit of meaning to these three items, that their colors represent the relationships between mother and daughter.  The red geraniums and the yellow towels are primary colors that when combined create a secondary color, orange, in the form of the cake.  You see, the deeply imprinted devotion of a mother's love for her daughter was bonded with a promise of love that would transcend mortality.  And this has given new life to the daughter who is a mother herself.  The red of the future along with the yellow of the past blend into the orange of the present.  And although this interpretation could easily be called false, I believe that the sacred meaning is greater than the "truth."

In the end, we find our ability to have meaningful experiences with the Holy, with G-d, with our sacred truths where we are, not where we are supposed to be.  Through the process of living into these truths we can begin to see ourselves within the heart of G-d and the universe itself.  Whether it be through flowers, cakes, and towels, or bread, wine, and blessings, we are capable of entering into relationship with G-d.  And when we do that, we are able to enter into relationships with others.  And it is only then that we can witness the true, unique, and unconditional love of G-d. 

Thank you for continuing to seek the true love of G-d with me on this journey.

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

Ari

Of Doing the Best They Could, of Moving Forward from the PTSD Flashbacks

Hello My Dear One,

It has been a tough couple of weeks at work again, with multiple changes to my schedule and my responsibilities.  It has also been a time of deep reflection on the events of my past and the flashbacks that I have been dealing with.  It has been a time of outer and inner confinement, and within that I have found different perspectives on how I perceive myself. It began in the darkness of the inside self and has slowly moved into the light of the outside world.

For the past 25 years I have seen my life as one grand failure after another.  For 25 years I spent my time believing that who I was could be summed up in the disasters I had created and the wreckage I left behind.  I was unable to feel that the positives that had occurred had actual meaning, that they were more than just accidents of fate.  I could not believe that I was in any way the originator of the good itself.  I believed that I was merely a guilty bystander who by fluke had a good thing happen to him and others around me simply by proximity.  I was a big, fat nothing in my mind and each bad thing that happened in my life was a reinforcing reminder of my inherent unworthiness.

In part, this sense of self, this sense of failure came from the six years that my parents were tangled in that ugly affair, all the while refusing to make good choices, and telling me that they were staying together for me.  Yes, they reminded me daily that their immense dysfunction was for my own wellbeing.  And for the past 20 years or so, I believed that I was therefore to blame for the six years of torture and the failure of the relationship itself when I went off to college.  I carried the weight and the burden of a failed existence that wasn't even mine.  I was responsible for their choices, or so I thought, and each bad thing that followed was directly related to my actions.

And I stayed a prisoner to the past for a very long time.  I allowed the darkness to overwhelm the light, and to overwhelm me.  Consequently, I couldn't become the man I knew I was. I was stuck living as someone who had been imprisoned by her/his own body.  I was also stuck with profound and profoundly untreated mental illness.  Add in the unbearable dysfunction of my family of origin, and I had a recipe for substance abuse, self mutilation, violence, impulsivity, mental breakdowns, and sheer hopelessness.  Sadly, I fell down all of these rabbit holes at one time or another, and I am always aware of the fact that it could happen again if I don't take care of myself.

It is not surprising when people tell me it was a miracle I survived all of my mental and physical illness.  And it is true, I did survive.  I did not lose the battles with my parents' Beasts or with my own Beast.  I lived to become the man I am today, including being a loving husband, father, and teacher.  And those accomplishments are far more than mere survival.  I surpassed the hells of my existence, I grew out from them, using the unsteady foundations to build new platforms for my success.

More importantly, is that the things I did and did not do over the past twenty five years are more than just the result of divine intervention and dumb luck.  Rather, who I am is the product of all the successes I created out of the abyss that I crawled up from, with the help of G-d.  It is what I have done with the wretched times in my life that has given me a way to use my G-d given gifts, shaping and honing them to be of the best uses possible.  I didn't merely survive, I thrived.

I have had many successes in music and art.  I have earned 2 undergraduate degrees, as well as a Master of Arts in Theology and Ethics, all while living with learning disabilities, mental illness, mega-doses of medications, and gender identity issues that led to a full transition from living as a female to living as a male.  I successfully transitioned from female to male, keeping my marriage and family intact.

I understand what it is like to live with emotional, physical, sexual, and spiritual abuse.  I have the experience of fighting with Bipolar 1 Disorder and how it can wreck a person's entire life when left untreated.  I have the ability to share my stories with individuals and large groups in order to broaden others' understanding of gender identity, transgender, and intersex conditions.  I choose to share those stories as an example of success in the transgender community and a way to teach others that it is the journey of being human that is universal even when our paths seem so remarkably different.

But what about the pain and the scars that I still deal with when I think about the past, about the horrific ways my parents acted, the crimes against human dignity that went on for so long, the bizarre reality that was my life?

Well, I used to view those battle wounds as the result of people who refused to do their jobs of being good parents.  I balked at the notion that, as many people would tell me, "they did the best they could."  I hated those words and the lack of personal responsibility they implied.  It was as if those 6 words excused everything, because my parents had put forth the best effort they could.  In my mind and aloud, I would scream that this was untrue, that they had NOT done the best they could.  They had chosen their own narcissistic needs over my basic human needs.  They had failed me miserably and I was unwilling to believe otherwise.

But as I continued to reprocess the initial flashback, a door was opened up for me to let a new narrative be heard.  I sat in my therapist's office, still hashing out my feelings and that nagging phrase "they did the best they could."  And as I sat there saying that I couldn't accept that my parents had done the best they could, I suddenly sensed that my worldview was about to change.  My therapist asked me questions I had never had the courage to ask myself.  With a compassionate but blunt truth she asked, "What if they did?" "What if it was the best that they could do?"  "What if in their own dysfunction, disease, and emptiness, their choice to stay together for you was the best they could do?"

And sitting there in the early morning, I realized that the answer to all of those questions was one that I didn't want admit, much less say aloud.  So I breathed out a heavy sigh and said "Yes, maybe that was the best that they could do, even if it wasn't what I needed."  And that was the answer.  My parents had somehow believed that they were doing the best they could for their child, albeit a deluded, misguided, traumatizing, and dangerous best.  Yes, my parents did the best they could for me.  And in the end, that is all they could have done. 

So, here I am, knowing that I have survived and grown from the "best" my parents could do.  And that is a miracle, it is a mitzvah, and it is a living faith.  It is a miracle that even the worst that someone can endure can still be transformed into a blessing.  I am living proof that G-d's love is greater than any brokenness that a human can have.  I am living a life of my own design, choosing to be a better man, choosing to show that I am a blessing and that I am blessed.  And I continue choosing to accept the "best" that each of us can do for one another, hoping and helping with the broken parts of each of us.  

Thank you for being a part of the blessing that is my life.

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

- Ari

Of PTSD Flashbacks, and of Screaming to Be Heard

Hello My Dear One,

I've had a rough few weeks at work, and they've left me struggling with how triggering some of my students' meltdowns can be for me.  I understand meltdowns from the inside out, and sometimes my level of empathy is too high in a situation.  I can all too easily find myself feeling the way that I have during my own meltdowns.  I work very hard to combat this, and the more I do my job, and the more therapy I do, the less apt I am to get caught up in my own stressors during an episode. Even so, no matter how objective I can be, the fear of physical danger for myself or others, can still trigger flashbacks from my own past filled with emotional, spiritual, mental, and physical abuse.  And the funny thing about PTSD is that you never know exactly what that trigger might be or what flashback will be triggered.

In the therapeutic work that I continue to do I have recently encountered a memory, a flashback, that was an absolute turning point in my life.  Oddly, after more than two years with my therapist this memory has never been in one of the "memory chains" that I have reprocessed.  Neither one of us is sure why, however I suspect that my own understanding of the event hadn't matured enough to actually deal with it.  I'll never truly know the answer, but I do know that I am at long last ready to face this point, and all of its ramifications from the past 25 years.

The memory is as vivid today as if it had occurred yesterday rather than two and a half decades ago, and this ultimately gives credence to the flashbacks I've been having about it for several months now.

The place, the colors, the smell, the sounds, the emotional distress come rushing in at full force, knocking the wind out of my already deflating lungs.  I am transported back to that moment when the line of before and after is drawn on the invisible timeline of my life.  I am watching myself be changed in an instant, and I have forever marked my time on earth as prior to that moment, and everything that has come since.

I am sitting in the basement of my grandparents' house, noodling with some project or other, the smell of leather and freshly cut pine fills the early autumn air that flows through the ground level windows around me.  I know that my mother has finally decided to confront my father and the tenant who is living in our 2nd floor apartment about the affair that we all know is happening.  I am waiting for her to return to me, to tell me that he has confessed, and that this madness will soon end.  I am waiting to hear the reassurance that I have been right all along, and that this nightmare is real.  I am waiting to know that my mother has put my needs, ahead of my father's wants.

But something else is happening.  My life is being thrown into a radically spinning change and at the eye of the storm is the calmest my mother has ever been in my entire life.  She is sitting near me, to my right, and we are not making eye contact.  She is telling me that the affair is real, that she has confronted them, that they have confessed.  I feel a flood of relief that this wretched time is about to end.  I ask her when, not if, he is leaving.  And the answer to that question will set the course of my life for the next 25 years, although I don't yet know this.  I have asked her when is he leaving, and she replies that he isn't.  She asked him to choose, and he gave some juvenile, puerile, thoughtless response about choosing between chocolate and vanilla ice creams, and that was that.  I am screaming in my head, and I am screaming at her, and I am completely unheard.

She sat there, unwavering.  She sat there, as though no other options had ever existed, or could exist.  She sat there, unmoving and unmoved to choose a life that could be different from this madness.  She sat there.  She simply sat there telling me that my future was forever altered, and that I could do nothing about it.  I was screaming, but unheard.

As I look back now I am struck by the stillness in that space.  I am shocked at the quiet.  I am dumbfounded by my mother's actions, or lack thereof.  Suddenly, this crazy woman with borderline personality disorder is acting the opposite of how I have known her my entire life.  There is a silent void that seems to be expanding, encompassing the rational words that could be spoken.  This created emptiness was as defining as the words that had come before.  And it would take me 25 years to be able to describe that emptiness without the screaming.  

In fact, for the next 25 years I screamed.  Sometimes I screamed at her, at my father, at my friends, at anyone I could.  Sometimes I screamed in my head, or finally cracked and screamed as I threw and broke my things.  Sometimes I heard her screams in the night, the night terrors ravaging her, and awakening me from my own troubled sleep.  Sometimes I even heard the darkness itself closing in around me, a silent scream that was louder than any verbalization I could have made.   

After I married, I screamed at my wife.  Later I screamed at in-laws.  Then I screamed at my children.   I have been blessed by G-d a million times over that they have all stayed true to me and waited for the Beast to stop screaming. 

So even though I've relived this nightmare more times than I can count, I've never been able to ascribe deeper meaning to it than not being worthy enough to have my needs met.  But as I've lived through these students' meltdowns and hears their words, and their fears, and their needs to be heard, I have seen my own memories and meltdowns in a new light.  I have been trying to be heard.  That what I have to say matters, not just what I need, but that my words carry weight and can change outcomes.  That my words can save my life, save my sanity, and stop the madness that swirls around and within me.  

So, for 25 years I have felt unheard.  I have felt that my words, and the meanings behind them, were valueless, and consequently, so was I.  But all that incessant screaming never got me what I truly wanted.  It never made me feel that I had any more value than before I began ranting.  All the screaming ever did was keep others from hearing me, and after awhile, no one wanted to listen to the screaming either.  

Through writing, I've learned that a quiet voice speaks many more volumes than a wild-eyed Beast ever can, even when he's been shouting for hours, days or weeks.  I've also uncovered that so many of my life choices, have been about being heard.  My academic pursuits, my career choices, my professional speaking, my deeper desire for power and authority have all been driven by a need to feel heard.  It is a tough reality to acknowledge, but by naming it, just as I have named my Beast(s), the power of the darkness is diminished.    

Now that I can see parts of this truth, I know that I can begin the process of change, so that I can be heard.  And more importantly, so that I can be heard without screaming.  My life can be my words.  My actions can speak for me.  My ability to communicate rests in my ability to believe that my own words have value first, and then when it is time to speak them, it will not matter if others agree with my words or not. I will know that my words were ones of conscience, morality, integrity, and truth.  And if I can hear that, then I will never believe that I am unheard again.


Thank you for taking the time to listen to my words.

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

-Ari 

Of Sandwich Baggies Filled with Pennies, Glitter, and Angel Wings

Hello My Dear One,

My apologies for not writing sooner.  With the beginning of summer and the end of the school year it has taken a few weeks to adjust to my new routine.  It has been an evolving one and given my usual resistance to such things I believe I'm doing as well as can be expected.  

So, I've wanted to write about Borderline Personality Disorder from a slightly more academic perspective for some time, but somehow I just can't seem to do it.  I simply cannot wade through millions of words telling me what I already know.  

Still, I know that I need to explore what this illness has done to me from a different vantage point. I need to find my own answers, to bring a spiritual voice to the scientific one, to know that there is an inherent gift within the madness that balances the destruction of the fury.  Simply put, I need to see G-d within the storm.

So, the other day, as I delved even more deeply into the memories of my past, during a therapy session, I saw the core place of brokenness within myself.  I've long dealt with a crippling belief that in order to keep the peace I must sacrifice my own wants, needs, and desires to be happy so that the other person(s) I am in relationship with will love me.  It is a debilitating condition that has led to hurt feelings, mistrust, anger, resentment, depression, and a host of other complications.  It has always been my job to make others happy, and throughout my life it has usually been at the expense of my own happiness.  One of the most devastating memories resurfaced during the EMDR session and I saw that it was still playing out in my day to day life even though the event occured nearly 25 years ago. 

I was a young 14 year old, a freshman in high school, awkward, and with massive underlying mental, physical, and emotional disturbances that were yet to be diagnosed and my family had just undergone a radical upheaval.  My grandfather had passed away less than 4 months before and that summer I had been biking around town and found my father embracing a woman, who was not my mother, at my special beach.  There in plain view it was obvious what was happening, and after getting his attention I pedaled home as fast as I could to tell my mother what I'd seen.  They soon arrived at the house and the lies began.  Everyone knew they were lies.  But they continued anyway.  Within a month, this interloper was living in the apartment above our home along with her son who was only 8 months older than I.  Suddenly I was living in an obviously polygamous home that no one dared claim for what it was.  

Within a few months my mother finally garnered the courage to confront my father and his mistress about the truth.  I had gone to my grandmother's house next door, and was working in the basement shop to feel connected to the grandfather who had died too soon.  I was sad, but also hopeful and expectant that this hell I had been plunged into would be over.  Once the truth was out, there was no going back, and I would be free from the nightmare of this love triangle.

As I sat and fiddled with the tools in my grandfather's workshop, I heard my mother come in and she sat down on a wooden stool next to me.  "So?" I said, and she stated the truth of the affair, all the gory details of the confrontation, ad nauseam.  "So when is he leaving?" I asked 15 minutes later as her ramble had slowed to a dull roar.  "He's not."  she said.  "WHAT?!?!?!?" I screamed?  And in her Borderline Personality Disorder reality she explained why he was staying, that she had been unwilling to force him to make a choice between the two of them.  In fact, I remember the comparison that he gave to her, saying that having to choose between his wife and his mistress would be like having to choose between vanilla or chocolate ice cream.  

Seriously.  Even at 14 years old I knew that this was a blatantly ridiculous and infantile response to being caught breaking your wedding vows and that any damn fool who believed it was as pitiful as the one who said it to them.  Yep, my 48 year old parents had reverted to being 4 year olds, unable, unwilling, and irrational toddlers who along with a 40 something year old mistress had decided to throw a collective temper tantrum in the sandbox of my already horrifying life.  

I was put into an untenable position, informed that my happiness was not important and that if I wanted any attention at all I had to play along and sacrifice what I knew was what I wanted and needed in exchange for "love."  This message was the one I incorporated into myself and have continued to play out all these years later.  The why of it all became clear as I saw the "adult" players in the drama.

My mother was incapable of facing the truth that her marriage was over and that despite the financial hardships that were possible, she actually had monetary and emotional support from her extended family.  But the beast of BPD stood its ground and bellowed and hollered at the prospect of being abandoned one more time.  It was in that moment that the person whose only job was to protect me from harm had decided to abandon ship and save her own warped security over mine.

My father's mistress, a woman who had her own traumatic past and mental illness was driven to believe that this arrangement was a perfectly viable option.

My father, the adult alpha male of the pack, not wanting to lose out on the attention and sexual rewards of finally having 2 women fighting for him chose to hide within the perverted gratification of his new life.  Having grown up knowing he was unplanned, that his mother wasn't supposed to be able to have more children, that his older sister was the golden child, and going through puberty at the age of 8, led him to crave the all of the encompassing insanity that passed as "love."  Now, at long last, he had 2 women, the madonna and the whore, the replacements for the mother and sister who treated him as less than, and he held onto it for 6 long years clinging to belief that he deserved this reward for all that he had suffered and sacrificed.  My father once confessed to me that he had moved away from his academic opportunities, friends, colleagues, and his own parents, because a doctor had told him the only way to manage my mother's instabilities was to move her as close to her parents as possible.  He bought a house 1/8 of a mile from them and regretted it until the day he sold it more than 25 years later.  

But here is where I can start to see G-d in the storm.  In all of this madness there was a home, next door to me, the very one I was sitting in that day, where my grandparents moved when I was 3 years old.  It was my refuge.  It was my sanctuary.  It was my safety.  And there was G-d enfolding me with the love that I needed through my grandfather and grandmother.  Although Grampa had just died, the love and caring he gave me still filled my heart.  And my Grama, who was literally right above me at that moment, continued to support me for the next 3 1/2 years before her own death.  I was loved, and it was in part because my father had taken the advice of random physician so many years prior.  Were it not for that act of Divine Intervention, would I have known the grace that my grandparents gave me?  I don't have an answer to that question, but I am grateful and grace-filled regardless.   

So why now?  Why am I revisiting all of this now? Why did it come up in therapy when I felt that I was nearly done with this mess?  Probably because I have almost finished emptying out the house that my mother drove away from nearly 6 months ago.  I've been packing, cleaning, hauling, dragging, loading, selling furniture, planning several yard sales, online sales, and picking up the pieces of rubble that surrounded her home.  I have literally collected the broken shards of glass, seashells, plastics, etc. that were spewed around the building, one by one, and I have thrown them away.  Discovery During one of the last times I was there, I was cleaning out a dresser and found a sandwich baggie filled with pennies and glitter wedged behind one of the drawers.  Inside were maybe a dozen coins and over a hundred beads, and multicolored stars, doves, and angels made of shiny plastic and metal.  It was the perfect metaphor for my mother's life.  This see through plastic bag, tied off with a weird knot, full of valueless items mixed with sand, grime, and who knows what else stuck in an obscure location, almost lost and forgotten had someone not chosen to clean up the mess.  This discovery said it all.  Her life has always been in full view for everyone to see, and it is filled with things that a child reveres, but an adult knows to be too little to support a life.  It is shiny and filthy all at the same time and the painful emptiness of it is hidden away from the outside world.  Her beast had stashed it away from the peering eyes that could have seen the truth of who she really is.  And it was I who found it, just as I always have, and always will. And this is where I truly find G-d at the eye of this storm.  It is my nearly 40 years of living on the edges and often in the middle of the whipping winds of her hurricane that I have learned compassion for others with mental illness.  I have struggled through my own beast's madness, and I have absorbed the only gifts my mother was truly able to give to me.  Her crazy has made me tolerant and accepting of individuals who have fallen victim to their own beasts' sadistic ways.  More importantly though, it has given me the compassion and love for myself and my own beast that she could not.  I can finally see the crazy in myself, accept it, tolerate it, love it, and manage it because I know that G-d is present. As I reprocessed the traumatic event in therapy, my therapist asked me what the 14 year old me needed to know to help deal with the event and the subsequent pain.  I said aloud "Little One, you are already loved, and you will make it, you have made it, you are surviving the madness, and you are choosing to live in spite of the deconstruction of your life around you."  I continued on, "You are so loved, you will be able to show and give this love to others who need the compassion that no one else will give them.  This is a gift.  You will spread out your grand white wings, surround yourself with G-d's love, and then be able to enfold others with the graceful feathers that will soothe and comfort each and every person you meet."  I told that 14 year old kid to know that the 38 year old was ok, and that in time those horrible years would be relegated to the past.   "Hold fast, Little One, you are loved." And those are the words I say in my heart each day when I meet grown and little ones who don't yet know that there is hope for them.  That is my gift.  I thank G-d for being in that storm of my life and in the lives of others, letting us find our own wings to prevent more damage to our fragile selves.  I thank G-d for the chance to embrace each person I meet with my wings, and to attempt to help them find their own in the process. Pennies, Glitter, and Angel Wings And so, as I looked over the baggie filled with pennies and glitter again, I finally saw the angel wings gently surrounding it.  I saw that my mother's uncontrollable beast had left behind a secret hope, that one day someone would love it too, that someone could see the value and the worth of its seemingly meaningless and disconnected contents.  This tiny capsule of madness was a reminder to look beyond the obvious, to search for meaning in chaos, and to remember that G-d  is always in the storm.   And with that I begin the process of freeing myself from the madness that was only surrounding me.  And I can finally unpack my own sandwich baggies of mental illness and search for the gifts my beast and G-d have hidden away for me.          Thank you for sorting through the pennies, glitter, and angel wings on the journey. Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself. -Ari

Of Motherhood, of True Blessings, and of Light

My Dearest One,

It was recently Mother's Day here in the U.S., and I find myself torn about what I need to write, especially given the other parts of my life that have been tugging at me.  My call to teaching and how that is translating in my life.  My growing confidence in my own abilities and strengths.  My deepened understandings of how to be a good employee, colleague, subordinate, and friend.  But the importance of motherhood, particularly in my own life, is a subject that aches to be explored.  So, here we go.

As most people know my mother was decidedly not the maternal figured I needed, wanted, or desired.  She was and is a woman unto herself whose vision is limited to that which magnifies her own worth and existence.  She is an eccentric, crazy, narcissistic, and neurotic ball of self centered agony, waiting to burst open like a cyst of infection.  Her moods, words, and actions are like a poison that will slowly reach toxic levels for those around her.  This may sound harsh, I realize, but for those who have lived within her sphere of destruction this description is all too real.

Yet, my own life partner, my heart's desire, my wife, is the complete and total opposite of the tragedy of my youth.  She is a selfless giver of time, passion, exuberance, radiance, forgiveness, and unconditional love for her two children and for me.  She is a blessing to all who meet her and who know her.  She works to provide the maternal gifts of hope, peace, and joy not only to her own family, but also to each person she encounters.  She is a gifted woman and I could not be the man I am today were it not for her.  And I mean that in absolutely every sense possible.  I could not be the man I am today without her in my life.  I would not have had the courage to become who I am were it not for her love and support.

As a transgender/intersex individual my wife chose to support me through a change that threatened to dissolve our marriage by an 80% margin.  She wants me to be happy.  As a man with severe mental illness she has chosen to uplift and uphold me through each psychotic episode.  She believes in me.  As a man who has struggled with self worth, and an upbringing that has nearly broken my spirit more times than I can count she has chosen to live with this darkness.  She shows me a light that I cannot see on my own.  As a man living with a beast deep within his soul she has chosen to stand her ground in the face of its hateful, spiteful, and hideous outbursts that have emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and physically attacked her and her children.  She wants the real husband and father I am called to be.

For all this and more I simply cannot find the words that would ever say what her gifts have meant to me throughout the nearly 15 years of marriage we have shared.  Through every wrenching heartbreak and every elated delight she has been present to the man I am, the one I was, and the one I can only pray that I will someday be.

She has shown me what a mother can be.  She has shown me the tasks that a mother is charged with when she enters into that most sacred bond of bringing a child into the world.  She has shown me what love is.

And she has shown me when a mother must let go and give her child the room to grow and become who he or she is called to be.  She has shown me the truest form of grace when she has allowed our sons to fail and then comforted them in their grief.  She has shown me the depths of her soul as she has cried each time our boys board the bus for the first day of school, year, after year, after year.

It is her determination, will, and strength that make her who she is.  And it was in the loss of her own mother over 9 years ago that I saw this the most.  She cared for her mother, a woman who had lost much in her life, who finally came to live with us in a converted barn so that she could be close to her children and her first grandchild.  My mother-in-law was a study in perseverance and she passed this gift on to her daughter with love, laughter, and humility.

Linda was a woman dedicated to providing a life for her children no matter the personal cost.  I remember vividly the early years or my wife's and my courtship as we would eat together at her mom's diningroom table.  There would be warm comforting food spread out for all of us, even after she had worked all day as a nurse in a geriatric facility.  She commuted a half an hour each way, driving from one state to another to work in that nursing home.  She would come back home, make coffee, take care of her beloved hound dogs, and then prepare a meal.  She would wash, dry, and hang up her one uniform by the time the food was ready, and we would gather at the table, talking, laughing, and trying to find both the money and an excuse to go buy "carrots" from the local store.  Despite the pain, anger, and disappointment Linda experienced throughout her life, she still managed to keep a sense of family for her kids.

When she died at the agonizingly young age of 57 from lung cancer on Christmas day, there was a tear, a rip, a gash really in the fabric of our family quilt, one that has taken years to carefully stitch back together.  Of course, as with any wound, if you look closely enough you will see where the delicate sutures have been placed, a puckering at an edge, an uneasy tightness, or a slackening where once it was taught.  Thankfully, my wife is a master quilter, both literally and figuratively, when it comes to our family.  We are all kept physically warm by her beautiful fabric creations.  We are also kept emotionally warm by her creations of love that sparkle in each of my sons' eyes and in the way we walk through this world together.  

Losing her Mom just 5 months after becoming a mother herself was one of the cruelest fates I can imagine, and though many people have given greatly of their time, their love, and their support there will never be another Linda for my wife.  And I see this most as she wishes that her mother could have been here for the births of her other grandchildren, and shared in the magical delight of being a grandparent.  Though my mother-in-law and I rarely saw eye to eye, I would give anything to have her back for the sake of my own wife's happiness.  And that is something that I can only say because of the love that my wife has given to me.  I am not the man I once was.  I am not the man I will be one day.  Rather, I am the man who can be present to the love of his life and want her happiness more than his own.  It is only when you have been loved unconditionally that you can do that.

There are so many memories and stories about the past that I could tell, but most of them are not mine to share, not really.  I will only tell tales about myself and so there is just one that I want to disclose for now.  It's about the love and hate for one's own mother that deep down Linda and I shared.  Though her mother was by no means anything even close to mine, the parent/child dynamic is universal and our own interpretations of our upbringings are personal memories that defy historical truths.  But the fact of the matter was that she had a tough time dealing with her own mother.  As a young woman she moved out of the house, got an apartment, and didn't call for 3 weeks.  I understood.  

"Retro Chic"

And yet, sitting in her diningroom one night looking around at the plate shelf that encircled the room above our heads, I saw a set of porcelain canisters.  They were brown on the bottoms, with white rims and bright flowers wrapping around them.  They were what would now be called "Retro Chic," but nearly 20 years ago they were more "Dated" and "Ugly."  So, I asked the lingering question in my mind, "Where did you get those?" figuring that they might have been an unasked for wedding, housewarming, or birthday gift.  The answer came as a crazy surprise, but one that I completely understood as well.  She replied "I bought those for my mother with money from my first paycheck after I moved out."  Because, after 3 weeks she felt badly about her break for freedom and wanted to apologize in a tangible way, proof that her independence was working out.  I knew exactly what she was talking about.  

Later, when she moved out of her house and into mine, she called her daughter and her son, and myself to come and divy up the items from the house that she no longer wanted.  I was the only one who wanted that "ugly" set.  I plan on keeping it and passing it on to my children and/or grandchildren along with the story of a strong, independent, and caring woman.  

So, this Mother's Day I celebrated my wife with a special cake she's always wanted, got a card, and made some tasty meals.  We ate one of the meals we always had at her Mom's house and we watched my wife's favorite Disney movie, and then one of the boys' favorite Disney movies.  Nothing fancy.  All family.  

"I love you Linda Mom"

And that's what I finally, finally, understood when it came right down to it.  Having the family you want will never be the family you get, because nothing in life works that way.  But having the family you need is precisely what you will get, because that's exactly how life works.  And when you realize that what you need is making you into something better than you could have ever imagined, then you don't really want for anything.  It is a puzzle that I suspect I will struggle with for the rest of my life.  And I am truly blessed to have that opportunity.


Thank you for helping me to put the pieces of this puzzle where they belong.

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

-Ari      

Of Saying Goodbye, of Death

My Dear One,

Oh, how life changes in an instant.  One moment we are happy, laughing, and living in a precious time, and the next we are rocked by news that barely makes sense.  And yet, it makes all the sense in the world at the very same time.  Such is that phone call of a loved one to tell you that another loved one has died.  That call came to our house this past week, as my great aunt June, in tears, let us know that my great uncle had passed away Saturday morning.

Harry Garrison Silleck, Jr. was 92 years old, gravely ill, and his body had been deteriorating for years.  But his mind, his intellect, and his wit had persisted until the end.  And although it seems obvious that he would be ending his time here on this crazy planet, it is still unsettling that he is gone.  That a man of his seemingly undying nature would actually die.  I am struck by the reality that I will never again hear his voice.  I am strangely stunned that the man I knew was indeed mortal, and succumbed to death as we all will and all must.  It is a wounding fact that we do not live forever, and it is accentuated when one we have known all our lives passes on.    

And I am saddened that I was unable to say goodbye, particularly because I missed the last phone call he tried to make, and my answering machine cut off before he ever spoke.  My aunt had tried to put him on, but had taken too much time, and the computer didn't know that this was the last time he was trying to talk to me.  He managed to get through to my mother, and ultimately I know that she needed that more than I did, and so I have other memories to think about.  But the questions I have of what he wanted to tell me will linger for some time.

The comfort I needed was met when I saw him last, more than 2 years ago, as he was walking on his own two feet into the emergency room, and still himself.  I spoke with him on the phone a few months ago and he was ever the grand gentleman he had always been.  And just a few days ago, in that now unfulfilled call, I learned from my great aunt that he had loved the birthday card that we as a family had all signed and sent to him for his 92nd year.

So, as a tribute to my Unc, I want to share a tiny part of his story.  Although Unc and I often butted heads, he was the reason I was able to go to college and pursue my dreams.  He fully accepted who I was and who I became.  He danced at my wedding and he loved my wife and my sons as much as if they were his own.  He was a true gentleman and I am grateful to have had him in my life for nearly 40 years.  I hope that you will see through these thoughts and feelings how much I loved him and how his life shaped my own even when I had the total hell of my family attempting to break me apart.   

Uncle Tommy (Tommy was his family nickname and no one outside of the family ever referred to him as such) was born March 19th, 1921, at home, in Putnam Valley, NY to older parents who already had a 6 year old daughter, Margaret Doris Silleck, my grandmother.  My grandmother loved him dearly, and although she passed 20 years ago, he always spoke of what a wonderful sister she had been to him, and her immeasurable love and care for his wellbeing.  Her love for her brother eventually translated into a deep love for me and is much of the reason I survived my brutal childhood existence.  Her ability to care for and about me when my own mother could not, literally saved my life many times.  She gave him and me a foundation that granted us both a tremendous resiliency to a harsh and too often unforgiving world.

Interestingly enough I just found his baby book a few weeks ago as I was cleaning out part of my mother's house.  Though it is over 90 years old it reads much like the ones of today and his milestones were documented by his mother as carefully and lovingly as any parent would now in the 21st century.  Along with it I also found one of my favorite photos of him and my grandmother.  They are posed before the camera, a beautiful little girl and a wide eyed toddler, and the love between them is palpable.  That was the gift of unconditional love that has passed into me even through the insanity I have suffered.

Harry and Margaret circa 1923

Unc, like his sister was extraordinarily bright and both siblings graduated from high school early, she at 16, and he at 15.  He went on to college and graduated at the age of 19, then to law school, earning his J.D. at the ripe old age of 22.  I heard many of his collegiate antics, hardly able to comprehend that he was so young, and interacting with 22 year old men when he was just a boy of 16.  I should note that my grandmother also went to college, a private all female school in upstate New York, graduated and later became a social worker for the State of New York.  She was a feminist to the end, and she taught us all to be strong, independent individuals no matter the adversities we might be facing.  Both sister and brother excelled at defending those who could not defend themselves, albeit in different ways.

The week of his law school graduation he was drafted into the United States Air Force and became a navigator stationed in England flying in bombers from 1943 to 1945.  He received almost every available medal and returned a "hero."  But, like so many others who served during the Second World War, he never spoke of the traumas he endured during his time of service.  It is sad for me to think that another of our WWII veterans has passed on, leaving fewer who remember the realities of a war that involved so little modern technology, or who remember the survivors who were saved from the horrors of concentration camps and extermination, and the victims who were not.

He practiced corporate law for his entire career, working in a prominent law firm in New York City into the 1990's.  He had many lunches with the future President Nixon, another lawyer in the firm, even though my Unc was a lifelong Democrat.  He dealt mostly with railroad law, working cases that would drag on for 20 or more years in courts as disputes were settled.  Yet he was always willing and able to help friends and neighbors with wills, estates, and the like in his tiny hometown in upstate NY.  In the end though he travelled extensively for his career and sacrificed a personal life in many ways for this.  

He met his wife in 1961, they dated for 16 years and finally married in 1977, by which time he was 56 years old and she was in her 40's.  He loved her dearly and conceded to her wishes most of the time.  I know that she loved him too, and that as she faces this next chapter in her life, the first time in 52 years without him, I prayerfully hope that it will be a short one of separation for them.  I do not wish her ill, or dead, though she has been unwell for many years, rather, I hope that they will be reunited in whatever form that takes for them soon.  They were each other's worlds, and I cannot begin to imagine the grief and the emptiness that she must be feeling right now.  So, I look to G-d to offer comfort and peace that will give her what she needs to be on this part of the journey.  

Sadly, they never had children of their own, though I was given incredible status, particularly since I was the only child/grandchild/etc. in my entire family.  A monetary bonus from a case he won in the 1970's was put into a high yield account and 20 years later I had a college fund that would pay for 4 years of college even now.  I was given gifts of financial and personal value, money yes, items like and an electric pencil sharpener I received at least 25 years ago that still sits on my desk, of course.  But I was given so much more in the stories, the time we were able to share, the Holidays he came to Maine for, the uncompromising sense of fidelity that he imbued to me through word and deed.

And I was also given the gift of culture and a world view, visiting Manhattan on a yearly basis.  Going to museums, libraries, concerts, broadway performances, off broadway performances, theaters, films, the planetarium, Central Park, the Russian Tea Room, the Plaza, a horse-drawn carriage ride, and the ability to study abroad 3 separate times, were all gifts from my Unc.  I learned to love the life that he and his wife had, and as much as I love my life here in a rural town in Maine, there are days when I wonder what it would have been like if I'd gone and lived with them in my teens when I had the chance.  In the end I know I wouldn't be the man I am today and I wouldn't want to be anyone else.

Looking back on this suit and tie wearing serious lawyer there is a wonderful juxtaposition of the man in the office and the man at home who indulged a playful whimsy in me whenever possible.  As a tot he would become a scary "monster" growling in my face as I squealed with delight and fear.  He would become a horse on all fours for me to ride around on when he was already well into his late 50's.  Of all the memories I cherish there is one that demonstrated his true love and acceptance of my childhood needs.
I was 7 or 8 years old the summer I purchased a stuffed Snoopy doll at the famous F.A.O. Schwartz toy store, and I was ecstatic with my treasure.  That night I dressed him in his "Saturday Night Fever" tuxedo, and he was allowed to sit at the head of the fancy dining room table at dinner in my Unc's 69th and Lexington condo on the Upper East Side.  I remember drinking milk "on the rocks" and reveling in the inclusivity and welcome that my Uncle was offering me that night.  He fostered in that moment a belief that family could exist even when most days it didn't seem possible.

As I grew older my Uncle challenged me at every turn, wanted the best for me, and loved me in a way I probably never realized when he was alive.  He had told my mother, and myself, that I had more courage, because I chose to transition genders, than he had.  That he would never have had the courage to do or the ability to risk what I did to become myself.  I could never believe this after knowing his history, but I see now how we shared something in that as well.  He did not see his own courage any more than I saw mine.  We both did what we had to do in order to survive.  His battles were fought dropping bombs over Germany, while mine were fought in doctors' offices, hospitals, rural towns, and within myself and my marriage.  We were both heroes in each other's eyes.  Funny how I can only just see that now, I hope that he saw it as well.

There are of course so many more stories about Unc that I could share, his pranks, his vast knowledge of films, his deep appreciation for the arts, his love of horses, the fact that he lived in his boyhood home until he was 90, and everything else that made him who he was.  But just as there is not time for us to live forever, there is not time to tell all those stories now.  I will tell them as they ask to be told, to my sons, to my friends, to my family, to you, as I find myself in the images of a man I would be proud to be, even on his worst days.  I know that he would have done the same for me.


Thank you for travelling this twisting path of the journey with me.

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

-Ari  

Of Birthdays, Worries, and Lessons

Hello My Dear One,

So here I am, one day away from my birthday, anxious, and largely dreading the day as I always seem to do.  Only 2 cards have arrived in the mail, there have been some early well wishes on Facebook, and I got to wear a paper crown that said "Happy Birthday Mr. Hilton" at work on Friday.
Kindergarten definitely has its perks.

My Birthday Crown!

I am not ungrateful for all that my family does to make my birthday special.  Rather, I am disappointed in myself for not being able to appreciate it in an "appropriate" manner, one in which I don't mope or seem sad.  And, I am disappointed that I am unable to express what I want to do in advance so that I could avoid plans that are not what I really want to do.  The worst part of it is, is that the plans that are made are always lovely, thoughtful, and often fun.  But somehow I get lost in the sadness of the day and the fact that I have not accomplished what I set out to in the past year.  I am embarrassed that I am another year older and still not who I thought I would be by now.  I am disappointed that I am not successful in the ways that I always imagined I would be, particularly as I approach 40 with lighting speed.

And yes, I know what a tumultuous year this has been for me and for my family.  I recognize the hell I have been through and the hell I have put everyone else through, and this only serves to remind me of the failures instead of the successes of the year.  Even though getting off of FDA approved meth, voluntarily committing myself to inpatient care in a psychiatric hospital, and getting hired to a position that is challenging, life changing, and most days fun, I find myself dwelling in the remorse of missed opportunities and fear of change.  I get stuck thinking about what could have been instead of what was.

And I look back now and I can see how so much has happened in my life during the past 12 months.
 
I nearly killed myself multiple times.  I spent a week in a psych ward learning that my Bipolar Disorder was painfully real.  I went through a myriad of medications.  I physically hurt myself and objects around me.  I emotionally hurt my loved ones, my wife, my children.  I spent countless hours in therapy.  I got a job.  I said goodbye to a mother that never was, while the physical remains of her latest endeavor still sit in an empty house while she rebuilds herself again halfway across the country.  I have watched my entire world crumble and seen the dawning of a new life that frightens me no matter what I try to tell myself.

I can also look back and see how much I have grown and changed during the past 12 months.

I have strengthened and grown my faith and come to terms with the dualities that I have chosen to live into.  I have committed to writing this blog and have followed through in a way that I never imagined possible.  I have become a better husband, a better father, and a better man.  I have reached out time and again for help when I needed it.  I have seen the true brokenness of my life and I have told the truth.  I have begun to tell the nightmarish stories of my childhood and young adulthood with honesty and frankness.  I have stopped lying to myself and others that what happened to me was OK, and that the people involved were doing the right thing.  I have let myself be vulnerable in an attempt to be healed and hopefully help others on their own paths to recovery. And I have spoken to hundreds of people here and in person about my life experiences and what love, kindness, and faith can do to make us all the individuals we are called to be.

And yet, there is a nagging worry within my psyche as I look toward the future, and what I have to offer, and what I will receive in the coming year.

I worry that I will not advance in my career.  I worry that I will not achieve the secret desires of my heart.  I worry that I will not be fully living into my call as an advocate and professional speaker.  I worry that I will spend the next year worrying.  But then again, as a good Jewish (though practicing secular humanist) friend has reminded me, "If you don't got something to worry about, you got something to worry about!"  It's true, as he also says, "Worrying is how my people pass the time."  And I suppose after 6000+ years of real and perceived persecution, we're a slightly more jittery lot than gentiles.  This internalized cultural sense of self as potential victim has definitely taken a toll on Jews and Judaism.  It leads to a lifelong paranoia that unfortunately has real roots that can be seen even today.  This year 2 synagogues in my state have been vandalized with spray painted on swastikas.  And no matter how much my wife may love Disney, I still cringe when many of the villains have stereotypical Jewish looking features.  I want to believe that being Jewish is something that is as valued as being Christian in this society, but one never sees Passover decorations in the storfront windows of rural Maine.  So, I worry.

Today, as I worry about tomorrow, which of course I rationally know is pointless, I think about every birthday that has come before and what I will experience tomorrow.  I worry that it will be like all the rest, a letdown, a hassle, a disappointment, a disaster, a day filled with activities I don't care for, and enforced "happiness" and celebration.  And in a way I will experience this due to self-fulfilling prophecy.  And yet, I will experience other things as well.  I will be present to my family and I will listen for the positive messages that have been surrounding me and I will remember the good I have been able to do.

The other night, I gave an hour and fifteen minute talk/lecture to an introductory psychology class at a local community college, on gender, transgender, intersex, sexual orientation, and related issues.  It started at 7:45 at night and lasted until 9:10 because of the questions the students had for me.  We laughed together, we learned about each other, and I remembered how much I truly love getting to be a part of someone else's growth and development, if only for a brief moment in time.  Teaching has always been my call.  Walking the path with someone as they learn new information about the world around them and consequently about themselves is by far the most rewarding experience I get to have.  And I am blessed to get to do this several times a year.  And of course I get to do this with 5 and 6 year olds 5 days a week during the school year.  It is my gift to them and their gift to me.

And maybe this is the real gift I have been wanting and the gift that I need to allow myself to receive on my birthday.  I need to accept the kind words of students, no matter their age, who compliment my abilities, no matter what those abilities are.  In kindergarten my drawing, cutting, and gluing skills are stunning.  In undergraduate classes my abilities to discuss my life experiences in a fun, innovative, educational, and relaxed manner that puts students at ease, and creates a safe space for all of us to learn, are stunning in an entirely different but equal way.  When a 5 year old tells me how well I drew and  colored a picture, and that same night a 20 something tells me that I really have a way with people, I know right down to my core that I am living into my call 100%.

Unfortunately, sometimes I lose complete sight of this, particularly on a day like today when I look inward and see the past, the darkness, the resting but ever restless beast, and the nearly 4 decades of birthdays that most often sucked.  And that's when I am called to ignore the beast of mental illness and its dangerous messages of regret, pain, and worry.  I must listen for the still small voice of G-d as I hear the words that were sent to me today, "G-d chose the day you were to enter this world...You, of all of us, should celebrate!"  Amen.

Thank you to all my family and friends for seeing the good and the G-d in me as much as I can see it them, especially when I cannot see it in myself.

Thank you for the celebration of being on this journey with me.

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


-Ari