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

A Little Church History

Hello My Dear One,

Religion has always played an enormous role in my life, as have spiritual and faith exploration.  In reflecting on why this is, and why I have chosen, or been chosen, to this particular realm of the human experience, I have to give some of the credit to my mother.  This is not because of a deep or profound faith that I learned from her, she does have one, but rather it has to do with vocation itself.  Her job may or may not be a true calling, but I can't say if it is or isn't, since I do not know the reasons and rationales of G-d.  Regardless, one of my mother's careers shaped me in deep and profound ways, ones that are still sealed within memory chains I haven't yet accessed.

My mother is a musician and teacher, and like most in the performing arts has required multiple jobs to be financially stable.  Because of this, she had until her recent retirement, been a lifelong church organist and choir director, largely theologically affiliated with whichever denomination she happened to be working for. Consequently, this meant that I/we had to accept (or at least appear to accept) whatever the dogma was of each particular church.  My father, an intellectual, raised in the same Methodist-Episcopal church that my mother was, had largely rejected religious belief for scientific theory by the time I came along. So, in order to get one on one dad time I often spent Sunday mornings at home with dad. We cooked and baked, watched woodworking shows on PBS, and played with Silly Putty and the Sunday comics.

But I also went with her on just as many, if not more, Sunday mornings because I was drawn to the mysteries of religion and faith.  I have memories of almost every church my mom has worked for, including but not limited to: Methodist, Episcopal, Congregational, United Church of Christ (UCC), Methodist-UCC, American Baptist, and Presbyterian. And each denomination reflects at least 2 separate churches that I attended with her. Thanks to the bohemian area I grew up in I also learned from Catholics, agnostics, atheists, buddhists, and new age weirdos from the 1970's and 1980's.  It was a religious whirlwind, and in looking back on it I can see this as a large reason for my theological and seminary studies.

As a result of these jobs, I did not have a specific set of Christian practices as a child until I was 8 years old.  It was a UCC church, one town over from mine, where my mother gained employment and stayed for almost nine years.  This was, I believe at the time, a record for her, and I suppose that it was a lucky break for me.  It was where I was exposed to an open and loving G-d.  A G-d that had more to do with social justice and helping others, instead of judging and blaming those who were different.  It was a safe space for me, and I was able to find my inner self without fearing that what I found would be wrong.  It was the place I met my future wife when we were both eleven years old.  I made many friends, and was taken in by several of the families and given life experiences in homes that were completely unlike mine. I was blessed during those years, even when it didn't feel that way.

The truth was that sometimes, no, almost every time, I wanted more.  I wanted to go to youth group.  I wanted to go through confirmation classes.  I wanted to hang out with my friends from church.  I wanted to be a fully participatory member of the group.  But I never was.  At the end of the day, it was still a job for my mother, and no matter how invested I was in aspects of the community, I had to miss out on one thing or another because she needed to go home.  The work day was over. And since the "fun" stuff often happened on Sunday nights, driving 30 minutes roundtrip, messing up family routines, and getting ready for the coming week created a solid barrier to those activities.

All that said, I believe this was the foundation for my desire to learn more.  I could never experience all that I needed or wanted in those situations. And I must note, that during those nine years I was ministered to by a pastor, who to this day continues to be an influence and mentor in my own faith. He is one of the main reasons I still believe that a religious career is possible.  

But when those nine years ended, shortly before my senior year of high school began, there was a more rapid change between congregations. There was a UCC we'd been at before, then Baptist, then UCC, then Baptist, then a combined Methodist-UCC. Consequently, I always knew that one day or another I would be told that she had found a new church position and we were moving on. I have little recollection of how I dealt emotionally with these changes, except that I continued my own prayer life, studied Biblical texts, read theological articles and books, and attempted to teach myself Greek. I never have had success with that though.

I can also see this cyclical shifting as a metaphor for my childhood and young adult relationship with my mother in general.  Her life was certain to change course often, and with it, so did mine until I was able to set my own. 

Perhaps our overall familial undercurrent of instability, career choices being only a piece of the puzzle, was in fact a blessing in itself.  I have created rituals, traditions, and schedules for myself to ensure that the emotional ground will not crumble beneath me. I have taken from all of the faith traditions and practices that I absorbed throughout those years and cobbled together a greater glimpse of the Divine in this world. 

But what does all of this mean to me in the here and now?

Are these the roots of my ecclesiastical hopes and fears?


And, of course, how in the world do I combine this with my inherent Judaism into something that bears the fruits of justice and good works, not cataclysmic devastation through doctrinal incoherence?

Or more simply put, how can I serve G-d while being a religious mutt?

I don't know. And right now I'm not so sure that I want, or really need to know.

On this journey I'm not at a destination point, I'm on the road. And thankfully, I have traditional prayers, ancient practices, new theologies, and a heart that is still open to hearing the words of G-d.

And I am grateful for that. And it is enough.

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

-Ari

Unfixable But Not Unchangeable

Hello My Dear One,

It's been a long time.

Sometimes in life, things get broken. Sometimes these are little things, sometimes they are an incomprehensible size. Sometimes they can be fixed. And sometimes they cannot. Yet, even if these things, be they physical objects, emotional relationships, or metaphysical concepts and constructs, are shattered into thousands of disparate parts, they can be changed. Even an outcome can have more than one meaning. And where there is hope, then whatever is broken can be used again. Perhaps it will not be for it's original purpose, but useful in a new and more meaningful way, if love is allowed in. 

It may be unfixable, but it is not unchangeable.

I used to have a theology of brokenness. And it was the core of my religious understanding for more than a decade. After a soul-crushing experience in seminary as I transitioned gender from female to male, I was spiritually broken. I no longer believed in the trustworthiness of those ordained in the Christian church, or its traditions. I lost all confidence that those individuals saw me as a beloved child of G-d, not as I had been, or in spite of what I had become, but exactly as I was now.

Clergy, once my lifelong goal, were now the enemy.

I was beaten down to a point where I gave up on finishing what I had started, a ninety credit Master of Divinity degree leading to ordination in the United Church of Christ. I was four classes short of the degree, lacking Pastoral Care, Introduction to Worship, Field Placement, and one rotation of Clinical Pastoral Education. I needed only twelve credits, but I stopped at the seventy nine I had acquired.

These four classes represent the distance between me and ordination. But, since I no longer had faith in anyone who was ordained, I'm unsurprised that these are the classes I didn't take. My advisor had never believed that I should go into the pastorate in the first place. A 70 plus year old Catholic nun who couldn't stomach the idea of a twenty-seven year old out lesbian having pastoral rights, responsibilities, and authority, that she ultimately could never have herself. It was a brutal exorcism of my faith that led to a fear, hatred, and ultimate loathing of many of the religious traditions of which I had been raised in.

When I came out as transgender a few years later and pursued my change from one external presentation to another the vitriol increased one hundred fold. It culminated in closed door meetings where I was told that my hormone imbalances, my mental health, my personal problems were at the heart of my transition, not my true gender identity. More brutally, I was told that I had been "fearfully and wonderfully made" [Psalm 139:14] and was therefore going against G-d's will. And all I could so was to sit there and take it. 

I was breaking apart from the inside out and the outside in. I was dying. And although my physical death did occur multiple times during a rare and frightening case of Legionnaires Disease, it was my spiritual death that had a far greater impact on the threadbare state of my soul.

And in this way, I had lost. I had lost the support of others. I had lost the hope that I needed to survive. I had lost the battle against my own inner demons. And I had lost what was left of myself in the darkness and depression of it all.

And every year afterward, I have found myself yearning to fulfill the dream of serving in a pastoral role, one with the ability to perform the duties that come with it. And every year I do serve in one form or another. I have been a church camp dean, a Sunday School teacher, a religious education committee chair, an assistant for youth groups, and a guest preacher.

Of course, my time spent in public school special education is its own form of pastoral calling as well, but the verbal omission of G-d limits my own sense of wholeness.

And my presentations, lectures, and speaking engagements are all opportunities to share how being a transgender man, and a transgender man of faith have shaped my worldview and how I choose to live in the world. But, these talks are not sermons, nor should they be. 

Still, I want to speak the words of G-d to offer other ways of seeing the sacred and holy within ourselves and within each other.

Changed

Recently, I received wisdom from a younger than I clergy member about who I am today. As someone who had never known me prior to transition, nor seen me struggle through it, she was easily able to say that I was not the person today that I was ten years ago when I ended my seminary career. Neither am I the person who entered seminary fourteen years ago, not in body, mind, or spirit. 

Even though I've known this on an intellectual level, I couldn't hold it as truth within my heart. I was still seeing myself as a man built on a broken theology, rather than on a remade base formed out of the rubble. Like the keystone that locks all the other loose stones together, I was cut apart that way, was sought out, and was broken from the other pieces to be better than before. And to be an object of strength and unity, instead of just a pile of rocks that collapsed under their own weight.

So, for now, I still have a theology of brokenness. And, I have a belief system that tells me that even though the original may be broken, the new creation is stronger than the last. And, for now, that is enough.

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

- Ari

Of My First [Transgender] Fashion Memory

Hello My Dear One,

It was recently graduation time at the local university and at the high school, here where I live. Many young women and men will now be entering into the world from under the protective wings of schools, parents, families, and closest friends. And this of course means that they, and their loved ones, have spent great amounts of time recalling years of memories. Ones of funny outfits, cute little things that occurred in childhood, first loves, first heartbreaks, and the first time that death(s) came sweeping in, and all the rest. It was a time of memories.

Recently, I had the privilege of speaking to a group of individuals at a gender diversity training, telling my story, and then answering their questions. They themselves were a diverse group, but most all of them served young people. But unlike most of the recent graduates here, the young people they serve have painful and challenging memories from their childhoods. Their stories are too often ones of crises, issues of sexual orientation, gender identity, and the loss of securities that comes with each of these challenges. I was honestly moved to see a room full of people who specifically wanted to know how they could better help youth and (hopefully) their families safely begin and continue the process of transgender transition. And to reconcile the memories of who they were with the people they are becoming. 

In my talk, in all of my talks that I give, I always share my first memory of knowing that I was different. Of knowing that I was someone else than what the world saw me as. That I was transgender. It is a story I have told a hundred times or more, yet every time I tell it, I find new parts of how I felt at that moment. Of how my relationships with my family were formed at that very moment. I see the confusion, the distress, the anger, the fear, and the courage that would come from this chance exchange with my parents when I was only 3 years old.

Not original, but close.

The year was 1978, and fashion was at an all time low. We wore red, white, and blue checked polyester bell bottom pants, with striped polyester shirts, and knee high athletic socks that had inch wide bands of color at the tops. Usually, the colors were either red and blue or yellow and green. It was an unfortunate time for style, but of course those clothes were the style. Terrycloth was also a staple of our wardrobes then as well, as we wore shorts that not only matched, but doubled as hand towels. I am thankful that I no longer wear such things, however I sometimes yearn for those shorts since they were so handy when you spilled something. It was convenient to be able to sit down and mop the floor with your fanny. But I digress.

At any rate, it was a hot July day, and I was standing in our dining room in between my parents' separate bedroom doors, wearing those beloved, mint colored green terrycloth shorts with the white trim sewn around the edges.

My father was wearing well worn and dirty shorts, and dirty tan slip on canvas shoes that had white rubber soles and white trim. My mother had something on, however I do not remember what, most likely because they were from the ladies' section of the department store, a place that held no relevance for me.

It was mid to late afternoon, and time for my father to go out to water and/or weed our 1/4 acre garden. I was excited to join him, he was highly protective of it, and gave me tasks that wouldn't lead to the destruction of the actual plants he had growing. Standing there I was ready to be out there with my dad, the hero of every little boy's life, doing something that had been reserved for someone older, responsible, and able to do real work. It was a magical moment.

And then my mother ruined it.

As my father told her that he was heading out to work on the garden, I gleefully announced that I was going too. And that was when the fateful blow was dealt, as the words came pouring out of her mouth.

"No you're not." she said.
Unsure of her statement I quickly replied, "Why not?"
"Because," she said, "little girls wear shirts when they go outside."

Standing there, blindsided by this news, I stammered my assent, went to my room and found a plain white undershirt. I threw it on and went out the door. 

I had complied with her expectations. 

I had complied with a gendered world's expectations. 

And I complied, for more than 25 years, with those expectations. 

That day, I was confronted by the truth that I was not who I thought I was. Every fiber of my being was boy through and through. And yet, the woman who had brought me into this world, had just told me, point blank, that I was wrong. With just the one word 'girls' I was informed that I was in fact female, and not male. I wasn't the perfect little boy I believed I was. I was not the miniature man in training that I thought. I was not a he. And in that moment everything I thought I knew exploded.

And of course that 3 year old's belief still explodes daily, when I am confronted with the physical realities of my body that are so deeply incongruous to the mental realities of my mind. That memory, that self knowledge, has become entrenched and added to with other little girl memories. Each one a story itself, packed away like old clothes in the back of the closet. With time and attention I hope that they will reveal more truths, more heartbreaks, and more insights. Ultimately, I hope that they will provide more understanding and love for all of us who've worn the wrong outfits from gendered wardrobes.

Thank you for continuing on this journey with me, and for sharing the memories.

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

-Ari

Of Self Imposed Silences

Hello My Dear One,

It has been five months since I have written, though certainly not due to a lack of desire. In fact, I physically inscribe the words BLOG and WRITE on my daily To-Do List, intending to do just that sometime during that twenty four hour cycle. And yet, nearly half of a year has gone by, and I have only fragments of ideas that seemed more grand in my head than when they fell on the pages. There are pages with little more than a paragraph etched out on them, while other concepts grew into pages of their own, sprawling and wandering like weeds instead of flowers. It is not a barren wasteland, but an untilled field that has been left too long and the vegetation is no longer cultivated.

I'm tempted, like many writers, to claim that I have been suffering from a case of writers' block. A creative condition that supposedly keeps us from meaningful, if any writing whatsoever for an indeterminate period of time. It is a common phenomena in the artistic community, to be unable to create something, well, creative.

I could also claim that it is due to a streak of perfectionism that has had an immobilizing effect on my creativity, not to mention my productivity. But in truth I have chosen to fill my time with empty hours of television, online videos, and other created distractions. I have purposely opted out of writing for fear that I would get it wrong, whatever it is.

The core reality is that I have been afraid that what I write will not be ok in the community that I live and work in. I am afraid that if I say how I feel about internal parts of myself, that there will be external consequences to me and perhaps even my family. I have convinced myself that my truths are no longer as valuable as the delicate balance I have struck between personal expression, and public acceptance, and employment.

I have chosen to silence myself.
I have chosen to fall to my fears.
I have chosen to hide.

I have chosen to extinguish my light, so that I can maintain a perceived status quo, that ultimately doesn't exist. I have been living within a self created set of boundaries of what is and is not appropriate.

I have censored myself.
I have banned my own writings.
I have burned my own thoughts.

This self imposed silence has served though only to keep me from myself. Of course it has kept me from you as well. It has kept me in my own private room where the darkness blots out the light that enters or exits.

But the walls have begun to crack, and the light is seeping in, and perhaps seeping out. I am called to be accountable to my own truths. I am feeling the physical toll, the mental decay, the emotional instability, and the spiritual emptiness from having neglected them for too long. I cannot carry the weight of all my words, and I do not want to.

Silence

So, it's time to break my silence, and in the coming days and weeks I will be sharing those paragraphs and pages. I will sit with them, fully present, and listen to myself as the stories, the journeys, the unknowns, and the wished for are ready to enter into the light. And it will be in the presence of G-d that I am grounded and sustained as I do my work. And it will be with you in my heart all still on this journey.

Thank you for being with me in my silences.

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

-Ari

Of the Roller Coaster Ride of Mental Illness

Hello My Dear One,

I apologize that I haven't written in nearly three months, and although I have had plenty of news to share, I have been in a self-imposed silence. I have been giving more attention to my work life than to my inner life. I have neglected parts of my soul so that I could nurture others. And I have paid the price.

My silence is not that of one who has nothing to say, rather it is the silence that comes as in a nightmare, as I stand frozen in horror, unable to make a sound. I have been so overwhelmed by the responsibilities I have, or have created, that I have ceased to even attempt to speak what is on my heart. And because of this, I have allowed my Beast a chance to pull me into his old familiar spaces. 

In my life I coexist with the physical illness of an auto-immune disorder, and the mental illnesses of Bipolar I Disorder and Anxiety. And of course, I am an openly intersex and transgender individual, navigating a world that is blatantly heteronormative. These facets of my life are both blessings and curses, as they afford me a unique perspective and understanding about what happens when mind, body, and soul are altered from within. 

Instead of the outside world changing me, it is my own body chipping away at itself, systematically attacking the very cells that I am composed of.  And instead of my mind being a place of rationality and control, it can become a wasteland of neuro-chemical storms that prevent impulse control, or allow reality to enter in. 

And when my rational mind has been attacked, my Beast of mental illness will begin to seep out. And often, when that first trickle begins, a massive flood is not far behind it. The reality of depression and mental illness, is that underneath the happier and safer thoughts, whether spoken or not, are painfully dark and frightening ones.  The comic genius and the haunting madness are inextricably fused together. The light and the dark emotions blurring as they spin faster and faster.

And so, I ride the roller coaster of mental illness.  Those of us who have been on the ride, never having willingly gotten in the queue, find ourselves unable to get off. Even when the cars have come to a complete stop and the amusement park closes for the day, we are still on the ride. If we are fortunate, we manage to get out onto the platform, yet, in all likelihood we will soon be strapped in again, ascending and dropping, twisting and turning, screaming from start to finish.  

Ultimately, 99.99% of the time, roller coasters are completely safe. Rarely does anyone get physically harmed, let alone killed on one. There are tragic exceptions, but for the most part getting on a roller coaster ride is safer than the car ride to and from the park itself. It's the tracks that the cars are affixed to, the seat belts that secure our bodies to the cars, and the technicians who maintain the rides that prevent accidents, that safely provide adrenaline filled thrills for us all.

But what happens when the tracks are not maintained, the cars rusted and gone unchecked, the seat belts tattered and failing to click appropriately into their buckles?  

It is the same as when our medications stop working, and when we ignore our bodily needs for rest, or food, or shelter. Or when we choose not to go and talk to our doctors, therapists, clergy, or even admit to ourselves that something is wrong in our lives. It is then, when we have no more strength to move forward, and the depression is greater than anything else, that we crash headlong into the barriers, derailing ourselves, and everyone around us. It is a terrifyingly violent end to an even more terrifyingly violent ride.  

But even when I am well, the ride fixed, maintained, and running smoothly, I wonder when the real terror will return.  I am waiting to look over at the seat next to mine and see my Beast, grinning his vicious smile at me. That's when the crazy comes back.  Suddenly, he and I are screaming through the rises and falls of our carnival ride from hell.

During November and December, the Beast, my Beast, finally did burst through the barriers and flailed into being, a total of four times, for a few gut wrenching hours that saw me cause pain, grief, and insanity to the ones I love most. No matter how hard I fought to keep my Beast in, I simultaneously threw the doors wide open for him, sat down, and buckled in for the ride to start. 

You see, that roller coaster ride isn't all bad. There are times when we all desire more excitement in our lives. There are times when we want the thrill of an adrenaline rush. There are times, when the darkness holds appeal, and I want to escape the rational life that I live.

I realize that this is not limited to people with mental illness, but to all of us who feel surrounded by the everyday, a mundane existence, a lack of purpose, and a hope for a more exciting tomorrow. Why else would there be theme parks, vacation packages, and shopping malls, but to draw us out of our everyday, and jettison us into an over exaggerated fantasy where everything can be fixed, for the right price?

In my real life, I actually detest roller coasters, much to the dismay of my family. I don't feel safe, I am trapped, and I am not in control of anything. The reckless abandon that others' revel in when on a thrill ride, leaves me shaken with a a high level of disregulation. I am queasy from the twists and turns. I am dizzy from the fear of the rises and falls. I want to go home.

So, all that begs the question, why do I give in to my Beast's ghastly ride, if I hate it so much? 

Sadly, I think it has to be that even though I hate the roller coaster of mental illness, I have the illusion of control when I am participating in it. My Beast and I are controlling everyone around us with our behavior. Maybe, if only for a few fleeting moments, I am the operator of the ride instead of the passenger. And worse still, if my Beast and I can manipulate my thoughts and actions, then we can manipulate others' as well.

In the end, as the ride comes to a stop, the last two months of the solar calendar over, and the beginning of another trip around the sun, I am finally able to get off the ride. I am free to explore the other rides, foods, and attractions that are all around me. I can enjoy experiences without the fear of an unwanted upside down loop the loop that can create dangerous situations for me and for those around me. I can see the joy in my family's successes, triumphs, hopes, and dreams. I am at last present. 

And by the grace of G-d, I can spend more time in this reality than in my Beast's sadistic one. And if I'm lucky, the next time I'm there, screaming through the highs and lows of the roller coaster ride of mental illness, I will know that it will end, that I will regain control, that my life is more than this. I will know that I am more than this. And I will cherish the gift of reclaiming the man I am called to be, holding fast to the man I have already become.


Thank you for choosing to come along on this ride with me.

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

-Ari

Of At-One-Ment, of Being Enough

Hello My Dear One,
      Rosh Hashanah has come and gone, the new year [5775] ushered in, the shofar blown, and our sins sent out into the waters. Yom Kippur is over as well, and we have atoned for our wrongdoings and are sealed in the Book for another year. Sukkot, even if I do still have cabbages in the garden, with our celebrations of wandering, harvesting, and backyard huts is complete as well. There is a clean slate, an array of beautifully colored chalks, and an invitation to create anew. 
      But I do not feel it. I am uninspired. Instead I feel the weight of what is to come, burdened by the violence of the past year. I feel the fear. I taste it.  
      Why? Why do I choose to see the suffering, the sins, and the separations, especially after I have just atoned for all of them less than a month ago? Is there something more appealing about the negatives? Is it my Beast sniffing around, trying to prey on my weakness for a half empty glass? I don't know. 
      I do know that it happens every year. I know that I find the dark spots of myself almost delicious. It's as if I want to reveal how terrible I really am. Is it my doing or is it my Beast's? Is it a collaboration of the two of us? And how much of it will be shown to the rest of the world? How much do I actually want to be judged?
      I was just called to atone for my sins. Now, I personally define sin as: separation or the act of separating myself from G-d; to live outside of covenant; to choose an independent path, one that may or may not lead to a livable outcome. I performed a kind of spiritual surgery that dissects the comfortable, yet prickly habits of my mind, the downright dangerous grudges, and my failures to forgive. I broke apart the self-aggrandized acts of teshuvah that I congratulated myself for, from the real, and far less glamorous forgiveness I have experienced and have given.
      And I confessed all of the sins I committed this past year. I attempted to at-one-ment myself back into relationship, right-relatedness with G-d. I expelled the grudges. I offered forgiveness. I accepted that I had been forgiven by G-d. I moved out of the old year's agonies and into the new year's possibilities.
      But here I am, reveling in the evils that were, and making myself feel like a horrible person, not worthy of the forgiveness I've already been granted. And as I sit with this, I feel the realness of mental illness, the hardness of past abuses, and the deepest truth that I wrestle with each and every day.

I don't believe that I will ever be worthy enough. 

      In the face of therapy, medications, writing, praying, working, the assurances in Torah, and the tangible proof in my life, I still question my worthiness. 

In moments of true narcissism, I want to claim that I am the victim of some cosmic tragedy that has time and again left me with too few resources, be them financial, emotional, psychological, or spiritual. I want to believe that if something, anything had been different in my life, then I wouldn't be dealing with the perpetual disappointments of the everyday. I want to believe that my suffering entitles me to an extra helping of pity from the world. Most cruelly, I believe that others do not need to be forgiven, because of all the pain they have caused me.

      When I cannot see others, as my neighbors, I sin. When I fail to see the inherent worth of all of G-d's children, I fail to see my inherent worth as a child of G-d. If I am not worthy, then my neighbors are valueless as well, I whisper into the dark vastness I have placed between myself and G-d. 
      And I want G-d to whisper back, "Child. Why? Son, when will you accept My acceptance? When will you realize that you are truly worthy of love, respect, and safety? When will you finally let go of the pains of the past and come into the current? It is time child to accept forgiveness, and believe it. Trust Me. Every Child of G-d is forgiven. Every single one. And you are one. You are worthy. You are enough." 
      And when I listen with every fiber of my body, my mind, and my soul, right now, I can hear that whisper. I feel the sorrow, the compassion, and the release. I am present. And for a moment or two I am enough.
      Unlike G-d though, I am painfully human. I will take offense at perceived slights. I will feel insulted by offhanded remarks. I will lose my temper at my spouse, my children, the GPS on my smartphone, and probably many other people and inanimate objects. I will in all likelihood find a grudge, muckle onto it, and store it in the darkness of my own pettiness. I will forget that I am forgiven, that everyone is forgiven, and I will forget our collective worthiness as children of G-d.
     But for now, I can remember that I am whole, I am enough, I am more than I will ever know. Through this holy experience of welcoming a new year, seeking forgiveness and a page turn on the old year, I am assured that I am truly good enough for G-d.

Thank you for your forgiveness on my journey.

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

Worthy

-Ari 

Of Real Transgender Dignity

Hello My Dear One,

I am back at work, special education in an elementary school setting, and I have spent the past weeks learning the ropes in a new building with new colleagues. At work, I interact with a wide variety of people, and as their and my perceptions intermingle, I catch glimpses of how I walk through the world. I see things in myself that I might not otherwise as my words and actions are reflected back to me in others' reactions. If I'm lucky it shines a light onto an issue I have been unable to name, especially one that hurts more than I can admit.

This time, it began when I started examining how and when I focus on the details, or whether I focus on the whole picture of my life. Mostly, I get stuck in the details, but sometimes I can see a blurry panorama where all those pesky pieces fit together and there is a wholeness to my life.  But sometimes it's not just my view that matters, and that's what I've been exploring most recently.

You see, there are people in this world who focus more on the details of my life, making my transgender identity the only thing they can see in or about me. One detail of my life becomes the whole picture. And when this happens, part and sometimes all of the picture of my dignity is lost within the ignorance, the unknowing, and sadly, the transphobia that surrounds me.

To be honest, I've always known that my transgender identity can be troubling for people. My intersex condition was a place of absolute shame and fear as a teenager and young adult, as I was forced to hide the physical characteristics of my maleness and pass as a female. It was a job that took all of my effort, my strength, and very nearly my life. As I began to transition from presenting myself to the world as a female to the true male that I am, each day brought a growing sense of self worth and pride. Knowing who you are, and that it is OK to be that person, is the greatest liberating force that I believe there is. But freedom comes with a price, and in the hetero-normative world that I live in, the cost is largely counted in dignity.

Each and every day I encounter some form of transphobia, be it on the large scale of the daily press, or on the most minute scale, when a coworker treats me just a little differently than others in the workplace. I revel in reading stories of transgender people in articles and profiles on the internet, but I dread the anonymous comments section that will usher in a flood of ignorant, hateful, and bigoted opinions about transgender individuals. Mostly, these comments are directed at the person featured in the article, yet all too often the sentiment blurs into a more encompassing worldview. Personal attacks become blatant attacks on an entire population, and I am a member of that population.

So too, when colleagues fail to know, learn, or use proper terminology in regards to LGBTQIQ people and issues, I may feel attacked, even when the intentionality isn't as obvious as the faceless haters hiding behind their computer keyboards. But when we are face to face with someone, we are less likely to be confrontational, instead, choosing a more subtle or passive aggressive form of discrimination. So, when I hear a coworker refer to a lesbian parent as the "father figure" of the couple, I raise my defenses, and question how safe I am in my workplace. I fear that there is not true support of who I am, and that my gender identity is a liability. And the underlying transphobia and intolerance seep into my consciousness. 

Despite years of living as myself, I am not immune to the vitriol that is projected onto me, whether directly or not. By engaging in life, I willingly engage in the positive and negative aspects of it. But what does it mean when it's personal? Why is the dignity of transgender people like me important? And why does it hurt more when I experience a loss of transgender dignity, than when it's the economic injustices, religious biases, and political beliefs that I may be attacked over?

Dignity. Being good enough. Being worthy. Being.

The word dignity comes from the Latin dignus "worth (n.), worthy, proper, fitting" from PIE *dek-no-, from root *dek- "to take, accept."1

The word dignity represents a concept that is thousands of years old, and at its most basic root level, tells us to take, to accept whatever is being offered to us. And in so doing, we receive what someone else is offering us. We take in the gift of someone else, and we accept it for what it is. It is affirming the worth of our own, and of each other's gifts. It is saying that who I am, who each one of us is, is worthy of acceptance, regardless of all other factors.

Ideally, we treat everyone we ever meet this way, holding their dignity as a precious and inherent right. But in reality, we treat others in ways we would never want to be treated. We judge, we condemn, we withhold forgiveness, we act in selfish, scared, and harmful ways, as we reject that which we cannot accept. We reject the different. We reject the other. We reject ourselves when we fail to see the Beloved Child of G-d in all people. By denying dignity we reduce each other to little more than soulless vessels. 

So, is there a difference between transgender dignity and inherent human dignity, when the bodily vessel is the actual matter at hand? Does the indignity matter more or less when transgender is the issue? What is the cost of dignity? 

I believe that there is a difference and that it matters because each transgender person has willingly entered into battle with themselves, their fellow human beings, and their G-d to become whole. Because I have chosen to be myself and have worked hard, risked everything, and lost much in order to live as the man I am. Because every transgender person I have met has done this too. And even though the cost may be unquantifiable, the ability to bear another's dignity is as great as any love there is.

I did not choose to go through years of therapy, surgeries, support groups, private and public scrutiny, and the loss of family, friends, and jobs, because it would be easy. I knew full well the tasks ahead of me, and I faced the truth, that my survival was worth more than the love and acceptance of others, even those closest to me.

I decided that I was worthy of living. I affirmed my own dignity, accepted who I was, who I am, and took it. I met myself where I was, and from there I was able to become who I needed to be.

A transgender man of dignity.

And that's why transgender dignity means all that it does to me, and I suspect for other transfolk as well. With the help of G-d, we have shaped, created, and loved ourselves into being. We have taken and accepted the bodily and emotional selves that we could no longer live as, and have made the whole people we are called to be. And when that self is criticized, overtly or with the cover of an almost imperceptible slight, as a transgender person we are cut more deeply, because we have worked so hard to be that self.

In the end, I know that I will continue to face discrimination as a transman, and that even when I am long dead and gone, there will be those who will reduce my life to my transgender identity. There will be those who will know my biology, but never know my story. But each day that I get up and choose to take and accept what those around me have to offer, I grant them, and I am granted with dignity. We are all worthy of G-d's unending acceptance of us, and we are all called to share that worthiness with every uniquely wonderful child of G-d.

Thank you for offering your gifts to me, and for accepting mine on this journey.

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

-Ari



1 http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=dignity

Of Being a Real [LGBTQIQA] Man

Hello My Dear One,

I am continuing on in my process of taking apart what I thought I knew, rebuilding pieces of how I see myself, and choosing how I present myself to the world.  It is an exercise in deep personal reflection, and it often results in truths I may not want to admit.  Yet I know that it is vital to my growth, and to the wellbeing of those I love.  I have chosen to live my life in the open, and as such I cannot hide what I don't like about myself simply for my own comfort.  Meaningful transition occurs only when we set aside our inner narratives describing an unrealistic self.  We are neither angel nor demon, but our stories can convince us otherwise.  
One of my inner narratives, how others' opinions of me alter my view of self, was brought to light when I was on a discussion panel for two Introduction to Psychology courses this past Spring.  I was invited to share my life experiences and knowledge about transgender and intersex information with students at a community college.  I have participated in this panel for over four years now, and it has been a fairly easy gig.  Nearly always when the class was over, there would be many students, and staff, who thanked us all, commenting about our courage.  Thankfully, this occurred that day, since there were two incidents during the talks that left me somewhat rattled by the end of the second session.  My fellow panelists had also felt challenged, and as we went our separate ways, there was a palpable feeling of discomfort as we headed into our "regular" lives.

When I began the first class, (our panel team actually has a format because we've worked together for so long,) I did my usual opening that includes asking the audience to identify what each of the letters in L[lesbian] G[gay] B[bisexual] T[transgender] Q[queer] I[intersex] Q[questioning] and A[allies] represents.  One of the other panelists refers to this as my "Weird Version of Sesame Street!" Over the years, people have become more familiar with the acronym, except for the "I" for intersex, and then ask them which label they would like to put on me.  I encourage them to speak out, guess, and pretend that I am literally going to put a sticky note on my forehead.  I usually have to start off with one to get them going, for example, "What about 'L'?  Probably not."  And from there the fun begins.

Labels, which one do you want?

But before I could even get to that part, I was thrown for a loop when a cisgender* male asked, "What about 'H'?" Which for him meant heterosexual, because it was another sexual orientation.  I was so surprised by this question that I gamely went along and said sure, ok, "H."  But later, after I had returned to my usual speaking routine, I reflected on why I had responded that way?  Why didn't I explain that identifying as LGBTQIQ is inherently different from identifying as heterosexual?  Why didn't I stress the reality of what it means to be in a sex, gender, or sexual orientation minority in a hetero-normative world?  

Perhaps it was my own narrative at work, that my worth was dependent on whether the man felt ok about himself, and how that would make my life safer.
The second class brought other sensitive topics to the table, including what types of medical treatment are appropriate for transgender individuals, particularly for those who are incarcerated.  Although one of the cases did have roots in criminal activities, the underlying message was about standards of care for transfolk.  What I heard and interpreted from the the audience, was that medically necessary treatments for transgender people are subject to a person's action, not his or her healthcare needs, or human dignity.  There was a again a cisgender male who shared his views with us on this matter.  He brought forward his theories about the better uses of money aimed at changing the lives of at-risk-youth, rather than inmates.  He stated that medical intervention for transgender individuals in prison should be denied, particularly based on the severity of the crime.  It became a very heated debate that led to a profound discomfort for all of the people in the room. 

Of course, he was completely entitled to his opinions, yet he failed to acknowledge that we were too.  The sparring went on, and he responded that I wasn't hearing/listening to what he was saying.   The statement was both accurate and inaccurate.  We had entered into a conflict, and I chose to defend my positions, rather than hear the meanings he intended in his words.  I chose to act threatened and became defensive going to my wounded places and speaking from there.  Unfortunately, he did as well.  

In the end, the encounter was little more than a series of personal attacks, for both parties, with no sense of compromise or even comprehension on either side.   We, as a panel, requested to move on to other questions and topics, and he chose to leave the lecture hall.  And though I would have been happy to have further discussion with him privately, he had not stayed around for that.  Simply put, conflict is uncomfortable, and frankly I didn't actually want to talk with him either.

In retrospect, it's kind of funny that none of us thought to discuss whether or not some of those at-risk-youth might be LBGTQIQ.  I wonder what would have happened if that round of logic had occurred.  I wonder if both groups would have reached some common ground, rather than retreating to our private islands of fear and wounds.
As I reflect back on what I did and didn't say or do, I realize that my overall sense of self, particularly, my ability to see myself as independent from others' views of me was changing that day.  It was a pivotal shift in my worldview, one where I stopped being afraid of others' fears and started embracing the self that I can trust.  A self that is grounded in a sense of the inherent difference that comes with being a beloved LGBTQIQ identified child of G-d.  It was the beginning of profound growth, filled with the growing pains that come with such a thing.  And I eventually had to decide what my narrative about who I am as a member of the LGBTQIQ community truly is.

So, when it comes to the "H" for heterosexuality, I have decided that I will take a compassionate yet firm stand.  A stand that embraces heterosexuality as a sexual orientation, because it is, yet one that believes that being in a minority is not equal to being in the majority.  In the LGBTQIQ community we are rarely represented in the world around us in fair or accurate ways.  Transwomen on television are almost non-existent, and are most frequently portrayed by cisgender males.  Great kudos though to the actress Laverne Cox for representing the community in positive ways, albeit in a role where she is incarcerated.  In the news transwomen are often criminals, sex workers, or overly sexualized feminine ideals that can pass as "real" women.  Transmen get even less notice, although a few famous guys can be seen on television now and again.  

But it's more than just basic representation, real activists, characters, or even everyday individuals.  I've never seen a transman in an advertisement for male underwear, standing in just their skivvies, scars visible on their chest, or breasts bound, or bodies altered or unaltered by hormone therapies.  And although the fashion industry has been using both transwomen and masculine appearing women to model their lines of high end clothing, those garments are more costume than clothing.  The models are not the product, and the bottom line is money, not representation.  It is almost like a trendy new fad to use transgender people to show how progressive a company is, kind of like using gays, or latinos, or African Americans, or women.

But what about just regular products, like groceries, or furniture, or toiletries?  There haven't been many ads for deodorant where 2 men are sharing their bathroom and getting ready for the day.  Or how about an ad for cereal where 2 moms are getting their kids ready for school?  I don't see my community reflected in the hetero-normative media that I am bombarded with on a daily basis.  I don't see myself in the magazines at the checkout lines.  My experience is different than that of the other 90% of the world around me, simply because my gender identity is different.  And no amount of tokenism will remedy that. 

And that's where the "A" the Allies can aid in the process of transition for those of us in the LGBTQIQ community.  When heterosexual, cisgender, gender conforming people stand in solidarity with us, we may find greater acceptance in the world around us.  It is when our families and friends use the correct terms, pronouns, and names that we feel validated and made real.  It is when companies run by supportive allies choose LGBTQIQ causes to support that real change happens.  It is when allies present and support legal changes for safety, vocation, military service, healthcare, and the basic rights of human dignity and worth, that we become a greater society than we were before.  It is when programs for at-risk-youth who are LGBTQIQ are funded, providing a safety net so that fewer kids commit suicide, that the A for allies becomes an A for acceptance, and an A for achievement.  

I've finally learned that as a transgender/intersex individual it's not my job to make people comfortable with me.  If by knowing me as a person, then that's great, but the truth is that it's my job to help others be comfortable with themselves.  I have changed myself in physical, emotional, and spiritual ways that have created the man you see me as each day.  I choose to share my experiences so that others on their own gender journeys will know that they are not alone.  I have travelled on and will continue to walk a path few ever will.  And by speaking out and speaking up, I am not alone either.  And all I want for others is to know that they are capable of anything, no matter how impossible it may seem, including the ability to change their own worldviews.
I know that I have.

Thank you for being an ally on my journey.

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

-Ari


*A person whose experiences of their own gender matches the sex they were assigned at birth.