Legally Crazy, Lies and Adopting the Truth

Hello My Dear One,

It's been a few weeks since I last wrote to you, and I have struggled greatly with an essay on lying that I've been working on. It is never easy to look at one's own flaws, particularly under a very brightly lit microscope. It's not fun.

As it turns out, I excel at lies of omission. For example, as a youth, I was in the Scouts, which is true. Anyone who meets me would assume that I meant the Boy Scouts. And to keep my life simple, I wouldn't clarify that thought, because in actuality I was in the Girl Scouts well into high school.   

Despite sharing so much about myself to large groups of people, I still withhold some of the inner demons that plague my head and heart. It's convenient not to display my constant battle with the Beast of Mental Illness, the anomalies of my anatomy, my complete and total reliance on insulin, or the thirty years I spent presenting myself as the incorrect [for me] gender.

I don't like telling all of the truths. I don't want to share the parts of myself that could condemn me. I don't want to be judged for being different, especially in so many ways. I want to believe that the outside image I present to the world is real. I don't want the truths to cause me harm. And that one word, me, is the problem.

Sometimes, when we least expect it, truths cause pain in highly unexpected ways. For example, the other day I took one of my children to a medical appointment as his father, which is true. But, just like the scouts, clarification or quantification of that statement can be made. You see, on paper, I am my children's stepfather.

The receptionist at the hospital where the provider's office was housed (hospital dietician) was completing the intake registration which included correcting addresses, phone numbers, and employment for me and my wife. As we finished the process, I was expecting to sign the consent form, but that train came to a screeching halt. The woman spoke those dreadful words "I mean this with no disrespect..." and went on about how she needed to contact my wife since I was technically my child's "stepfather." She then called my wife, got permission, and handed over the paperwork.

Did I mention that said child was standing behind me? And did I mention that we don't really discuss this fact in our family?

But I am his stepfather, and that moniker, that name, is a direct result of my multiple lies, some by omission, others not so much. Because I omitted my male identity during my wife's and my courtship and early marriage, I remained female to the world.  When our first child was born, the birth certificate allowed for a mother and a father. Since I was not the biological parent and not male, I was not included. And, when my sex was reassigned/affirmed my wife of almost 8 years and I legally married, consequently making me my children's stepfather. After that, when people ask if I'm their father, the obvious answer is "Yes," and the omissions begin again.

Now, 11 years later, I never consider myself to be their stepfather. I am their dad, no more, no less. But according to the law I am not. And therein lives the greatest lie of all. It's the lie I've told everyone, including myself, that it doesn't matter that I'm not on their birth certificates.

But it does matter. It matters a lot more than I realized. And it mattered most last week when I had a momentary panic attack as I wondered what my teenager was thinking as he heard his father referred to as his stepfather. It was strangely earth shattering for me, though I'm not sure what it meant to him. We've both chosen to omit what we thought about it to each other. It's a bad family trait.

So, what now? Just a few months ago, the answer would've been nothing at all. But, by admitting that I was sick, that the Beast was clawing at me from the inside again, that I needed a new med, I took the initiative to tell the truth. I didn't wait for someone to ask me how I was doing this time. Instead, I came out of my own shadow, out of my Beast's shadow and shared my need for help.

And that is the plan for the next step of our life as a family. I will ask for legal help, put my pride on hold, and adopt my children. It feels funny when the kids are a tween and a teenager, but maybe this timing is important after all. I want them to know that I have chosen to be their father through and through. And that it wasn't just a formality of updating a document, but a conscious and loving choice.

What I really look like.

And maybe we all need that right now, as they change and grow into young adults, and their mother and I change and grow into being the parents of teenagers. None of us seems to be enjoying it that much, but letting them know that they are so supremely wanted can't hurt any of us.

Thank you for continuing to choose to listen to my truths on this part of the journey.

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

-Ari

 

Legally Crazy, Summer Vacation

Hello My Dear One,

I've spent most of this summer remodeling an old house, my old house, and learning skills along the way. I can paint rooms and ceilings like a pro. I can remove the stench of human urine with baking soda and vinegar. I even have a general sense of what tools are used for what jobs. It's not been an easy process, but I've gained an amazing friend, become a "funcle" to a 14 year old young lady, and had to face down some ancient demons.

I did some other things this summer, like taking 2 education courses toward Secondary English Language and Literature certification, leaving me with 2 exams and student teaching to have that. I also worked at a local fireworks store, pulling a 70 hour week prior to and during Independence Day. I loved every minute of it, and I wish the season for such things wasn't so short here in the north woods of Maine. I applied for a few teaching positions, and a couple of other jobs with non-profit organizations. I didn't receive any offers, but it was nice to get a few interviews nonetheless.

And, I quit my regular job, working as an Ed Tech III in Special Education Services with elementary students. At 42, I felt too old to be making the same amount of money getting kicked and spit on by 2nd and 3rd graders, as I was stocking shelves with colorful explosives. It was not an easy decision to make, and I miss the creativity and joyousness of the children. But I do not miss the politics, the "role" itself of being an Ed Tech, or feeling less than as a person because I wasn't a real teacher. As in all of life, there are levels that determine your social value, in and out of your job. In American public education it's like a caste system, only with fewer financial benefits. As an Ed Tech I wasn't an "untouchable," but some days I sure felt that way. And when much of your community believes that you have an easy job that you are overpaid for, well, it became too much for me to handle.

And, here's what happened at the end of my summer vacation. As I said to the nurse and the psychiatric nurse practitioner, "I haven't gone off the rails, but I am definitely on the wrong train, and I'm not really sure how I got on board."

The medications that control my Bipolar 1 Disorder , 5 years after my first inpatient hospitalization, have started to lose their efficacy. The meds work, but not enough, and I need more to be stable. Luckily, I recognized this before I ended up in the hospital, but it's been a struggle. I don't like being sick, or ill, or mental, or crazy, or nuts, or deranged, or whatever. I hate the feeling of being out of control and knowing it. And this time I did something about it before it was too late.

So, I've added a new medication to the regimen, I'm checking in with the appropriate people on a regular basis, and I'm napping to make sure I get enough rest. Since I know the medication's primary use is for schizophrenia, which I don't have, I worry about the inherent loss of creativity that comes with these drugs. It's really more about the motivation, the physical ability to get out of my own way that's the issue. But being able to see outside the medicated parameters will take work as well. And of course, it's vital that I can see the possibilities, without getting on another railway car to somewhere I don't want to go.

Summer sunshine.

At the end of the day, I am a different version of myself, but one that I hope can work within a world that requires a certain level of sanity to function. If not, just put me on an eastbound train, and I'll make my way back home. Who knows what next summer vacation will bring.

Thank you for being on this section of the track on my journey.

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

Ari  

Legally Crazy, in Transgender Sickness and Health

Hello My Dear One,
     Nearly 19 years ago, at our wedding, my wife and I recited vows we had written that reflected our youthful beliefs about our future. We were after all, "baby dykes," lesbians in our very early 20's, with idealistic gay pride dreams and plans for an "Out Loud and Proud," kind of life. Well, as out loud and proud as one can get in a rural college town in the northern woods of Maine.
     So, the timeless "in sickness and in health," phrase wasn't necessarily a direct quote in our marital pledges to each other. It was certainly implied, but not explicitly stated, and sometimes I wonder if that was an intentional oversight on my part, or just wishful thinking on her part. Maybe, at 23 we knew that we were invincible, and no disease was going to strike down two young, healthy, and attractive kids just starting their lives together.
     Of course, our reality has been nearly nineteen years of a partner (me) who has battled bacterial infections, dislocated joints, broken bones, viral attacks, Legionnaire's Disease, cancer, insulin dependent diabetes, Late Onset Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia, Bipolar 1 Disorder, and Gender Identity Disorder. And really, that's only a partial list. I've had at least a dozen surgeries, every test under the sun, treatments, therapies, medications, hospitalizations, and that infamous week in the psych ward. Currently, I am recovering from the flu. Sickness. A damn lot of sickness has been handed to my wife on the less than a silver platter of her spouse. Somehow, she manages, or exceeds at making it all work out, and I have absolutely no idea how she does it.
      But back to our wedding, to that rainbow pride flag filled day, with guests, and cake, and the promise of a fresh, new, and amazing start. Back to that moment when I saw the most beautiful woman in the entire world, floating down the aisle in pristine white and smiling at me with tears in her eyes. Eighty people disappeared from my sight as we met in the middle of our beginning. Time was standing still, and I remember little else from that afternoon, save the glitter that came exploding out of the air vents in my car as we drove away. Those responsible for this know who they are.
     What I am certain of, was my new wife hardly expected 14 years later she would be dealing with a female to male transgender husband who had been admitted to a psychiatric facility.
      Inpatient hospitalization happened that day for rapid cycling of extreme mania and immobilizing depression, withdrawal from FDA approved methamphetamine [medically prescribed stimulants for ADD], the refusal to take medications for Bipolar Disorder 1, and suicidal ideation and suicidality. There had been an attempt that morning as I drove myself to the crisis center, choosing at the last possible second not to plow into the telephone pole on my right. Only G-d could have been with me then, because I certainly wasn't.
     After the crisis center came the Emergency Department, then an ambulance ride, an elevator, and my delivery to the inpatient mental illness floor of the Catholic hospital an hour away. I was in a self-imposed and unsupervised detox, having mood swings of messianic proportions, and painfully suicidal. There was a team to keep me from falling apart. There were safety nets everywhere. And of course, there were bars on the windows.
      But what about my wife? Where was she in this chaos? Where were our children? And what could that woman possibly have been thinking? What was this sickness doing in her life?
     I don't have the answers about her emotional state, though I can guess, but what I do have are the memories of her presence each and every step of the way. I remember how she placed herself between my Beast and our boys. And how before I even arrived at the crisis center, she had reached out to family and friends to ensure that our children were safe, cared for, and loved. She was present for them as she reminded them their father still loved them, but he was sick. She was present when she told them that even though he'd stopped acting like the loving daddy they once knew, he was still there, somewhere. She protected them from the sickness, and from the Beast that was tearing his way through that man.
     And then, she was there at the crisis center, and then the ER. And when my Beast could no longer be contained she returned to our children, having faith that I would get the help that I needed. She was there at the psych ward, once even bringing those precious boys to visit the crazy man who had barely begun to accept the sickness and the Beast that were attempting to drag him into oblivion. A Beast and a sickness that were clawing at him from a hell that even he hadn't imagined, despite decades of mental illness.
      She was always present. Her love, support, and devotion were there every second that I was there, even though I couldn't recognize it at the time. The Beast tried to tell me otherwise, but pathological lying is a hallmark of that guy. And I know the Beast was wrong, because, almost five years later my wife is still present, still caring for, still worrying about, and still loving our sons, and me.
     And I believe that her ability to be present is a demonstration of love in action, the love that she has always known from and through her relationship with G-d. It is her faith that has been enough for both of us, has been enough for our family. It is her remarkably healthy faith that continues to combat and overcome the sickness in me and in our world, familial and otherwise. You should see her teach Sunday School sometime. So, the sickness and the health will always be present in our marriage, as will the faith that started with a hopelessly romantic fantasy, saw the births of two remarkable children, continued through years of immeasurable changes, and still persists in spite of all the reasons for it not to. And our family is blessed by a G-d who chooses to continue showing love through all of G-d's Beloved Children. 
      Thank you for living into the love in action along this journey.
Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.

- Ari

Blessed by Love in Action

Legally Crazy, Transgender in a Psych Ward

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The author in blue.

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

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

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

- Ari

Walking in Darkness

My Dear One,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tolerance is not acceptance. 

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

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

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

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

Soon enough it will be time for the light.

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

We need this darkness. 

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

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

-Ari

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