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 Call, Of Discernment, and of Teaching

Hello My Dear One,

It is now Autumn, the season that brings a cooler breath to our lungs, more vibrant colors to our eyes, and the needed space for a quieter reflection as the earth begins to prepare itself for the coming hibernation.  For many, this is a time of contentment, a time of settling into a deeper place that came with the activities of summer.  It is a time of discernment for all of us as we prioritize what we must do in order to make the coming months safe, warm, and nourishing in all ways possible.  It a season of planning ahead.

In my own days of fall, I am in the midst of a discernment process, one that I have experienced multiple times before and will undoubtedly repeat in years to come.  It is listening to my call to ministry and what exactly that call is.  It is a remarkably, and achingly difficult thing to do, to sort out my own emotions from my delusions, my desires from the needs of others, and whether the voice I hear is G-d's or my own.  This process is what gives us the ability to serve others the way that G-d wants us to, but only if we can truly, truly listen.  And for a person with mental health issues, well it is even trickier to know what to listen for.

So, I have once again explored the possibility of attending theological school.  I have even visited a campus and reveled in the academic opportunities and enjoyments that come with being in a graduate school setting.  I loved the camaraderie, the jokes, the intimacy, the theological discussions, and the hope for a deepened faith life and practice.  I was nearly giddy with the thrill of course work, readings, exegesis, and frozen yogurt runs at 11:00 at night.  Yes, the sheer exuberance that comes with academia for a lifelong learner, is like an alcoholic beverage to me.  I am intoxicated by the very potential for more study.

To make the letters even sweeter.

And I believe that as a Jew, this is normal.  It is, I suspect, an inborn calling within all who are members of the 12 tribes of Israel, to physically long for learning.  We get our first taste of the Aleph-Bet with actual honey, to make learning a sweet process, thus ensuring that we will want to continue.  It will also probably lead us to being diagnosed with some form of pre-diabetes or diabetes within our lifetimes, but so what? Being able to read is more important than a functional pancreas, right?

We become "men" and "women" at our Bar and Bat Mitzvahs when we have learned how to read Torah well enough to participate in Shabbat, speaking ancient words, sharing the sacred space where words take on meanings that we would otherwise not ascribe to them.  And in some communities we still gift the newest "adult" of our group with a fountain pen, to further impress upon them, and us, that reading, discussing, and writing about G-d is what makes us truly "grown-ups."  Funny story, one of my young cousins, herself preparing for her upcoming Bat Mitzvah, was attending a Shabbat service with all of us to celebrate my Uncle's 80th birthday.  After we celebrated the occasion during the service, my Uncle jokingly asked where the new fountain pen was, and my dear, sweet, modern cousin, asked in earnest, "What's a fountain pen?"  Apparently, we should have said something like a stylus for your iPad.

Heck, we even call our spiritual leaders, Rabbi, a word that means teacher.  It is as if Jews see the need for someone to provide educational opportunities in order to grow, as well as someone who can provide comfort during our times of trial.  And Rebs of old inspire and teach through the Talmud, a collection of explorations and answers to every possible life scenario, and most importantly at least 2 answers that completely contradict each other.  That's right, there are multiple answers to life's questions and there, codified in volumes of texts, is the very answer to the mystery of spirituality itself.  There is no one right answer.  We humans cannot grasp the enormity of G-d, and when we try to answer questions with an either or solution, we show our limitations as created beings.  With G-d there are no "either/or" answers to life, rather, it is "both/and."  Within the first few verses of Torah, in Genesis, the term for G-d used during the creation of humans is a plural, meaning the divine.  G-d is both/and, singular and plural, greater than the entire cosmos, yet within each atom that it is composed of.

So, in my current (perpetual) discernment process, I am seduced by the opportunity to delve again into the words that create meaning within my life.  I have a visceral response to the idea that I could spend hours upon hours sitting in a library, pouring over texts, writing, thinking, imagining, believing, and dreaming about what each letter could mean.  It's true, I would love a life of academia, filling my mind to the brim with every last bit of knowledge I could fit in there.

And yet.

And yet.

For as much as I have a call to learning,  I have a deeper call to teaching.  And of course the two calls are really one in the same, but it is how one chooses to live into them that can have remarkably different effects on the people around you.

If I choose to throw myself headlong into a world of academia, a world of abstraction, and a necessary laser like focus, I will likely lose the connection to my family, friends, and community as I become ensconced in my world of books.

If I choose to throw myself headlong into a world of teaching, a more concrete world, and a necessarily large world view, I will likely grow in my relationships, and have more to offer to those I love.

And, as the Talmud would offer up, both options are right, both options are wrong, and there are infinitely more options than those that I have created.

In my life today though, I know that for as much as I love academic challenges within higher education, I learn far more when I am teaching those who require a little more, a little extra, another set of eyes, or ears, or hands, or neurons in order to learn for themselves.  Everyday, every single day, I am blessed to be able to go to work, experience totally different world views from my own, and get hugs from people half my size.  Being an educator in an elementary school is the best thing I've ever done in my life, save for being a good husband and father.  Being a positive male role model for boys and girls who may not have one is a priceless gift that I have been given to share.  Being allowed to be myself grants me more knowledge than I will ever be able to contain.

And that brings me right back to my discernment process and my own sense of call.  Those dreams of academia, of discussing and debating, of questions that lead to more questions, of philosophical dilemmas worked through in the early morning hours over beer and sleep deprivation, each dream more tantalizing than the next.  But they are just that, dreams.  They are not goals.  They are fantasies, and in all truth, they are fantasies that I have already fulfilled in my seminary days.  I've lived them all.  And I have a life that calls me now to dream new dreams, make goals, and live them out in the here and now.

It is seldom easy to put a want on hold.  It is seldom easy to prioritize which task must be done first.  Should I work on the outdoor tasks before the snow falls?  Should I work on tightening up the inside jobs in my house before the cold winds blow through the cracks in this old farmhouse?  Are the questions I pose literal, figurative, or both?  In the end it probably doesn't matter, whether or not they are reality nor the actual order of the tasks.

In the end I know that whatever decisions I make will have consequences for more than just myself.  Each choice will affect my wife, my sons, my job, my community, my faith, my sanity, and my time to enjoy the changes in the seasons that continue to fly past me.  Each choice isn't about me, it is about the family I have created, and the family that I have chosen to be a part of.

It has been nearly a year since my Deconstruction, and I can't bear to think of putting my loved ones or myself through that again.  Ultimately, I know that a choice to return to theological school, regardless of the reasons would eventually lead to that, and that is not a choice I wish to make.  I am a far better man than I was a year ago and as such I know when it is time to put the good of myself and of my family first.

Teacher, Scholar, Family man.

So, will I regret not attending theological school?  Maybe.  Would I regret not being here for my family, for my students, my community, my friends, or even my own life?  Yes!  I recently read that one should live the way you want to be remembered in your eulogy/obituary.  Meaning, that I want to be remembered for my love and devotion, my volunteerism, the differences I made in others' lives, the way I helped shift understanding of what it means to be transgender, intersex, and interfaith.  I want to be remembered for the good that I did, the Tikkun Olam, and not the times I left my family for my own personal gains.  

So, it is time to plan ahead then, to prepare for the coming hibernation of the wintery world that is coming.  And my plan is to stay the course.  I have found my call in teaching, and in so doing, I will always be able to fulfill my desire to learn.  There are exams for me to take, classes to complete, and teaching that needs to be done.  And there is the constant learning of being a husband and father to my ever evolving family and its growing needs.

May it be so that there is always more to learn.

Thank you for continuing to learn with me, and to teach me on this journey together.

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

-Ari

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

Sex, Gender, and Performance, Part 2: Of Transgender Youth and Personal Aging

Hello My Dear One,

How are you?  Has the summer been going well?  I hope that your activities have been fun, uplifting, renewing, and restoring.  My activities have varied from babysitting, to laundry, to gardening, to laundry, to speaking, and yes, to more laundry.  But really, I've enjoyed my time relaxing, reading, and occasionally getting an opportunity to do my other "job," the one I love almost as much as I love nurturing my family.  

Real live transgender individual...

I recently gave a talk to a group of mental health providers at a transgender workshop who work with youth and young adults, about what my transgender life experiences have been like.  I love these opportunities to provide people with a more personalized learning experience.  I awaken early, primp, prep, and arrive at the engagement excited.  As much as I love my day to day work, which is quite a bit, I would gladly do this, my speaking and consulting full time.  I am most comfortable in front of a group, divulging personal information, with the understanding that I am (hopefully) broadening people's knowledge of and comfort with transgender issues. 

When I begin a talk I often challenge groups to find their own preconceived notions and assumptions about how they view people and how that determines their interactions with others/clients.  At this particular event this did not go the way I planned.  Not in the slightest.  The phrase "hot mess" comes to mind.  But let me start with what I usually do for my talks.  

I almost always come to an event dressed in a suit coat, button down shirt, tie, and nice pants and shoes.  I am often introduced to the group by one of the coordinators, and then I introduce myself to the group.  I tell everyone that there is not a single question that I will not answer, or that I have not been asked.  I assure them that they cannot offend me, and if they don't feel comfortable asking something out loud, to please write it down and make sure that it is passed to me before the end of the session.

The presentation begins with a little ice-breaker where I have participants stand up, stretch, look to their right, then look to their left, and then sit back down.  I explain that in those 5-10 seconds each person made assumptions about the people next to them, such as race, gender, socio-economic class and possibly a few other things.  I go on with an interactive review of the acronym for sexual and gender orientation, LGBTQIQA: Lesbian; Gay; Bisexual; Transgender/Transsexual; Queer; Intersex; Questioning; and Allies.  It is then that I ask the group what label or labels they would like to place on me, and with a little bit of help, the group offers guesses, or raises their hands when I say a term.  I intersperse this with humorous comments and try to form a shared group unity.

This particular time, knowing that the conference had just started with group rules and overview, and everyone seemed a little somber, I introduced myself, gave some details about myself, and asked what label(s) they wanted to assign to me.  And that's when it all derailed.  I rarely if ever am asked questions during this part, there were 3 or 4 interruptive questions, and I have never, ever been questioned as to why I was doing this exercise.  Perhaps because I hadn't started with the ice-breaker I had not properly set the tone, however, I've deviated from the script before and not had these results.  But this happened, one of the participants challenged me as to the validity of the exercise, the need for labels, and if I was trying to "trick" them.   I was for the first time in my life completely thrown off and unsure of how to handle the situation.  Thankfully one of the conference leaders, a good friend of mine, helped to explain that I was in fact trying to make people feel uncomfortable, as the participant had expressed, and that it was to help us all understand that no matter how objective we may think we are, we still bring our own assumptions with us to situations.  I was incredibly grateful for this lifeline and I felt a sense of security, that even if things weren't going perfectly, at least my message was still being heard.

Yet somehow I had a hard time resetting, moving on, and felt unable to really tell my story in the way that I normally do.  I was reeling from being heckled, and I wasn't recovering well.  I eventually pulled it together and answered as many questions as possible, sort of turning the event into a Q&A session rather than a narrative.  I received high praise from participants and was complimented by the group leaders.  Still, I left feeling weird, unsure of myself, and on edge.  I wasn't able to figure out what had happened and I wondered what I did or didn't do that had changed the outcome so drastically, at least in my eyes. I knew that my perception of the event was different from everyone else's and I took solace in knowing that I did impart knowledge, understanding, experience, and hopefully a more human picture of what living as a transgender individual can be like.

More importantly though, I decided that I had to use this experience as a learning opportunity for myself, and that I needed to assess why it occurred, and how I could have handled or might handle it in the future in different ways.

As I did this I came up with a couple of truths about myself that I have neglected to acknowledge whenever I do these events:

     1) I have not been a teenager for 20 years.

Although I know this intellectually, I have never really taken it in at an emotional level.  This is further complicated by the therapeutic work I have done, as it has helped me to leave much of my teen angst and trauma behind.  It's not that I don't remember it, it's just that I no longer dwell in it, and am no longer triggered by the memories themselves.  I have chosen to grow up, and I am no longer the immature, irrational, narcissistic, and tortured teen that I was.  I choose not to rehearse and relive my past, and at the same time my past is a large part of the narrative in my speaking career.  This leaves me learning how to retell my history so that it still has emotional meaning and connection for an audience.  And I can draw on what was, hopefully with a compassionate objectivity, that allows others to feel the pain as well as the hope that I now have.


   2) I have no idea what it means to be a teen in today's world.

I grew up in the 1970's, and the 1980's.  Life was simply different in those years, the influence of media was a tiny fraction of what it is today.  If I had been exposed to as much as the average teen is today when I was 15, I might not have ever ventured into the world at all.  For all the conveniences that we are afforded, the use of anonymous hatred spewed out at others through the internet comes at a higher price than we care to acknowledge.  Being a teenager is hard enough, I cannot imagine what it is like when you have people from all over the world "hating" you.  And there is the crux of the matter.  I am not a teen in today's world, feeling the hatred of others, trapped by my own hormonal hell, with images, and words bombarding my every waking minute.  

Instead, I am a grown man, a husband, a father of 2 sons, and a true blue friend to those I love and care about.  I am a professional speaker, writer, and consultant.  I am a dedicated educator and employee.  I am not a kid anymore, watching the world speed past me, rather I am the adult who is an active participant in his life.  I am no longer a tortured teen, flailing through a world I both fear and want to conquer, all at the same time.      

As I have spoken to providers who are working with teens right now, in the 2nd decade of the 21st century, I have realized that there is a far greater range of gender expression, gender fluidity, and terminology today.  There is information readily available from the internet, psychologists, counselors, and people like myself, who are willing to talk about what this thing called "transgender" is and what the process has been like for us.  And as I have developed as a speaker over the past 15 years, the questions I am asked have changed. I no longer need to answer technical questions about hormones and anatomy.  The how-to's of transition have been replaced with more thoughtful questions about my role as a husband, father, teacher, and friend.  And in retrospect, I see that this is what those providers most needed to hear.  

And that is what I have realized was the problem for me at the particular speaking event I did.  I reveal myself completely, make myself totally vulnerable, and dive into aspects of my life that are simply not easy to talk about.  I am willing to expose myself because I know that when I do so I open doors for people, doors for individuals who are like me, and doors for those who work with and attempt to help those like me.  That day, it was my vulnerability that was being challenged, and that is why I was so shaken by it.  My vulnerability, my own self, was not respected or treated with dignity, because this individual was unable to get past their own walls of discomfort.  And I was unable to meet this person where they were.  I couldn't see them as a beloved child of G-d because I was having a hard time seeing it in myself.  Looking back I can see it clearly, and I can try to remember it when and if this happens again. 

So, was it worth it?  Was putting my vulnerability out there helpful to the group I spoke to?  Will it make a difference in the life of a teen who is feeling completely alone in a world of shame?  The answer is ultimately an unknown, but I hope that the answer is yes.  

A Different View of
Vulnerability

I believe that my story, my history is still valid, even if it is not the same set of realities facing young trans folk today.  How I felt as a child, knowing that I was male, even though the rest of the world believed otherwise, is exactly what today's youth are experiencing too.  What it feels like to live with an enormous secret and fear that dominates your life.  I am called to share my past, the teen years that were as defining at that time as they are for youth today, and how I have moved forward.  That's the message the teens I talk to need to hear, just as much as the adults who are helping them.  That here I am, a living breathing transman, who has made it to the other side of transition, stronger and better than I was before. 

And I know that when I speak for a group the next time, I will take with me the truths I have learned from my struggles, and I will offer the gift of hope to those I share my story to.  It is what I have to offer and I thank G-d for the opportunity everyday.

Thank you for being a part of my story.

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

-Ari 

Of Mental Illness, Accountability, and Adoption

Hello My Dear One,

How are you?  I am busy, and not in that good way when you feel productive after finishing a project.  No, I'm just busy, flitting from task to task, chore to chore, and wondering why everyone thinks that educators have summers "off."  The truth is we continue to work all summer long, prepping, studying, shopping, planning, raising our own kids who have the summer off, and a majority of us take 2nd and 3rd jobs to supplement our incomes.  As an hourly worker, this is especially true for me.  But even the salaried employees frequently take on extra work to support their families.  And, "summer" is not June, July, and August - three glorious months of fun and sun, but really the last 2 weeks of June through the first 3 weeks in August.  If we're lucky that's 10 weeks total.  

At any rate, in the hectic pace of my summer I have been writing a lot, in my head, which although valuable in its own right, fails to share my thoughts as effectively as when I actually write them down.  As I have continued my work in providing parenting for my 2 sons and "sitting" for 2 other boys, while dispersing contents of my mother's home, I have found myself less and less motivated to write.  Which ultimately means that I need to spend even more time writing if I am to save my sanity.  So, here I am, present to the true needs of my life, having survived another brutal heatwave, questioning my often self-defeating behaviors.

I've had many therapy sessions this summer, most of which have been delving into my learned patterns of sacrifice and martyrdom.  It is a vicious cycle that was modeled for me throughout my entire childhood and continues to be utilized by both of my parents to this day.

1) Feeling unworthy of love and/or generalized unworthiness.
2) Attention seeking words and behaviors.
3) Offering myself and my resources to others in unhealthy ways due to fears of rejection.
4) Resentment for being treated poorly or underselling myself.
5) Self inflicted sacrifice of my needs and wants because of feeling unworthy of love.
6) Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.

Intellectually I can fully understand this crazy loop and that I ought to be able to find ways to prevent it, stop it mid-cycle, or at the very least stop the sacrificing of my needs and wants when I realize what I've done.  If only it were that simple.  The patterns of these thinking and behavior have been seared into my very being.  It reminds me of trying to merge on or off of a roundabout in Paris, France or Augusta, ME, either you go full bore into it and make the loops until you can actually get off or you freeze before entering and decide that abandoning your car is the safer and easier choice.

All of this has its roots in my family of origin and my upbringing.  I could spend pages upon pages concerning incidents that cemented the behaviors I have nurtured and used to torture myself and others, detailing each wrong or hurt that I experienced.  Instead, I will attempt to pull the meaning out of the minutiae, leaving the disturbances behind, in the past where they belong.  And this is what I have spent the most time working on during the past few months, learning to sift through the muck of my past and see where the real accountability needs to be placed.  I am learning to separate my parents' accountability for their actions from their mental illnesses, and subsequently my own negative patterns and the choices I have made and sometimes still make in my daily life.

My parents' influence on me and the molding and shaping that they did from before my birth is the starting place. From the beginning of their marriage they were an unlikely pairing.  They had known each other since the 1st grade, from sunday school and church, and from living in a really small town. The two families were actually related, and my parents' are indeed 5th cousins.  Having gone their separate ways after high school graduation, mom and dad re-met at a Christmas Eve service, both having recently ended relationships.  They were engaged less than a year later.  The wedding itself occurred mostly because my aunt had decided not to marry her fiance at the last minute, and my grandmother was bound and determined that there would be a wedding come hell or high water.  So, my parents married and began a miserable life together, each sacrificing their own wants and needs for the "happiness" of the other.  My mother relinquished her New York City operatic career, and my father left his friends, family, and academic career to move to a tiny beach town next door to his in-laws so that his wife might act "less crazy."  I think that from the outside most anyone could have seen the disaster that was already underway, but from the inside, it must have been harder to visualize.  My father resented the fact he had sacrificed, as did my mother, the marriage itself was a sacrifice for both parties, and my birth was the ultimate sacrifice for both of them.  But one must remember that they both made choices.  This concept has become very important to me as I have dealt with my own struggles.

In the end, I found that I had to ask and then answer some difficult questions.  Does all of their sacrifice mean that they were not accountable for their thoughts, behaviors, and actions?  Because they both suffered from mental illness are they exempt from culpability when it comes to the suffering and pain that I endured?  Do their life choices, because they were made through lenses of borderline personality disorder, anxiety, PTSD, undiagnosed autism spectrum differences, ADD/ADHD, and their own learned behaviors from their parents, grandparents, and other family members excuse what they did to me?  Do their lives trump mine?  Are their beasts of mental illness stronger than mine?  Are their beasts allowed a greater freedom than mine?

In order to answer those questions I realized that I had to turn to my own learned behaviors and how I have enacted them throughout my life journey so far.  Up until recently my preferred method of dealing with emotional conflicts was through passive-aggressive mutters, whines, and rants along with physical isolation, hiding, running away, driving at unsafe speeds, and putting my loved ones and myself in danger.  I reenacted almost all the scenes from my childhood with minor adjustments to fit the situations.  I got stuck in that loop of ugliness and just kept going around and around it until people around me moved farther and father away from my reckless spinning through life.

These frightening revolutions have been devastating to my personal and professional life over the years.  Much the same way as they were for my parents.  That cycle of unworthiness that sometimes seems to ooze right out of my skin has been at the foundation of my sense of self.  I loathe myself, and then I loathe others, and then back to loathing myself.  It is like a tire stuck spinning in mud, sinking deeper with each revolution.  The more you try to gun the engine to move in any direction, the more you are sucked into the mire below you.

It is an ugly truth of my life, the mud I have spun myself around in has led me to abandon those I love for selfish and self-centered reasons.  And in the end it comes down to a single word that I fear more than most, choice.  If I have choices to make and I make poor ones, and I have mental illness, am I accountable for the consequences, and to what degree? Some of my choices have indeed been driven by my beast of mental illness when it was untreated.  But many of my choices have been driven by me.  The hard fact is that I am the one who is ultimately accountable for my beast's actions, because I am the one who can choose to let it run boundless in through my world.  I am also accountable because I can choose to go to therapy, take medications, make healthy living decisions, have a spiritual life, and pay attention to myself and others when my beast tries to raise its wild and flailing self in the middle of my life.  Whether I like it or not,  I have the choice to let the madness take over, or I can choose to keep the madness in check.

And this is where I choose, I choose accountability as a husband and a father, as well as the numerous other titles I use throughout my travels.  Instead of blaming my mental illness for the mistakes I've made, I am learning to own them, to claim them, to grieve the harm I've caused, and to celebrate the ways in which I have helped and can help others in the future because of my experiences.  I am beginning to see that I am responsible for what was, and for how I acted in many situations, and that each one is in the past and I no longer need to dwell there.  I am learning that I can make different choices whenever I want to, in word, in thought, in deed, and even in my perceptions of what is happening around me.  I can be that man, that father, un homme de dieu - a man of G-d - in heart and in vocation.  As I make choices, rather than believing that I have made sacrifices, I am granted control of myself and my beast.  I am finally the one telling my beast what to do rather than allowing it to tell me what to do.   

So, what am I telling my beast to do?  I am telling it that it doesn't need to fear being a father to my sons.  Now, I have been their parent since the day each one was conceived, albeit through extra measures that did not include my DNA.  And when each beautiful, wonderful, and miraculous son was born I was there, laughing, crying, present to the moments of becoming for all of us.  What I wasn't was able to be listed on their birth certificates, because at that point in time my own birth certificate still had the wrong sex listed on it.  I was also not legally married to my wife because gay marriage wasn't legal yet.  When we did legally marry as man and woman, after my birth certificate and driver's license were corrected to say Male, the State of Maine recognized me as my own children's step father.  In the legal analysis we determined that I would have to adopt my sons in order to correct my status as their father and to get new birth certificates for them.  

Now, what does my beast have to do with all of this?  It turns out, that the answer is, everything.  I/it was afraid that my wife would leave me, and take our boys away from me because of my mental illness.  My beast was trying to convince me that it would be less painful if that happened, if I was never legally their father anyway.  My beast and I were terrified of losing two of the greatest joys in my life.  And after much therapy, I saw this for what it was.  It was an excuse to stay in that cycle of unworthiness.  By allowing myself to believe that the worst would happen I was perpetuating the model that I had learned and lived - I am not worthy of love - and would punish myself and others because of this.  

As I cried in therapy, literally for the first time after 2 years with my therapist, I realized how much I do love my sons and that I am accountable for my role as their father.  I saw that I must show them that they are truly worthy of love by my choice to adopt them.  That I am choosing them over my own anxiety, fear, feelings of unworthiness, and my beast.  I can model that they deserve to be people who can receive G-d's love and shine it back out into the world.  That their worth is more valuable and precious than anything else to me.  I can give them exactly what I was not given, unconditional, affirming love from a parent who had to make a conscious effort to do so.  I am stronger than my beast and want them to feel that right down to their very cores.  That is what I am accountable for.


So, as I enter the legal and financial process of making our family whole on paper, I am committed to making our family whole in love.  As I break that vicious cycle of pain, suffering, and deconstruction, I find that I can grow as a man, and that I can then help my sons grow into men as well.  Perhaps this is the greatest gift, to be the father I am called to be and choose to be that man, no matter what.  I thank G-d for being a G-d of second, third, fourth, and even hundredth chances.  I thank G-d for the chance to be a part of a real family, created on a foundation of dignity, respect, and worth.  I thank G-d for calling me into choice.

Thank you for being present to my accountability.

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

-Ari

Of Progress, of Call, and of Footwashing

Hello Dear One,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

21st century java!

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




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

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

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

-Ari

Listening for the Call