Of Unhidden Easter Eggs and Unwanted Rabbit Holes

Hello My Dear One,

It was a hell of a Holy Week this year.  I found myself pulled as usual in multiple directions, Passover, Easter, the Bipolar I nightmare that is the month of April, excessively high blood glucose levels, and dealing with a school vacation that robs me of my routine as well as a week's worth of pay.  Spring has never done much for me, I love summer, but that's another story.

Anyway, as far as the Holy Week issues, I could have defaulted to my old standbys of religious discord as the basis for my current distress, however that would have been a lie.  This year I have been more at peace with who and where I am on my spiritual journey than I can ever remember.  I watched and listened as the Jewish and Christian holidays and traditions danced, dovetailed, and diverged as they always do.  I marveled at their relationship and my relationships with each of them.  In reality my problems with Holy Week have far more childish roots, or at least, reasons that are rooted in my childhood.

The angst I experience each year stems from what I didn't get to do as a child, what was not done for me, and how I leap down the rabbit holes of distortion over and over again.  Every year I perseverate on the missing elements of the holidays and the ones that I as an adult am now responsible for.  There is a deeply wounded place within myself that recoils at the jobs that are now mine.  And there is but one reason that underlies my petty unwillingness to participate in a manner befitting an almost 40 year old.



My parents never hid easter eggs for me.






It appears trivial in a way, never having been gifted with the opportunity to seek out plastic eggs filled with jellybeans, candy, or coins.   It seems silly, to be sad over children's holiday games that ultimately do not enhance the spiritual meaning of the religious tradition.  And it even seems a little pathetic that I, a trained theologian, become morose at the thought of Easter morning because there will be no hidden eggs, no basket, no store bought candy waiting for me when I awake.  My desire for religious growth is buried under a heaping mound of missing chocolate bunnies, stringy vinyl easter grass, and those damned plastic eggs.    

Now, for sake of transparency, I will admit that I did receive easter baskets in my youth, they did have candy in them, albeit from the fancy candy store from our beachside town, and that there were indeed plastic eggs with goodies in them in the basket itself.  Mind you, the coins within the eggs suffered from a dirty, sticky, cough drop infused coating that made the money seem more like a scrounge through the bottom of my mother''s purse than a special treat.  The amounts weren't even clever, just assorted clumps of change that my mother had in fact fished out of her purse that afternoon.  Oh, and the dreaded black jellybeans were in other eggs.

But these childhood slights are not about the traditions themselves, not the actual hunting for eggs, or shrink wrapped, toy filled, plastic baskets from the local department store, but rather what they represent. They represent the normal that I longed for that was never achievable in my nuclear family.  I wanted adults to be adults and hide the Easter eggs for me to find, just like my neighbors' families did.  I wanted to believe in the Easter Bunny, but just like Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and every other childhood fantasy staple, that desire was crushed on a yearly basis.  My parents were people unwilling or unable to play the magical roles that create a foundation for playful innocence and joy in a child.  Instead, they chose to explain how the magic tricks were done, leaving behind no mystery for me to be amazed by.

So, I hid the easter eggs for them.  I was the Easter Bunny.  I was the magician performing for my parents.  At the tender age of 9, I secretly hid the eggs and ensured that each one was found.  I hid those stupid plastic eggs for people who should have been hiding them for me.

So, like most years, Easter morning arrived this year and once again there were no eggs to be found.  In fact, because there is often a hectic rush to church on Easter morning, the Easter Bunny visits our house while we are at church.  Translate this statement to mean that when the church service ends, one parent must rush home, hide the eggs all over the lawn, make sure the baskets are ready, and display the handwritten note from the Easter Bunny himself stating how many eggs he has left for the boys to find.  This final touch ensures that each child will have an equal number of eggs at the end of the affair.

It was my parental turn this year, so I came flying home to be the Easter Bunny again, 30 years later, this time as a father attempting to perform the magic for his children.  And as my stomach turned, I hid the plastic eggs, and did my best not to fall into the rabbit holes of my mind, where the sadness, unworthiness, and fear reside.  I tried to hide the eggs skillfully and with joy, but most of them just ended up barely hidden in obvious places.  And in retrospect this lax effort was not a mere fall into the rabbit holes, it was a knowing leap.  

As I squeezed into the darkened tunnels that twist and turn, creating a never ending maze of fear and disappointment, I willingly stayed in the confinement of distorted thinking and behaviors.  It is not a truth I want to disclose, but I wasn't the parent I wished that mine had been.  I didn't bring my best that day, and I didn't miraculously evolve into a better, richer, more fully actualized version of myself.  No, I limped along, tried to make the best of it, and still managed to be an unpleasant fool to be around for the rest of the day.  

At the end of the day I had still done more than my folks ever did, and I knew that my boys were happy with whatever magic I had managed to create.  And in the days since then, I have realized more and more that I can see the rabbit holes before I fall flailing into them.  It doesn't mean that I won't fall or leap into one, but it does mean that I don't have to, and that I can climb out before I get sucked down further.  Just like the disappointing plastic eggs of youth, those rabbit holes are not filled with what I need, want, or even desire anymore. 

What I need, want, and desire is to be a man of integrity, dignity, and inherent value, and I want that for my sons as well.  I want them to know that they are loved.  And maybe, if I can watch where I'm going, I can lead them away from the rabbit holes that I've fallen into too many times.  Maybe, I can lead them to the hidden eggs where the treasure is in the finding, and not what is inside.

Thanks for joining me along this crazy bunny trail of a journey.

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

- Ari   

The Transitioning Yesod: Of Queen Esther and Of [Transgender] Passing

The Transitioning Yesod: Of Queen Esther and Of [Transgender] Passing: Hello My Dear One, It was recently Purim, a festival of women's power over oppression, well one woman at least.  We celebrate the cour...

Of Queen Esther and Of [Transgender] Passing

Hello My Dear One,

It was recently Purim, a festival of women's power over oppression, well one woman at least.  We celebrate the courage, character, and faith of Queen Esther as she bravely stood her ground and defeated the "evil" Haman and saved the Jewish people.  She also had a little help from her Uncle Mordecai, and most of all G-d was on her side.  It's kind of a recurring theme of course throughout the Torah, potential Jewish annihilation thwarted at the last possible moment through devout belief in the reality and power of the one true G-d.

We Jews, admittedly, and with good reason, frequently display a persecution/oppression complex.  It's been going on for millennia, and the most recent attack of the Shoah [Holocaust] where 6 million Jews were actually annihilated, makes a definitive case for fearing the loss of Jewish lives and culture.  It's true, being Jewish is often a liability, but I have observed many individuals for whom more traditional practice strengthens their Jewish identity, and protects the core of the Judaism, as they see it.

Now, I am not a particularly "observant" Jew.  I do not really keep kosher, however it is a part of my consciousness and I don't eat cheeseburgers, pork, or bacon, except when there is bacon and it looks too delicious not to consume.  And for the record, every time a crack an egg I look to see if it has been fertilized or not, and then proceed to use it regardless, because I'm too cheap to waste eggs.  I do not possess multiple sets of dishes, pots and pans, silverware, knives, or other kitchen needs.  And although I am fully fluent in the kashrut understandings of meat, dairy, and parve, I can't remember the last time I actually looked at a label to see if it was "appropriate" for the particular dining event.  You don't really need to when it comes to matzoh anyway.  Then again, I eat leavened bread during Pesach, and no, I am not Sephardic, I am Ashkenazic through and through.  I suppose one of the few remnants of food directives that I keep is guilt.

But wait, there's more.  I do not attend services very often, sometimes it's no more than twice a year.  I don't observe all the holy days, there have been many years I didn't even light candles during Chanukkah, and perhaps worst of all, I married a gentile.  Yep, I married goy.  And my sons are being raised in her faith tradition of liberal christianity.  And ultimately, I would rather they have a strong faith in essentially the same G-d that I believe in, even if it involves different rites and rituals.

And all of this brings me to Purim, to a story of the religious fortitude of an ancient character that continues to inspire millions of Jews.  Even a not-particularly-observant-Jew like myself feels a swell of pride and purpose as the Megillah is recited, if only in fragments in my mind.  The story of a woman who hides who she is from her husband, still maintains contact with her openly Jewish uncle, and ultimately foils a plan to eradicate her people by an "other" who seeks to blot out a faithful and reasonably peaceful group of people.  And maybe that's the special hook in the story, the way that Esther is able to conceal her Jewishness, even from the king.  Because, for all intents and purposes, even those of us who "look" Jewish, don't have some outward difference that marks us as Jews.  Note: I recognize that in the past, circumcision was an outward sign, however one wasn't usually walking around displaying this to the public, and nowadays, circumcision is a remarkably common practice in the United States for all newborn males.

You see, unless we go around wearing kippahs or yarmulkes, or fringe hanging out from under our shirts or some other accessory of Judaism, we can pass as non-Jews.  And this has happened throughout history.  Jews have shed their traditional clothing for the local culture's and assimilated into society.  And let's face it, assimilation is a lot easier than following hundreds of arcane rules and laws that were meant for people living thousands of years ago.  Laws keep people in line, and if you make sure that the dress code is a legal issue, then you can further ensure group unity.  But, when you take the uniforms away, the custodian and the principal cannot be told apart, or the priest from the beggar, or maybe even the man from the woman.

And that idea, that we can't tell who's who, or how we should treat them is scary.  Plain and simple, we want to know how to address someone because we have different rules for different people, and we don't want to insult a greater person or mistakenly elevate a lower one.  It's a sad truth I have learned as an intersex and transgender individual, particularly one with mental illness who happens to be Jewish.  Sometimes I think I should get a prize for having membership in so many minorities, but that would defeat the purpose.  Anyway, how we interact with another person is based on a myriad of assumptions, and when we can hide parts of ourselves, we are able to avoid some of the prejudices that we fear encountering.

But back to Queen Esther, back to how she and I actually meet in the middle of Judaism and gender identity.  She and I both occupy spaces that can be challenged when our "true" identities are discovered.  Queen Esther is passing as a non-Jew in a place where being a Jew is risky at best.  She has found a way to live in a situation that was not entirely of her choosing, and live well, even at the cost of an outward profession of her faith.

And so am I.  In my day to day life I pass as a "normal" heterosexual male, married, with two sons, living an average life in rural Maine.  I pass so completely that even my wife sometimes forgets that my transgender self could be a problem for other people.  She knows me, all of me, and yet sees me as totally male inside and out and even I marvel at this.  Frankly, I see myself the same way, as male inside and out, and I project this image to the world around me.

But I have chosen not to go "stealth," to live as though I was never female, as though I am not a transman, as though I do not have an intersex condition, as though I am a "normal" heterosexual male.  I have chosen to expose my past and my present realities in very public ways.  I have chosen to write, to speak, to share, and to confide in people my true identity, even if it could cost me all the stability I have in the world.  I choose to live my truth.

And that of course is where Queen Esther and I meet in the middle of faith and comfort.  We have both chosen to reveal our souls to those who might harm us for who we are.  And of course I do this with my own faith, not just my gender identity, as I share the duality of my religious experience in a rural community where diversity is non-normative.  I also share my battle with the Beasts of my mental illness, the quirks of my brain, the realities of who I am.

Sometimes I wonder if I should just keep my mouth shut and go stealth, maybe pack up and move the family to a whole new place and pretend that my past didn't happen the way it really did.  But
as my pastor recently reminded me, I am not someone who blends.  I am outspoken, opinionated, stubborn, and stuck firmly in the belief that all people deserve the right to live their lives as they choose.  So even if I moved, I would undoubtedly find ways to expose myself for who I am, giving lectures, writing, revealing, confiding, and sharing the truths of what it means to be a transman who refuses to hide.

Why would I do this?  Why would I stay as open as I am, when given a chance to pass as normative?  Because, although I cannot save all the transgender people in the world, I, like Queen Esther can save the ones around me.  I can help my transgender brothers and sisters free themselves from isolation, persecution, depression, and fear by showing that I can live out loud.  

I can live without fear of discrimination, because I know that someone else's dislike of me says more about them than it does about me.  I can live without fear, because I know that who I am, is the me that has been called into being.  I can live as myself, because I live in the presence of a G-d who loves me exactly as I am.  I can live, because I have chosen not to die, not to accept the hatred, not to accept the darkness that has surrounded me time and time again.  I choose to live life.  

Every day I offer to shed light on dark and hidden subjects that have repressed us all, as we all live in the shadows and on the margins of the potentials we can be.  By living as authentically as possible, I can show that regardless of biological sex, gender identity, and/or sexual orientation, we are all valuable and valued children of G-d.  We all need unconditional love.  We all need each other.  And with G-d's help, we are capable of creating and sharing that love with each and everyone of our neighbors.

Thank you for being light and love on my journey.


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

-Ari

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

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Ari

Of PTSD Flashbacks, and of Screaming to Be Heard

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

-Ari 

Of Weakness, Kindheartedness, and Tikkun Olam

Hello My Dear One,

It is the end of January, with February and March close at hand, granting us nearly three months of icy cold winter in New England.  Months filled with snowstorms, darkness, and introspection.  We have little else to do in this climate during this time of year but to examine what has been and what is to come.  We are insulated by the deep, deep snow outdoors, and the heavy handmade quilts inside.  There is an inherent hush in the spaces around us, and like the Roman god Janus whom we name that first month after, we too look both ways at the years before now, and the years that will be.  A deity whose sole purpose was of beginnings and transitions, over 2000 years ago, still leads us into each new year.  I am no more immune to this than anyone else, and I take this time for introspection with a sense of reverence for who I was and who I long to be.

Of course the Beasts of Mental Illness that I live with play huge roles in the process, most usually as embarrassing regrets about the years behind me, as well as prayers that they will be less intrusive in the coming ones.  They are pariahs, attached with a deadly grip, attempting to suck the healthy blood from my system, leaving me depleted of natural resources.  But I am still the host, and I can ignore them as long as I remember that their needs do not trump my own needs.  My mind is stronger than their fervent cries.  My body can withstand the physical side effects of their attacks, and of the medications I must take to help me fight them more consistently.  And at the end of the day I am the one who has the final word.

Yet, with all that said, sometimes I am weaker than I wish to be.  Sometimes the battle takes a greater toll than I can handle, and I must return to a smaller, quieter, safer space in order to reset myself, and center within my relationship with G-d.  Sometimes this can be a fairly easy task, achieved through meditation, prayer, sleep, and my pillow.  Sometimes this is a far deeper one that requires something as drastic as an inpatient stay at a mental health facility.  Thankfully, I have not needed this intensive therapy for over fifteen months, and I keep close watch that I will not need it any time soon.

Within this introspection of course I continue to work, play, and strive to be a true partner in my marriage, a strong role model for my sons, and a man of integrity in my career choices.  This means that often the time that I want to think about the deeper questions of the heart are instead filled with questions about laundry, dinner, bills, and homework.

But those are also the times that can bring revelations that I might not have otherwise seen.  By living as fully humanly as possible I find that the world engages me more than I can engage myself.  As much as I would love to be able to read, and write, and entertain myself, I cannot live within a vacuum when the world is forever pressing me to act in response to its needs.  And by "world" I mean not only the literal sphere, but the many realms of consciousness that surround us.  There are millions of  microcosms that we navigate daily, from our own bedroom to the latest tragedy in a country that is thousands of miles away.  We are a global community and this pushes us to see ourselves in new constructs, both exciting and terrifying.

So, about those revelations, I had a doozy of a one a week ago.  It happened when my sons had two neighborhood boys spend the night out our house.  It began with the premise of only one of the boys sleeping over, but the younger sibling cried at the thought that he couldn't come too.  And this is where the big softie comes in to the picture.

You see, I am a big softie, a sucker for a good kid who needs a little boost in life that will hopefully help them turn out to be better than his/her parent(s) who've made unhealthy choices.  Basically, I want to give kids whose moms and dads just can't give them the love and support they need to grow, those things, even if it means sacrificing resources of my own.  I want the kids whose home lives really stink to experience what a loving family can be.  I want them to know that they have intrinsic value and worth, they are beloved children of G-d, even if I never utter those words.  They are here, no matter how they got here, and now they have the opportunity to bring their gifts to the world.  I want to facilitate that process of discovery and self awareness within them.

So, I, in a moment of "weakness" decided to allow the second child to stay the night as well.  They were after all siblings, and home was right across the street, and I couldn't bear the thought of the youngest being left out.  Well, joyousness resounded through the land and two boys came back across the road, clothes in plastic shopping bags, smiling as though they had just won the lottery.  Even though I knew that my wife was not 100% behind me on this one, I felt confident that it would all be ok.

Naturally, the reality of 4 boys aged 8, 8, 9, and 10 on a Friday night, all in the house expecting food and fun was not as fantastic as I had hoped.  I too was hungry, tired from a long week, and a little cranky about my self-inflicted routine change.  Needless to say, at some point I got angry with my loving wife over something small, and it turned into something large for no reason.  That is so often the way of anger, a misunderstood hurt becomes a battle of wills instead of an opportunity to hear another person's viewpoint.  At any rate, I was hurt by her use of the word "weakness" and how I interpreted it.
I found myself in the fetal position in bed, crying over this perceived attack on my character.  At first I did what any good man would do in this situation, I wallowed in my own self pity until I felt even worse.  Then I remembered a technique given to me by my therapist to somatically deal with emotional pain.  And despite my desire to keep hiding, I did it.  And I had to work really hard through those burning tears as I thought about what it meant to be weak.  Or, to be seen as weak by the one person I trust most in the entire world.

With the tapping technique I have learned from my therapist, I separated out weakness from kindheartedness.  I discovered that weakness to me was a true failing because of the weakness my mother had when it came to my own safety.  What I was doing was an act of protecting and loving, it was not an act of weakness but rather an act of kindheartedness.  It was an act of Tikkun Olam, of repairing the world, two children at a time, or maybe four, as my own sons learned the value of loving your actual neighbors as you love yourself.

But there was another revelation that came, albeit a week later, with the word weakness.  Another of the word's meanings refers to a special desire or fondness for something.  I myself have a true weakness for homemade dark chocolate peanut butter cups.  And I'm sure that there are many others like me.  And that's where I can find a power within the word weakness itself, because children who are in need of extra love and support are my weakness.  Out of my own needs for love and support as a child, I have been able to transform that pain into a kindheartedness for the kids who are often the most unlovable.

Importantly, I have been able to do this primarily through the acts of Tikkun Olam I perform every day at work.  Each student I work with individually has a harder than average time getting their needs met, and for six hours a day I try to help them learn better ways to do that.  In the process they teach me how to love the world more fully.  They teach me that my old behaviors, the ones I let the Beast run wild with, can be shaped into something better.  Those horrors can be used as foundations for where I can continue to rise up from, lighting the darkness as I go.  And I can love the Beasts I live with as much as I love the children who challenge me the most.  

So, here I am preparing for the next rounds of battle with others' beasts and with my own as I try to repair the world with my own weakness, and my own kindheartedness.  I pray for the other children of G-d as we face ourselves, our beasts, and each other.  I pray that we can repair the world by repairing ourselves, one little bit at a time.

Thank you for helping to repair the world, and for having a kind heart for me.

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

- Ari

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

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me tell you about Dave and Steve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Ari



*Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

Of Poems and Maleness

Hello My Dear One,

It has been far too long since I have written, and I apologize with a sincere heart.  That said, my thoughts are not quite as cohesive as I might like at the moment, so I am choosing to share a poem that I wrote several years ago.  

I have edited it only slightly, and I hope that it conveys the inner joy that I experience when I do things that are more traditionally male.  

I must note that a woman cannot go and get sand for the driveway, in fact my wife recently did, but every time I've gone, I have never seen a female performing this specific task.  So on the one hand, I am happy for my maleness, yet conscious of the broader worldview of the inequalities that still exist between the sexes.  On the other hand, I suspect that my beautiful wife is just as happy to have me go out in the cold to get dirty, than for her to do so.

Here's the poem:

The Driveway

As I drove to the town D.O.T. lot

I muttered under my breath about the cold

Saw the redness of my fingertips

Bemoaned my fate

Secretly, I couldn’t wait to see the giant dirt pile

Mounded up in a back lot

King-of-the-hill memories from boyhood

Washing over me like waves

I arrived, still disgruntled, old

5 gallons of dirt would be heavy

And I had forgotten the shovel

Again and again and again

I tumbled out of my car

Bundled in winter clothes, pails in hand

I set my buckets down

Surveyed the mountain

And I saw the rings left in the dirt 

By the others who had come before me

Each of us, little boys, 

Collecting sand for our castles

I hope that this winter, for all it's icy chills, finds you warm in spirit and heart.

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

-Ari

Of "Little" Words; of Love and Want; or Why I am a Jew Who Frequently Attends a UCC Church

Hello My Dear One,

It has been awhile since I last wrote, and I apologize for the interruption in correspondence.  Forgive me as well if I write more than usual, because I have left so much unsaid these past days.  I feel as though I have a synaptic sort of gap in my creativity.  The ideas are there, but the ability to communicate them isn't firing correctly.  So, I've tried to bring together as much as I can, yet it's never exactly what I want.  And that's the heart of the matter right there, what I want.  It's true.  I want, I want, I want.  I always want more or less than what I have.  I want more stuff, less stress, more money, less debt.  I want security and safety, and I want excitement and fun.  I want to experience as much as I possibly can, yet I want the predictability and routine that is the backbone of my existence.  I want.

Some months back I spent a night with some dear friends, one old friend, "S"of 25 years, a new friend "T", my best friend my wife, and an old soul friend "IR" whom I have a "casual but deep" relationship with.  IR is a  man who shares a love for Jewish learning and reflection, for relationship with something larger than ourselves, and for serving the world in ways that are truly unexpected.  He is a lay Reb, a one time lawyer, a performer, a writer, a musician, a son, a husband, an uncle, a questioner, and all around mensch.   

That night we had all been together at one of IR's performances in the sleepy little resort town that S and I grew up in.   The show was hysterically funny, ridiculously relevant, and musically phenomenal, but one song in particular has always been a favorite of mine.  It deals with the desire to have, and to be something that will fulfill temporary earthly desire, but will ultimately lead to death when the emptiness of the want is met.  It is also set within a meticulously crafted four part a cappella song, sung by four talented male performers dressed in full drag.  Did I mention that some of my dear friends are enormously talented political satirists who perform biting attacks on current events, the human condition, and the implications of religion upon a theoretically secular world?  Did I mention that they are also known as The Kinsey Sicks?  Well, if I didn't, now you know.  And you should find them online www.kinseysicks.com, on Youtube, or live in concert, and then you should buy every one of their albums and listen to them as many times as you can.  Oh, and remember to buy a t-shirt and a magnet too.

At any rate, the The Kinsey Sicks' song that was performed, "I Want to be a Dead Princess"* was written shortly after the death of Princess Diana.  The song tells of a person's want to be a "dead princess," i.e. revered, cherished, idolized, and perhaps immortalized at the highest peak in their lifetime.  The verses ask for a fame that will encompass the neediness that is eating away at the core of the vocalist(s), while the chorus and the ending repeat the phrase "I want."  And that is the place of pain and brokenness that resonates most deeply for me.

My wants, my desires to be adored, even at the cost of the security of those around me, even my own life, seem to pour out of me when I least expect them.  And as I think about this message of exchanging life for human praise, I am reminded of the daily deaths that we all endure as we suffer injustice, human frailty, and human nature.  We choose to let our emotional and psychological neediness trump the needs of others.  When I buy something I want, something that has no inherent usefulness to my life, be it an original Da Vinci or a plastic thingy from the dollar store, I have made a statement to myself, my neighbors, and my G-d, that my wants are more important than anyone else's needs.  I want.  


As I think about that sentence, those two words, I want, my mind travels to another set of words, those "three little words," "I love you." Those words that can be too quickly blurted out or too infrequently breathed, into the ears and hearts of those around us. "I love you," three little words.  How intriguing it is that we label them as such, little.  There is nothing little about love.  There is nothing little about I, or you, or the relationship we create when those words are spoken.  Think even briefly of Martin Buber's seminal work, "I and Thou."  Yet, somehow we feel pressed to minimize them, their meaning, their value, their vulnerability.  We are afraid of not hearing them back.  We are afraid of what a relationship of love might actually mean.  We make small that which is too big for us to handle.  Much the way we do when we speak of G-d, or the relationships we are called into when we let G-d be within our hearts, our minds, and our souls.  We confine love to create the illusion that we are in control of forces that are uncontrollable.

I believe that this matter of control is a core issue for many people and their relationship with G-d.  It is hard enough to feel accepted by another human being, even one who truly loves and accepts you unconditionally, the way my wife does, let alone with a deity, force, creator, G-d who may be seen as judge, jury, and jailer all in one.  Relationship with G-d requires a level of vulnerability that can be so overwhelming that we never even attempt such a relationship.  Being open to a G-d that has promised to love unconditionally, and to drastically change your life if you are willing, is to strip down to your barest soul and expose the wounds of a lifetime of pain.  Being in relationship with G-d is that process of revealing the brokenness, to G-d and to yourself.  It is also the process of letting go of that pain as we allow G-d to be within the pain.

So, instead of revealing the brokenness and allowing G-d to repair and replace the emptiness of my core self, I attempt to fill the spaces with the things I want on my own.  I seek out that which will temporarily gratify my neediness and my emptiness, giving relief to the pain I cover as I walk through life.  I want. 

And what I really want is a religious community in which to travel this journey with.  Unfortunately I live an hour away from any synagogue, Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, "non-denominational" or otherwise, so my need for a physical Jewish community is largely unmet.  Yes, I know and have Jewish friends in the area, yes I have Jewish family members, and yes I celebrate most all of the Jewish holy-days.  But its not the same.  Being a Jew, means being a Jew in community.  As an Eastern European Jew in particular, it means returning to our shtetl our village, to live our faith as a group, most often in conflict with the secular world around us.  It is a culture in unto itself, and it defines a large piece of who we are.  It is about finding solidarity in our otherness especially in comparison to the culture(s) we live in.  It is a community of faith, one that promises that we will be suppoerted in our joys, our triumphs, our disappointments, our sorrows, and our persecutions, both real and imagined.  Community.

But here's the catch, I am in fact a part of a faith community right here where I live, and I have travelled millions of miles with them throughout the past 15 years of my strange and wondrous journey.  And they are not a Jewish community.  Rather, they are self defined as a United Church of Christ, a christian church.  It is a  place where there are weekly explorations of the life of Jesus of Nazareth, and his ministry in Israel over 2000 years ago.  Yep, there is a cross on the altar, an enormous stained glass window with a very white looking man with long hair, flowing white robes, and a sheep above the altar.  There is christian iconography throughout the building.  There are excerpts of scripture posted on the walls.  There is a common understanding in the community that Jesus of Nazareth was and is the promised messiah of the Jewish people living in the Promised Land millennia ago.   And yet, they are the faith community that I return to over and over again.

Why?  Because I want the love of my wife, who is truly, and honestly a believing and practicing christian in the UCC.  I was there when she was confirmed as a teen.  I was there as she explored other traditions, but always came back to her roots.  And I  have been there as she has brought our sons into this community, taught them, and raised them with a rock solid foundation of what it means to be a loving, forgiving, and growing person of faith.  She has provided for our family a common faith to live in. 

Why?  Because, we need and want the love that we receive from the people who form this community.  We want to experience the love that we can share as a community.  And I want to be a part of a faith community, even if by definition it is not my own tradition's.  

And why do I frequently attend this UCC Church? Because every Sunday morning as the service begins the following words are spoken:

     "Whoever you are, and wherever you are on life's journey, you are welcome here."

And the most remarkable part is that they do mean it.  There are lakeside residents who belong to synagogues back home, who attend services every summer, sometimes more faithfully than the locals who straggle in only on Christmas and Easter.  There are people who identify in all manner of spiritual ways who attend on any given Sunday morning.  And I am one of them.  I am accepted, exactly for who I am, and for where I am on life's journey. 

And in the end, that's what I really want.  To enter into relationship, to want, to love, and to know that for all the vulnerability I will share with others and with G-d, I will be accepted as I am. 

 Thank you for accepting me as I continue on my journey.

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

-Ari

_______________________________________________________________

*http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/kinseysicks2#

Of a Lump in My Throat

Hello My Dear One,

I began writing while still hospitalized for a virulent bacterial infection, and although I am now back home safe and sound, I want you to hear what my thoughts were at the time, and what they are now.

I have been sitting here for days, in hospital, battling through a PeriTonsillar Abscess caused by a virulent strain of Strep A that attacked me nearly 2 weeks ago.  I have been pumped full of meds, had 2 CT scans, a procedure done at 10:00pm on a Sunday night with only a few shots of Lidocaine, a needle, a knife, some clamps, and the warning "Don't Move."  I have been on a restricted diet, monitored day and night, and have learned that apparently I don't breathe all of the time while I sleep.  And all of this because of a lump in my throat, a puss filled abscess on the back side of my left tonsil, that grew from 1cm to 2.5cm in less than 48 hours.  I have been subjected to a battery of tests, all because of a lump in my throat.

And all of this has led to a different lump in my throat, not a physical one, but a figurative one that is often described as the way one feels when faced with a sadness that is too great for initial speech.  We even refer to it as "getting choked up" in the U.S., when we are overcome with emotion that might make us cry.  Because here is the U.S. we are not as quick to show our sadness, particularly as men, and more so when in public.  We say that we are "choked up" because we cannot speak the words, or cry the tears when faced with the flood of real emotion in times of sorrow.  This to me is in itself a sadness, however I am just of guilty as this as most of those around me.

Now all of this could well lead into an exploration of cultural norms and mores, how men and women react differently to emotions, and what it means to be a member of a society that prizes violence and heroism over intimacy and relationship.

But I want instead to talk about the lumps in my throat.  I want to explain what has brought me to this place of a physical lump, and to the figurative one as well.  I want to explore the feelings that got me into all of this and also out of this.

I got sick with Strep A nearly 2 weeks ago, and I started a course of antibiotics almost immediately.  I felt a little better, tired, but better, and thought I might even be able to return to work at the end of the week.  But all too quickly I was much sicker, and I was failing fast.  After 2 emergency room visits I was sent to a larger hospital and began a lengthy process of recovery.

But I wondered, why did I grow this crazy puss filled thing in my throat in the first place.  Why me?  I know I have amazing skills at growing cysts, this is at least the 5th in the last 15 years, but really?  An abscess on a tonsil?  One that was growing at an alarming rate, and slowly blocking my airway?  I was literally getting choked up by this growth in my throat.

I knew that from a medical standpoint it was a potential that comes whenever someone has strep throat, and it can happen especially if there is a history of tonsillitis, and/or a weakened immune system, such as mine.  Having diabetes has always been a liability, but sometimes I forget how much of one it can be.  My health is often more at risk than others and I need to protect myself through preventative measures in a more aggressive fashion that I frequently do.

Further, I work in an elementary school and am exposed to all manner of bacteria, viruses, sickly kids, and other environmental health risks.  It can be a highly stressful position, where I never feel like I have enough time to complete everything I want to do in my day.  That sense of unfinished business can be trying at times no matter how much I try to walk away from it when I am not there.  And I never really stop thinking about the kids I work with.  I want to bring them my best self, my most creative ideas, and something that might make learning a little better, a little easier, a little more enjoyable than it has been in the past for them.  I want to engage them and make them lifelong learners too.

But even with all of these factors, I'm not sure I can blame this round of illness on much of any of that.  No, I think deep down that my own emotional conflicts over theological school, call, meeting the needs of my family, and ignoring my own health were the real culprits this time.  My inability to put my own physical, spiritual, emotional, and intellectual needs ahead of anything else is always detrimental to my body, as it decides to shut the whole system down to keep me from wreaking any more havoc on myself.  Just like the encapsulating cysts that I excel at growing, my body eventually encapsulates me in a cyst so that I too must be drained of the puss that I have accrued within my spirit.

Much like the physical abscess I had blocking my airway, my emotional airway was blocked by an unwillingness on my part to acknowledge that I was doing too much.  I had taken on projects, and work, and commitments I could in no way fulfill, and yet I tried to take on more.  From my innermost self that wants to be loved, I continue to put myself into those vicious circles of offering too much in return for too little.  Over extending myself is not truly a sign of flexibility or the ability to multitask, rather I see in my own life that it is merely a way of running oneself ragged and incapable of doing anything.

I was in so much denial about how overwhelmed I was that I had even stopped really caring for my diabetes.  I suspect that this a key player in my prolonged illness.  Diabetes is an autoimmune disorder, and when it is improperly managed, the body cannot respond to bacterial or viral attacks with enough strength to properly fight off the illness.  My blood glucose levels had been rising and my overall average was up as well.  I drank coffee laden with sugar, creamers, and sugary syrups.  I ate candy bars, donuts, cakes, cookies, and way to much protein.  I lowered my immunity and suffered the consequences.

But what about those figurative lumps in my throat?  Well, as I sat there, stuck in that bed, I began to see how much I missed my wife and children.  I realized how much I missed my work life.  I realized how much I missed my freedom to go to a grocery store and by some fresh fruit and vegetables.  I realized that I missed my life.  And that, that missing of my own life, was what brought the true lumps to my throat.

For nearly 40 years I have suffered from the belief that my existence was not truly important to the world, or even my own family's.  I didn't feel that my wife really needed me to exist, and of course she doesn't need me to exist per se, but to have a loving and fulfilling life we need each other.  Our existences are dependent upon the love that we create and share as two grown adults in the life altering bond of marriage.  We need each other.  And that emotion was overwhelming enough to bring a lump to my throat.

And so too, being a present, loving, nurturing father to my two magnificent sons.  Likewise my colleagues, my students, my friends, and the people with whom I share my stories of what it means to be intersex and transgender.  I meet each person exactly where they are and allow them the space to share with me their struggles and their triumphs.  What greater importance could there be in life?

And we have all been granted this opportunity.  We are given the gift of our lives to live into and share with others.  We are connected by our experiences, by our comings, and our goings in life.  We are connected by something as simple as a smile, or as profound as a lifelong relationship filled with hardships and joys that push us to be better people than we could have ever imagined.

Yet there is one more element to this magic, G-d.  Because I believe that it is the G-d outside of us, and the G-d within each of us that creates these opportunities to experience this brief flicker of time we have been granted.  And perhaps this brought the biggest lump to my throat.  The knowing that the G-d within me and the G-d within each housekeeping staff member, CNA, nurse, and doctor created a place of care, healing, and recovery for me, for my family, for my work, for my friends, and for the very people who cared for me during my illness became a truth that changed my life.  I mattered.  They mattered.  My existence here and now has meaning and value, and my absence would be a loss.

As a new week begins, I come to it with an appreciation for another day to be.
I am here, and my life has meaning.  Thanks be to G-d.

Thank you for having meaning in my life, in the lives of others, and for choosing to be a part of the lump in my throat.

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

-Ari