My Prayer of Transgender Gratefulness 2021

Hello My Dear One, 

One year ago, I wrote a prayer for an LGBTQI+ Pride Shabbat Service at my synagogue, Congregation Ner Shalom, Cotati, CA. And now, one full year later, I shared the prayer again, this time with a few different words, and a far deeper understanding of what I was saying.  

Based on Genesis 1:27, "And G-d created humans in G-d's image, in the image of G-d They created humans; male and female They created them." The word in Hebrew used for G-d in the above text is אֱלֹהִ֖ים Elohim, a plural noun. This term does not indicate a plurality of gods, but rather an understanding of G-d as being greater than human constructs. It could be seen as a way of knowing the Divine as someone/thing that is both universal and Universal.  

So, the following poetic prayer speaks to my love of the Torah, my faith in G-d, and the struggles I have experienced as a transman. It is a reflection of how the body I have is a carefully created and shaped entity with the help of nature, science, and the Divine.

My Transgender Prayer of Gratefulness

Elohim, G-d, You said, “Let US make humans in OUR image.”

You crafted me a body, that never fit quite right
You gifted me a corporeal tote bag, that had crooked seams
You sculpted me a lumpy, squishy, and ungainly vessel, to hold the Divine Spark
And I was ungrateful.

In the beginning, I read how You crafted me in Your image
A cartoon of Adam and Eve printed on a canvas sack
A lump of clay thrown haphazardly on the wheel
And I was ungrateful.

I studied, and read, and translated each text letter by letter.
I punished and scarred my body in every way I could think of
I even asked You, Elohim, why did You create me Wrong?
And I was ungrateful.

And all the texts, and commentaries, and conversations, lay lifeless around me.
And my mangled and mutilated body was sprawled across the floor.
And the Divine Spark began to flicker out.
And I was no longer capable of anything in any form.

And Elohim, G-d, You said, again, “Let US make YOU in OUR image.”

And there we were, all of us, reimagining and reimaging this creation
One shot in the thigh, one lone mustache hair, one new name
One literal seam after another stitched across my flesh
One kippah, one tallit, and one Alephbet making me a man
And I was finally grateful.

You and I, Elohim crafted us this transformed body
You and I, Elohim gifted us this resown rucksack
You and I, Elohim sculpted us this vessel that now fully embodies and envelopes Our Divine Spark
And I, I am grateful.

Thank you for being on this journey with me. I am grateful for your support, your love, and your transformation in this process as well.

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


- Ari

My Transgender Prayer of Gratefulness

Hello My Dear One,

LGBTQI+ Pride Month 2020 looked and felt different than any I've ever experienced. No parades, no flashy displays of rainbows, or even much coverage in the media. However, it did include the opportunity to share a part of my story with members of my faith community at Congregation Ner Shalom, in Cotati, CA.

Based on Genesis 1:27, the following is a poetic prayer that I composed for a Pride Shabbat Service on the 26th of June, 2020. It speaks to my love of Torah, my faith in G-d, and the struggles I have experienced as a transman. It is a reflection on how the body I have is a carefully created and shaped entity with the help of nature, science, and the Divine.

My Transgender Prayer of Gratefulness

Elohim, G-d, You said, “Let US make humans in OUR image.”

You crafted me a body, that never fit quite right
You gifted me a corporeal tote bag, that had crooked seams
You sculpted me a lumpy, squishy, and ungainly vessel, to hold the Divine Spark
And I was ungrateful.

In the beginning, I read how You crafted me in Your image
A cartoon of Adam and Eve printed on a canvas sack
A lump of clay thrown haphazardly on the wheel
And I was ungrateful.

I studied, and read, and translated each text letter by letter.
I punished and scarred my body in every way I could think of
I even asked You, Elohim, why did You create me wrong?
And I was ungrateful.

And all the texts, and commentaries, and conversations, lay lifeless around me.
And my mangled and mutilated body was sprawled across the floor.
And the Divine Spark began to flicker out.
And I was no longer capable of anything in any form.

And Elohim, G-d, You said, again, “Let US make YOU in OUR image.”

And there we were, all of us, reimagining and reimaging this creation
One shot in the thigh, one mustache hair, one new name
One literal seam after another stitched across my flesh
One kippah, tallit, and Alephbet making me a man
And I was grateful.

You and I, Elohim crafted us this transformed body
You and I, Elohim gifted us this resown backpack
You and I, Elohim sculpted us this vessel that now fully embodies Our Divine Spark
And I am grateful.


Thank you for being on this journey with me. I am grateful for your support, your love, and your transformation in this process as well.

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


- Ari

My First Transgender Suicide Attempt, 1985

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

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

I was 10 years old and I wanted to die.

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

A spoonful of poison...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man I am today.

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

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

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

-Ari

Fighting My Anatomical [Trans]Gender Dysphoria

Hello My Dear One,

I've recently been fighting with my 15+ year psychological diagnosis of Gender Dysphoria. My sense of dysphoria feeling/being a man, but still having physical attributes of a female, escalated to a level that I hadn't experienced in more than a decade. It started with a low-level of physical pain in my groin. There's a 30-year-old, largely calcified cyst in a delicate (read genital) area of my anatomy. Unrelated to anything I can recall leading up to it, the cyst became inflamed, infected, and eventually burst open 2 separate times. The second time the pus that drained out was putrid, gritty, and contained shards of calcium. All of this led to a few medical appointments, a small procedure, and a soul racking anxiety about my gender identity. Or at least the physical manifestations of said identity.

The practical and pragmatic questions started immediately. Why did this flare-up occur now or at all? Did I do something that made it happen? Is it just a random flukish event? Is there an underlying medical reason? Is it a combination of multiple factors? And more importantly, is there anything I can do about it now?

But the broader philosophical questions arose moments later. Why has this caused such a massive flare-up in my mind? Why has this medically benign object in my groin, set off a cancerous spread of gender dysphoria in my head? Why am I questioning my male identity based on a cyst that could just have easily occurred in my armpit, my neck, or on my ass? Why am I struggling to come to terms with a more than 30-year-old part of my body, that I didn't believe mattered anymore?

It's because it has mattered all along and I have been unwilling and unable to acknowledge or accept that. I've been aware of this thing for as long as it's been there, both pre- and post-transition. It's been a daily reminder of where I am male and where I am not. And I hate that.

It is a literal encapsulation under my skin of a medical condition that has dictated more than 75% of my life. And it was a condition I didn't even know I had. The physician I saw had done her research and figured out that I have Hidradenitis Suppurativa also known as Acne inversa. It's a chronic skin disease of acne, boils, infections, and scarring of the skin, usually stemming from sweat glands and follicular [hair] blockages. It has many comorbidities (conditions that often occur with it) that include anxiety, depression, excessive sweating, obesity, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, diabetes, and Poly Cystic Ovary Syndrome. All of the above applied to me at one point or another in my life.

The disease itself isn't curable, and only the symptoms can be treated/managed. In a miraculous turn of events, my transition from female to male has helped, though that is certainly not the most common treatment. The removal of my ovaries and uterus, breast tissue, and a weekly injection of testosterone ended the ovarian cysts, the boils under the breasts, and seemingly most of the cysts in the groin. But, it didn't erase or eradicate the hardened cyst already there.

This new medical information didn't alter my sense of gender dysphoria. It was good to learn and access new resources, but it didn't change the dis-ease of not having the physical structures I want and think I need. That's the whole point of this for me. That no new diagnosis, or self-actualization, or psychological therapeutic intervention, or level of imagination will result in a physical change in my anatomy. I may one day be able to reconcile my gender dysphoria with my body, but it will never truly be that of a cisgender male. There may be an approximation that will meet my psychological needs, but it is not something that happens quickly, easily, or inexpensively. Surgical interventions are complicated processes.

But the surgery I can have done right now, a basic excision of the cyst, won't change anything about my anatomical or physical appearance. In the long run, it will likely alleviate some of my feelings of dysphoria, yet, it will likely exacerbate them as I focus more on that area. There will be pain, swelling, the potential for infection, issues maintaining blood glucose levels, and risks for scarring. It will serve as an acute reminder of my physical differences.

But will it be worth it? I think the answer for me is yes. I need to remove that which I can, even if it doesn't physically alter anything else. Freedom from something that has been painful and distressing for more than 30 years is worth the cost of a little bit of discomfort. Perhaps, it will serve as a motivating factor in creating more physical changes to my body. It may help me to refocus on what is most urgent for my health and wellbeing. And in the end, that might be more surgery. Or it might not. Who knows?

In the end, I have seen that gender is indeed something that comes from between the ears. It's a construct in our minds that stems largely from our culture, our religious traditions, and our personal experiences of G-d. But there is for me a physical component as well. And maybe that's the real difference between transgender and transsexual identifications. One's need for recognition as a man or a woman, or for specific body parts that signify recognition as a male or a female. Two or more forms of presentation and perception that create a slightly more holistic view of a human being. And which one is most important for the human being who is presenting and being perceived.

Whatever the end result is, I am thankful for this time to experience it, even if it has been triggering in so many surprising ways. Even challenging things teach us to see what is and what might be possible.

Thank you for continuing with me on this journey of experiences.

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

- Ari

Transgender Male Privilege

Hello My Dear One,
     When I transitioned from female to male I had a lot of expectations. I wanted to feel like myself. I wanted to feel appropriately masculine, manly, male, or whatever I imagined that was at the time. I wanted to walk through the world finally being seen as who I really was. I wanted people to treat me the way that they treated other men. I wanted people to stop wondering what my gender was, and to accept the one that I presented. I thought that being male meant that things would be easier for me as I continued on my journey in life.
     And I was correct about life being easier in many ways. Yes, there were people who knew me prior to and during transition who struggled with my new voice, my new look, my new body. But, for the most part, becoming physically male was indeed a step up. Not surprisingly, being a white male in America is more than just good, it's like being better than everyone else.

All. Of. The. Time.

     Initially, I was struck with the injustice of how women were treated in a more visceral way than I ever had before. Although I knew that misogyny and harassment were part and parcel of my daily life, I didn't have the male perspective to see all of the moving parts and pieces. The intentional disrespect, the intentional and unintentional dismissals, the painful inequalities, and the underlying disregard for women that so many men have. And yes, there are good men out there, but even they, even I, don't see all of the ways in which we treat women as less than.
     Recently, I have found myself aware of this problem again, and the way in which I use male privilege in my daily interactions. It's true, after 13+ years living exclusively as a male, I now take for granted that I will receive better service, be treated as though I know more, and be expected to occupy space as though I own it. I walk into settings where being a man is an advantage, almost all settings really, and I run with it. I can claim my rightful place as better than, simply by entering the room. And after 30 years of having been treated as significantly less than, simply because I was a woman, I will admit that it feels good.
     But, I am a transgender man, not a full member of the brotherhood. I was not born with certain physical attributes that allow me to join the club. I live with a body that is not 100% male, and never will be. Everyday, I am reminded that I am not like most other men I meet. There are discrepancies between my anatomy and my gender presentation. There are even greater discrepancies between my gender presentation and my thinking.
     After 30 years of being instructed, taught, and forced to express a female gender identity, often with disastrous results, I still question what I do in public as a man. I question my choices of vocabulary, my clothes, the way I'm standing, and the pitch of my voice. I question my order at the coffee shop. Do "real [heterosexual] men" order caramel macchiatos and lavender infused scones? And I still have fear when I enter a mens' room. I worry that someone will think that the sound of my peeing isn't quite right, and I will be questioned, or harassed, or attacked. I still fear the hypothetical man in the dark parking lot, until I realize that I am that man in the parking lot. I'm no longer supposed to fear sexual assault, rather I am now seen as the cause of it.
     So, what does all this mean for how I use my male privilege in the world? Does it make me kinder? Does it make me more compassionate? Does it make me treat others, particularly women, with a deeper respect? Do I model what it means to be a good man?

Sometimes.

     Like all discrimination and biases, it is far easier to ignore that which might change our own status. It is much more convenient to rest into privilege than challenge oneself to see the harm they may be doing. And I am no different in that respect. Being a man in the Western world affords a path that avoids many of the troubles that women face. And why would anyone pass up the opportunity to save themselves from discomfort or distress?
     Well, the answer for me is, yes, because I am a father of two sons. Two cisgender, probably heterosexual, teenagers who are rapidly becoming men in this world. And it is one of my most important duties to show them what it means to be a good man, particularly in respect to women. First and foremost that their mother is a complete and total human being. That she is a Beloved and therefore Equal Child of G-d. And before she was their mother she was, and is my partner, my wife, and my best friend. For them to truly respect her, they must also respect the relationship that she and I have. To be real men they must show love, commitment, and respect to all people.
     Is this always easy? Is it comfortable? Is it possible? No. Not always. But, it is something that must be done in order to change how we as people treat each other. Males/men, females/women, intersex, gender non-conforming, and everyone else in between is a Beloved Child of G-d. We all deserve dignity, love, respect, hope, and the knowledge that we are more than the sum of our parts. Body, mind, and soul. And that is no privilege. That is a G-d given right.

Thank you for honoring me with your continued presence along the journey.

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

-Ari

Losing My (Genetic) Identity

Hello My Dear One,

Last December I gave a sample of my DNA in a saliva filled tube to a popular company, and waited for some genetic answers to my ancestral past. I was hoping to learn more about my history, my ethnicities, and the other exciting things that came with the promises on the box. Like, does dark chocolate make me sneeze?

I guess I should've known that the testing was going to change things for me from the beginning. When I submitted the kit and filled out the online information, I checked the box that said male. But less than a week later I received an email that said I needed to go to my online profile and answer a question. The DNA sample submitted was from a female, and they needed to know if I had checked the wrong box, mixed up samples, or was it a gender identity issue?

So, I changed my profile to match my DNA, because I had to correct a purposeful lie. I'm not really a male of the species. I am a man, which describes my gender identity and expression, but not a male, because that has to do with my biological sex. And according to my DNA, I have 2 X chromosomes, and am for scientific classification purposes, female. I often identify as transsexual rather than transgender, due to medical interventions such as hormone therapy and surgical procedures. Yet, my DNA is forever encoded to produce a human whose first introduction to the world would be "It's a girl!" A thousand years from now if someone tested a single remaining cell of mine, they would never know that I had lived as a man.

A few weeks later when the test results came back, knowing a good portion of my family tree, I was not surprised to see the British Isles genomic markers, or the French/Germanic results. Learning that I have 306 traits of Neanderthal genetics, making me approximately 4% "caveman," wasn't all that odd either. But, it was the absence of some genes that was an issue.

According to my DNA, I am not (genetically) a Jew.

In all likelihood, it's a matter of an incorrect birth certificate several generations back. No, I don't want to do more digging, that information was not what I wanted in the first place.

Regardless, having been raised with a mix of Conservadox Judaism and Protestant Christianity, I've always felt like I'm in the middle of a religious road. Moreover, there is a G-d shaped 18 wheeler bearing down on me at a very high rate of speed.

Now, several months later, I find myself having gone through a wild ride of emotions and thoughts. How do I process this information in the first place? How do I reconcile my sense of self, with my genetic self? What does all of this mean to my faith and spiritual life? Does it make things easier or harder? How much do I actually have to reconcile anyway?

I learned all of this before Chanukah this year, and it shook me. It was so unsettling that I didn't retrieve my menorah from storage, and I never lit a single candle, though I frequently caught myself singing the blessings in my head. Although I try to live my life with no regrets, I decidedly regret not shining light into the darkness.

In the following weeks and months I continued to struggle with this new genetic understanding of myself. Oddly, it's been far more difficult to wrestle with this than with my gender identity genetics. You'd think that my biological sex being proven as the exact opposite of who I know myself to be would be far more traumatizing, or crushing, or painful. But it isn't. That biology doesn't really affect how I walk through the world. With hormones and surgeries I "look" male, and I feel male. Even my brain works and communicates differently than it did prior to transition, or at least that's what my wife tells me.

And, honestly, my gender identity and expression is not who I am at the end of the day. I've always known what my gender identity is, that I was a boy, and now a man. Even when the outside didn't match the inside, I still knew exactly who I was. Rather, it is how I act, how I speak, how I may have helped or harmed another, and how I reconciled that with G-d. Hormones and body parts don't change that reality. They are simply a part of the human packaging.

So if I'm able to make that immensely complicated genetic scramble into something so simple, why has it felt nearly impossible to do so with what could've been as little as 12.5% of my DNA? Who am I if not this flesh and most importantly blood self? How do I know myself as a Beloved Child of G-d, an "Un Homme de Dieu," and a thousand other names for a faith believer? And in the end will it really matter?

The answers to those questions are so massive that I cannot answer them all just yet. Maybe I can't even answer them at all. But, a telling thing happened to me and I guess it provides a hint of what may come.

I was introduced to a young man who is a practicing Muslim, and I immediately said, "Salaam Alaikum!" which is an Arabic greeting meaning peace to you. It is nearly identical to the Hebrew phrase "Shalom Aleichem," which also means peace to you. I happened to be cooking sausages and I shared that I didn't eat pork either since I was Jewish. I quickly pointed out that the people around us, the other members of the church, were not Jewish, but that I was. Yes, I am a member of a church, and apparently, when faced with with someone of a different faith in that setting, I find myself claiming my otherness. And, to be clear, I always greet someone I know to be Muslim with the words Salaam Alaikum, because I want them to know that a white person can be welcoming of who they are. And I do this during presentations as well. I see interfaith dialogue as the only way to truly living out G-d's Dream.

So, there's an answer to all of this. I am an interfaith Beloved Child of G-d, a muddled man of faith, un homme de dieu à plusieurs parties (a man of G-d with multiple parts,) and Heaven knows what else. And hopefully, without sounding too presumptuous, like G-d, I am who/what I am.

Thank you for being on this genetically scattered journey with me.



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

Ari

Legally Crazy; Transgender Happiness

Hello My Dear One,

Recently, I gave a presentation about transgender healthcare issues as well as my personal story of transition. Largely, I keep things light with plenty of jokes, some slightly self-deprecating humor, and an upbeat attitude. Of course, I take a more serious tone when I talk about suicide attempts, losses, transphobia, harassment, and abuse. I balance the softness of the good with harsher realities of Gender Dysphoria and the process of becoming oneself.

This particular talk was especially fun and I engaged with the audience through comical descriptions of what my life has been and continues to be like. We all laughed quite a bit, and by the end it felt like we had collectively shared a special time together. It was truly fulfilling for me to be able to bring a group of people together and transform their understanding about transgender people through our conversation.

After I've done my storytelling portion of the presentation I open up the discussion to questions. Now, I've been asked every type of question, from biology, to psychology, to theology, and a host of other things I've never thought of. I find that there are certain constants, usually having to do with my children - what do they know/how do they feel/how has this affected them - or with surgical inquiries, or how do I reconcile my faith life with my gender identity? All of these topics have multiple answers, and I respond based on the composition of the audience, the setting, and my own personal level of vulnerability in the situation. Mostly, I stress the positive aspects of each of these and explain how transition has made me the man I am today, not just in presentation but in totality. 

This past time someone asked a question I'd never been asked before, or even consciously considered in recent memory. The preface to the question was particularly meaningful given the past year that I've lived through and my own doubts about my mental state of being.

"You seem like a really happy person. Do you think you would have been just as happy or happier if you had been born as the gender you identify as now?"

Wow. What an amazing thing to think about. And I know it took a few breaths before I answered. But, like me, it is was and is a dualistic response that I gave. "Yes and no," I replied.

Of course, my life would have been significantly easier if I had been born physically male. My sense of self was always as a male person, so it definitely would've helped to have a mind and a body that matched. I wouldn't have suffered from the deep seated sense of betrayal that I felt toward my body, and I might not have tried so hard to hide from the reality in an extra 100 pounds of fat. Dating would've been easier. Fitting in might also have been simpler, but then again, maybe not. I doubt that having a penis would've really increased my popularity, much. So yes, I suspect being happy would have been an easier emotion to access if I had not needed transition.

For the sake of full disclosure, I do have Bipolar 1 Disorder, and that plays with the neurochemistry that affects my emotional wellbeing. But, medications have controlled this for 15 years and my happiness now is dependent upon my outlook and how I respond to life circumstances.

But back to the no answer. Why would I say that needing to transition from female to male made me the "happy person" that I am? There are so many reasons, but the primary one is that I had to struggle through the truth that I could not live any other way than as myself, as a man, as the person I am in the world everyday, or I would have chosen not to live at all. It was the horror of finding myself with only 2 choices - transition or suicide - that built the foundation for the happiness that I have today. It was the process of finding that who I am is right and good. It was the risk of losing all that I loved, my wife, my children, my family, my faith community, everything and instead finding them all stronger and happier as I transformed into this body and this person.

My life now is based in the knowledge that I am a beloved child of G-d. I believe that my transition is a gift from G-d that helps me to have greater love and empathy for everyone else. I feel in my core that I am called to experience this transition as part of my journey to being more fully human, and to more fully knowing the Divine that guides my life. This is the basis for my deepest happiness and for how I live as myself each moment that I have. And I am thankful for each one.

Thank you for being part of the happiness that infuses this part of my journey.

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

Ari

Legally Crazy; Transgender Thankfulness

Hello My Dear One,

I remember reading that George Burns once said something about when a show got too serious you needed to tap dance for the audience to lighten things up. I think this might be one of those times in my own story. So, I'll tap dance for you a bit, brighten the mood, and show my gratitude for the life I have.

I've always been known as the funny guy - hard to believe if you just go by my writing - but I guess that's how I've dealt with all of the bad stuff over the years. I crack jokes, I make bad puns, I laugh at inappropriate things and at inappropriate times. I like to push the envelope of what's funny and what's potentially offensive. I've always enjoyed a good roast, the insult kind and the beef, as well as a side of mashed metaphors with comedic gravy. I learned the dirtiest jokes in seminary and from pastors. I think the pressure of being responsible for people's spiritual guidance can get the better of any of us. And for all of that I'm thankful.

My family is a never ending source of material. I'm thankful for that on a daily basis. Although I suspect they are not as thankful for this as I am. A story comes to mind of driving to the movies with my wife and then young sons who were aged four and two, and the comedy that followed. I'm not talking about the movie. You see, there are cows everywhere around these parts, and as we went by a pasture each occupant of the car made a noise. I said, "Moo." My wife said, "Moo." The four year old said, "Moo." And then we waited for the two year old, who pausing for a beat, said, "Beep!" It was a moment that solidified his place as the comedian in the family and a disdain by his brother for what appeared to be a distinct lack of intelligence. I suspect it had more to do with his distractibility than IQ, but when the adults laughed, he knew he'd struck gold. He's been the other funny guy ever since. Again, I am eternally grateful for my family.

Life itself is funny. Sometimes it doesn't always seem that way. But our "First World" problems of spilled lattes, lack of paper towels, rotten peaches, data overages, crappy wifi, and furniture that's too big for the spare bedroom are laughable as much as they are depressing. We have millions of things to be thankful for everyday, billions really when we consider that there are more than 6 billion individual journeys going on around us.

But what about being transgender, of having Gender Dysphoria, of being inherently different every day of my life? How am I thankful for that? How I am thankful for being a target of hate and intolerance? What makes it okay to get up in the morning, knowing that I can be attacked simply for being who I am?

It is remarkably easy to be grateful for being transgender. Every day that I get up I am able to live as my authentic self. I am able to live. Were it not for having a diagnosis of Gender Dysphoria, I never would've received the treatment I needed to become the man I am today. There would be no Ari, no spouse, no children, no blog, there would be nothing. But because of who I am, I have all of that and so much more. Including a sense of humor about what it means to walk through this world differently and different.

So, let's end here with an octopus joke:

Most people think an octopus has 8 legs.

Actually, they have 6 legs and 2 arms. 

How can you tell which are the arms?

Hit it on the head. 

The two that go up to the head when he says “Owwww” are his arms.

Anyway...thanks for being on this journey, no matter what.

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

- Ari  

Legally Crazy; My First Transgender Suicide Attempt

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

It was 1985 and I was on the floor of my parents' bathroom in the house I grew up in. I was 10 years old.

I know that seems shocking, that I was so young, but that was the first time I realized that anyone could end their life if they had the right resources. I happened to have the right resources.
I had a bathtub full of water, a towel, a door with a lock, and a giant block of dry ice. I had been allowed to experiment with the dry ice, we had received a shipment of frozen steaks in the mail, and was warned that the the CO2 (carbon dioxide) from the melting compound could be deadly. Dry ice is made of CO2 and as it evaporates the gas sinks to the floor and will cause suffocation if breathed in exclusively. So, I filled the tub, locked the door, rolled up the towel to block the crack under the door, and laid down. I was waiting for the suffocation.

But how did I get to this point?

There are numerous reasons that someone decides that suicide is a valid option for them. At 10 I know I didn't understand the true finality of the act, but I did understand that it was an end to suffering. It was an end to feeling different. It was an end to the constant pain of my Beast of Mental Illness telling me that I was never going to be okay, and I knowing that much was enough at that point.

I was different. I was a boy stuck being a girl. I was transgender, and I didn't even have a word for it. In 1985 there were people who had sex changes, I had only heard of 1 man who became a woman, and I knew plenty of people who were gay. Since I didn't know of trans people I figured I had to be gay, despite knowing I was male, something I'd determined when I was three years old. But without vocabulary I was left in a no-man's-land both figuratively and literally. Gender dysphoria wasn't a thing yet, but I was, and that was exactly how I thought of myself. I was a thing, an it, caught between a mind and a body that wouldn't match. Death seemed like a good answer at the time.

Thankfully, after awhile I sat up, because the process was taking too long for my liking. I moved the towel. I opened the door. I left the bathroom. I pretended as though nothing had happened. And it would be a few more years before I would cognitively realize my Beast yelling out again for an end to the pain.

I would still attempt self-harm during those years, fantasize about fatal or at least violent and scarring accidents, and wonder what death would feel like. It was a time when I see that I was more than distracted by the darkness, I was living in the hell of mental illness, of Bipolar Disorder 1, as well as trying to be male in a female body.

I have to admit that writing these things down has been more difficult than I imagined it would be. I wrongly assumed that recalling the factual details of an event in my early life would be a straightforward task. But it turned out that it has been emotionally draining in unexpected ways. The greatest one is that of being a parent now with children in their tween/early teen years and how much my heart breaks when I think of them feeling something half as badly as what I've lived through. I truly can't make myself feel that pain. It stops me in my tracks every time.

So, what did I learn about myself way back then? How did I change after that moment? And what have I learned since?

For one, 1985 was the year I changed my name in my mind. Even though the rest of the world knew me by my given name, Arin became the name I called myself. Yes, when I write to you it is as Ari [are-ee] and not Arin, but I have other deeper reasons for that.

A spoonful of poison...

Secondly, I learned that no matter how hard I tried to be something/someone else I couldn't do it. Even a dead body was the wrong body.

And among other things, I now see that who I am is a product of those horrible conflicts within myself. I am exactly the man I am today because of the female role I had to play back then. I am a father, a husband, an uncle, a friend, and so much more for having chosen to walk away from suicide that time, and many more as the years went on.

Thank you for living alongside me on this journey.

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

-Ari

Legally Crazy; Transgender in the Psych Ward, Disclosure

Hello My Dearest,

Five years ago I was in an inpatient psychiatric facility. Those are still not easy words to write. It means that my mental illness, my Beast of mental illness, was so far out of control that I was no longer safe with myself or others and had to be placed in a facility where I could be monitored. In fact, it meant that my room door was open and nurses walked by and checked in regularly. Unlike a regular hospital room though, there was no curtain to give an illusion of privacy, and the bed wasn't adjustable. Plus, the furniture was bolted to the walls, and there were bars on the windows.

But what was it like to be trans in the psych ward? It was definitely a mixed bag, especially because I was having a complete Bipolar 1 breakdown. I was suicidal. I was manic. I was delusional. In one way I was not myself, but in another I was completely myself.

I have dual diagnoses of Bipolar Disorder 1 and Gender Dysphoria, along with 4 or more other psychiatric disorders, and insulin dependent diabetes. The DSM 5 psychiatric diagnosis of Gender Dysphoria, despite all of the work I've done, and had done, indicates that my body and my mind don't entirely match up. I suppose being bipolar probably doesn't really help that in the end.

Being transgender and having Bipolar 1 Disorder possesses an intrinsic sameness for me.

It means simultaneous existences in 2 disparate worlds.

It means that even when I'm here, I'm there too.

That first night I probably wasn't thinking too much about the trans part of my life. I suspect I was more focussed on the sheer insanity of detox. Then again, I wanted to appear as fully male as possible. I didn't want anyone to know I was transgender. Even though every staff member knew my gender identity. Sanity wasn't on my side to start with, so thinking clearly wasn't there either.

Being transgender in a psych ward was terrifying for me in a way that was completely separate from the Bipolar 1. I was afraid for my own safety at the hands of the other patients. I was afraid that if the men there knew, they would physically or sexually assault me. Consequently, I never told them.

Looking back now, I think this put a huge damper on my recovery. I believed that I could be well even if my whole self wasn't present. I thought that I could heal the wounds without exposing the deeper cuts. I held myself back. In so doing, I delayed my progress and stayed stuck. I kept myself from moving forward in meaningful ways.

The anxiety of disclosure is still with me of course, even though I share my story easily and readily. I bring my whole self whenever possible, but there are times when I check 30 years of life treatment as a female at the door. I leave behind the person I was and pretend that I've always been the male who's standing there.

Perhaps this is an act of self-preservation. Maybe it is the physical fear of attack, but I believe it is an emotional, psychological, and spiritual fear of degradation and loss of dignity. Exposing oneself to other people's ignorance, bias, fear, distrust, and hate is risky. And yes, I am fully aware that I have a choice, my white skin color is a privilege, and I don't have to disclose my gender identity if I don't want to.

But sometimes I want to disclose for the sake of others. For my trans brothers and sisters who did disclose themselves and lost it all. For trans youth who are terrified of coming out to the safe people in their lives. For nontrans folk who have family members who are trans. And for the bigots who believe I am not who I say I am, who devalue my existence through denial and hate. For all of them to help normalize and accept that we are real live people who choose to be ourselves.

And back in the psych ward, I wish I'd done just that those first few days. I wish I'd had the courage to be that man. But maybe just being a man at that moment was enough. Maybe standing there in my Bipolar meltdown as the man I am was exactly what I needed to do, because a few days later I would have the opportunity to open up when the time was right.

Thank you for being on my journey of disclosure.

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

-Ari

Legally Crazy, Transgender in a Psych Ward part 2

Hello My Dear One,

After the first night at the inpatient psychiatric facility, I woke up to the startling reality that I was still there, and that I couldn't leave. Owing to the fact that I was rapid cycling in a full blown Bipolar 1 episode, and I had gone off of FDA approved amphetamines (Ritalin and Vyvanse) with no plan and no medical assistance, I did the only reasonable thing I could do. I started writing.

Being a writer was beneficial at that moment, particularly because all technology was removed from patients, and I needed something to do. The electronic detox was at times as horrible as the medical one was. It was hard to not have my laptop, especially since I'm dyslexic, and writing by hand can be physically painful. Still, I kept going because I was driven by the therapeutic need to as well as the mania.

In order to justify, or make some sort of sense of my stay [to myself] in the psych ward, I had to create a different reason for being there. I decided that morning I was a writer, not a stretch, who was doing an undercover piece on what it was like in an inpatient mental health facility in rural Maine. On one level this was true, insofar as I was writing about said subject. The reality though was I was there because I needed to address my own mental snap, not an undercover journalist. I was not Nellie Bly reporting on the wretched conditions of an asylum 1887. I was the wretched conditions of myself and my family being treated for asylum worthy behaviors.

Anyway, by 4:00 pm I grabbed the composition book I'd brought, although I have no recollection of packing it, or for that matter packing at all, and sat at the dormitory style desk in my room. I have to think that my wife packed it and brought it for me, but I've never asked, perhaps because I haven't wanted to imagine what that must have been like for her. There are a lot of things I don't want to know about those early admission days, but I know I will ask when I can.

I got out the pen and started working. The writing is relatively clear, although it resembles a verbal cascade like a dictionary spilling itself down Niagara Falls. The words were pressured the same way that my speech was, a spigot of sensical and nonsensical language turned onto full blast. Given that I am an extrovert by nature, I can scarcely imagine how this must have appeared to others. I know my ability for talking, and I'm thankful for the amnesia that surrounds that section of time. I must have been far more obnoxious than usual.

As for the writing, I'll let the first sentence speak for itself:

"Today has been my first day inpatient at a psychiatric hospital, I have met w/nurses, recreational therapists, behavioral techs, student nurses, an NP, visitors, a therapy dog, my wife, and a cavalcade of characters who are on this journey with me - the other patients."

So, that was something. And it goes on like that for another 4 pages. Yep, four more long, accelerated, and at times unreadable pages. The script itself is obviously a barrier to understanding, but, like the person writing it at the time, it is addled and self-aggrandizing. It reminds me of the mania itself, and that has ramifications now all these years later.

Old school technology.

What now? I guess it's a matter of one sentence at a time. I'll keep you posted on the progress. And yes, the transgender identity does matter here, it will be addressed soon. Just a little more time is needed.

Thank you for unpacking this part of the journey with me.

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

- Ari

Legally Crazy, Five Years Ago in the Psych Ward, Colors

Hello My Dear One,

Autumn, here in the North Woods of Maine, has arrived and the leaves are finally changing color. I remember how vivid the hues were, and how vibrant the scenes were five years ago. I was in the throws of a hypomanic rapid cycling event of Bipolar 1 Disorder. Everything was more delicious and over the top. The individual blades of grass were whispering their sadness over the upcoming deaths they would soon face. The cool breezes spoke of light and loss. And the darkness was the blackest that I had known.

Of course, the reality was that I was about to slip into a full break with reality itself.

After multiple violent and terrifying blackouts where I couldn't remember how the chaos around me had occurred, I made what could've been the final drive of my life. I don't remember much of that either, only the telephone pole that I swerved away from and the looks of compassion on the faces of the people at the crisis center. And I remember how my then therapist took my hands and said, "I am so sorry that you are feeling like this." It was a strange and comforting moment that I would look back on throughout the hours and days that were to come.

I know that I spent hours at the crisis center, hours in the emergency department, and took a ride in a fancy new ambulance down to the inpatient psychiatric facility at a hospital about an hour away. I remember screaming, crying, throwing things, and hurling insults at the woman I love. I remember wanting to die.

I have plenty of memories from within the pysch ward, too many really. Even five years later I remember the plastic mirrors, the lack of shoes, the open door with the night checks. I remember the therapy dog, the arts and crafts room, the terrible food, and the other patients. Even the one who needed the electro shock therapy to deaden her depression, and how she would need to return when the effects would wear off in 4 to 6 months. I remember the lockdown when an out of control patient had to be confined to one wing, thereby reducing by a third the length of hallways that could be paced. He refused to control his diabetes and so the rest of us lost the lounge with the second television.

The colors there were all beige and grey, food included. We were allowed to wear our own clothes, but even those looked pale and dead. Many people wore black, grungy shirts and ripped blue jeans. Some donned light blue hospital clothes because they had been transported without their own things, and there was no one on the outside to bring them items. The staff had scrubs, or shirts and ties, but any colors didn't pop out at me just as if we were all blending into the grey surroundings ourselves.

And the color of darkness was present too. I can't describe that very well, because it's different for everyone. At the time I would have called it an endless blackness where no light could be seen. But now I see the darkness through the glare of the florescent lights. A flickering grey that could only be altered by fresh sunshine during the days, yet still a place to stumble into a mire of beige and grey. I hope to illuminate that space in time.

There's more of course, but for now those are all the descriptors I have left. After five years, it's time to free the demons of the psych ward from my memories and back to the hell where they belong. It's an arduous task, but a necessary evil if you will.

More muted than before, but just as beautiful.

So, in the meantime, I plan on looking at the world outside of myself and seeing what the comparison is to the alternate universes that swirl around on the inside. So far it seems that out there it's not quite so busy, so frenetic, or so anguished. It's not quite as scary either. The world between my ears can be a dismal place to reside, and seeing the colors of fall, even if they are more muted than five years ago, gives me hope.

Thank you for being on this colorful journey with me.

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

Ari

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

Legally Crazy, Transgender in a Psych Ward

Hello My Dear One,

Nearly four and a half years ago I had to choose between driving into a telephone pole or allowing myself to be taken to the psychiatric section of a hospital. Although this was far and away one of the most difficult decisions I have ever had to make, there have been many more that required far deeper introspection, risk, and personal loss. All of these times have involved life and death, gender identity, and the Beast of mental illness that coexists in my being. 

In an inpatient psychiatric hospital ward there is a total loss of autonomy. It is the relinquishing of one's freedoms, including the right to sleep without observation, or have shoes or shoelaces. Then watching those shoes get relegated to a locked closet until a supervised group walk. Sitting at a table, working on a large coloring page [many years before the "adult coloring books" became popular for stress relief] and going to the nurses' station to have your colored pencil sharpened. Why? Because electric pencil sharpeners might be hazardous to your health. And the loss of control of what you, what I, could eat, could wear, when and where conversations were allowed, and even when and what television programs could be watched. 

It was and still is soul crushing. And it was and still is sad. And when it was over, when I returned to my normal life, there were years that passed where I still wondered what happened. There are voids in my memory. There are gaps in my timeline. And I continue to consider how many different ways the story could've gone. In the end, my reality will always be altered by the madness of Bipolar Disorder One, Anxiety, Depression, Mania, and neurochemical wiring and firing that continues to blast holes through the memories within my mind.

Of course, there's that whole Gender Identity Disorder, transgender/transsexual piece of my life. The added complication of mind and matter, of a mental gender and a physical sex that do not align. A divide between who I am and how the world sees me, then and now. 

I am a man, but I am also a transman. I am a person who has lived in both genders. I have thirty years of life experience being treated as less than because of my biological sex and my gender presentation. I have another twelve of being seen for who I am, being treated as better than I am, yet always remembering what I was. It is never as simple as boy or girl, even when it is.

But why now, so many years after my committal into that place, is it in the forefront of my mind? Why I am ruminating on this time in my life? Is it a distance or a near proximity to the places and events of 2012? Or is it related to the current political reality show that has become the United States government? Certainly, the attitudes and legal battles that have been given new venomous lives, are causing anxiety within me, within all of us who know what it means to fear for our own safety because who we are.

But, I believe that it has to do with something far more subtle than a global ethos or a cultural zeitgeist. It is a more nuanced thing, more fluid, like gender itself, that has brought me to this place of contemplation.

It was gossip about a person who had battled some form of mental illness or addiction as having "been in the psych ward," rather than taking appropriate care of their children. A hand was raised to the side of the mouth when the words were uttered, signifying a tidbit of information too private to speak at full volume, but too juicy not to share. It was as if the damning nature of such a fate was like an accident scene that one doesn't stop for, but cannot help but gawk at as it's passed. 

Shh, don't tell, don't say the words that might make me sound crazy. Keep them hidden in the recesses of shame, stigma, and silence. Keep quiet, keep still, pretend that it doesn't happen to people "like us." Ignore the gut-wrenching pain of the unmerciful torturers, the beast of mental illness, and the judgement of a world that makes you the beast. 

The irony I suppose is that in all of this, the transgender part of me had little or nothing to do with the medical and psychiatric care I needed. It wasn't my gender that was the problem, it was untreated Bipolar Disorder One, a disease that doesn't distinguish or care who you are, or how you are viewed. Indeed, it really doesn't care about sex, gender, sexual orientation, race, ethnicity, religion, political affiliations, age, or anything else. If you are mentally ill, it is a sickness in your brain, not in any of the packaging. 

And for the week I was inpatient, my gender identity was disclosed by me to only one other person, who also happened to be transgender. Surprisingly enough, that person was there for neurochemical reasons too, and the transgender identity was as irrelevant to their treatment needs as mine. 

Of course, being transgender, when labeled with a psychiatric diagnosis of Gender Identity Disorder for treatment purposes, i.e. hormone therapy, surgical procedures, etc. is by definition a mental illness. And with that, many people are in psychiatric facilities for depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, and suicide attempts because of that designation. Yes, being transgender can cause you to wind up in a psychiatric setting, but it doesn't mean that it will, or that it should.

And there's the crux of the issue. If and when I disclose my mental illness and my gender identity, they become inextricably linked for people who understand little or nothing about either one. I end up inhabiting the fear that my credibility, or that even my value as a human being is diminished by these coexisting forces in my life. 

Simply put, do people think I'm crazy because I'm trans, or I'm trans because I'm crazy?

I don't know, and I probably don't want to know.

What I do know though, is that right now, the juicy gossip, the truth, the lies, and the inaccuracies about all of us who are mentally ill, or are transgender, or are in any way different is affecting us daily. Anger/Fear at the "other," and at each other is nothing new, but the ability to spread it so fast and so far is. Words can be emissaries of love and hope, or violent harbingers of physical harm to come. With technology and media that travel at the speed of light, it is often difficult to know if the threats are real, or are merely the rantings of a scared and lonely person, suffering in their own state of depression. 

Either way, our anxiety rises, our rational selves erode, and our love for our neighbors is relegated to theory rather than practice. We cannot even see those we disagree with as our neighbors. It is safer to keep them as enemies, risking degradation of us all, rather than a little bit of humanity for just one person. That is crazy. 

The author in blue.

It's funny really, that when I was in a psych ward, transgender and all, the people around me, the other "crazy" ones treated me as a true neighbor. They applauded during a group therapy session when I said that I'd finally agreed to start taking medication. What a crazy way to experience unconditional love. 

Thank you for always being there on this legally crazy transgender, and sometimes psych ward filled journey with me.

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

- Ari

Walking in Darkness

My Dear One,

I don't want to write about politics. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to perseverate on the what if's, the what now's, the what should we do's, the where did we go wrong's, and the if only's. I don't want to dwell in that darkness. 

I simply don't want to be reminded that a self aggrandizing, golden toilet owning, misogynistic, casino running, real estate mogul [in his own mind], bully, and fear monger has been elected to the highest office of the United States of America. 

I don't want this to be reality. And I certainly don't want this to be the scripted "reality" of the television shows that further brought this megalomaniac into the public ethos.

But that's the whole problem. I can't stop thinking about all of this, because it is reality.

As a member of the LGBTQIQA community, and the transgender community more specifically, I worry that decades worth of civil rights progress could unravel at any minute. Like poorly hemmed pants that our young country hasn't grown into yet, the seams are ripping out, and we are tripping over our own suit. 

I see and hear daily of the increased harassment, physical harm, violence, suicide, and the untold acts of abuse that are garnering new media attention. Being queer is as much of a liability as it ever was, but now bigots, homophobes, and the like believe they have more ground to stand on and oppress us. As a transman, I always have a heightened level of anxiety about how I must deal with the bigotry and hatred surrounding me. I fear for more than myself of course. I fear for the safety and well being of my family. For my wife. For my sons. 

As a man of faith, my heart is feeling broken. Much like my biblical ancestors, who believed during their darkest times that the G-d of their ancestors had ceased to be with them, I too am burdened by the fear that G-d has left this place. I sit and wonder if all those years of seminary study have any meaning at this moment. Or if years of prayers will matter. Or if love of Torah is enough. I wonder if my faith, divided to begin with, can stand in this time of interfaith intolerance. 

I wonder if the G-d of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and of Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Leah is grieving also. And I wonder if that G-d is able to unify my faith. 

I wonder if that same G-d of Hagar, of Jesus of Nazareth, of Mohammed, and of all the Universe will unite these broken bonds of faith between the nations. Between the peoples themselves.

As antisemitism is [publicly] on the rise, much the way that racism, bigotry, homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, and of course Islamophobia have been consistently more present in our national dialogues, millennia of genetically encoded anxiety floods my brain. The hatred and the fear have always been present, it's just more socially acceptable to voice them again. And admittedly, I have realized that it was far easier for me to ignore these things a month ago. I, like so many others, was lulled into a false sense of security, of unity, of a greater tolerance for the "other." 

But tolerance isn't enough, and it never has been. The real truth is this:

Tolerance is not acceptance. 

So many of us have found ourselves, our lives, our "lifestyles," tolerated but not accepted by leaders and legislators, employers and coworkers, and most painfully by our own friends and families. Who we are at our very cores is subject to persecution, be it religious, racial, financial, emotional, physical, employment, housing, or even bathrooms. And yes, we suffer, but there is a far greater issue than just the suffering. It is the tolerance for the suffering itself, and the causes of the suffering as well. 

I have been tolerated but not accepted. But I have tolerated things as well. I have tolerated the malice that has permeated our country. I have sat back and watched fools wave the Confederate flag. I have kept quiet when those around me say hurtful things about others based only on stereotypes and ignorance. I have kept silent for fear of jeopardizing personal relationships, jobs, and the safety and security that I enjoy in my opaque bubble of comfort. I have tolerated hate. 

For now, I will plod, if not walk, in the darkness a little longer. Indeed, I must do this, because I need to understand the hatred that is seeping like sewage into every part of our lives. Not the blatant kind, but the subtle form that says that strong confident men are "leaders," but women who are like that are "bitches." That feminine gay men are the punchline and the punching bag. That we must hate the sin, but love the sinner. That "those" people are taking advantage of the "system." That anyone of any color besides white will not be represented on television or in the movies in the percentages that are consistent with actual population data. That we are not all beloved children of G-d, because one religion is going to kill you with its radicalism, while another is going to love you into submission and subjugation. 

So yes, right now it is time for the darkness. 

Soon enough it will be time for the light.

Menorahs will be lit, Christmas trees will sparkle, windows will shine like the brightest summer suns, but not yet.

We need this darkness. 

And we will continue walking on the journey, searching for the light.

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

-Ari