Losing Our Words and Losing Our Meanings

Hello My Dear One,

I've found that I'm losing my words. Or, more accurately, I'm losing my ability to communicate with words, out loud, with other people. Oddly, it's not been with my Hebrew or Yiddish words, I use them rarely anyway, or my ASL signs. Neither have I lost my understandings, or lack thereof, of French, Italian, German, Latin, or Mandarin Chinese. No, it's not the "foreign" languages that bother, it's my "native" one, English, that I seem to struggle with.

To say that English is my first language is a partial truth. As someone with learning disabilities that include dyslexia, as well as Asperger's Syndrome, language itself is a construct. My native tongue is a cobbled together, linguistically questionable one called "Arin." It's an unofficially unrecognized dialect of English...probably.

Poetically, I see my language as a Monarch butterfly caught between a windy current and a milkweed leaf, like a moment where magic sometimes happens. Sometimes the ideas, sounds, and scribbles float aimlessly and uncontrollably, and are blown away in the gusts of air that propel them. A sudden aphasia of confusion descends and the meanings are caught in a cycle of knowing and unknowable. Other times, all the thoughts, letters, and words come together in an incredible array of colors, patterns, and visual textures. The message lands softly on the perfect spot, and holds fast creating an image of detailed beauty.

In reality, it's more apt to be like strands of wet spaghetti thrown at a wall. If the pasta sticks, it's done enough to eat. If it slides down into the dust bunnies in the corner, not so much.

When I write, I have the time to think about each word. I have the time to sit and look at each one as it appears on the page. I can pause for minutes, hours, days, weeks, and even months at a time. I can write, delete, rewrite, delete, and rewrite a thousand times more. Each sentence is handcrafted one consonant, vowel, and grammatical convention at a time. There is a natural space between the words, and a cohesiveness to the ideas. And there is a hope, that the words themselves carry with them, of clarity and understanding.

When I speak, however, my language comes in fits and spurts. It's like a "rough draft," that is poured out hastily so that nothing will be forgotten or lost. Therefore, many, many edits will need to be made. And when speaking, that sounds like the speaker has an inherent indecisiveness. Or worse, that they are incompetent about a subject.

Perhaps, some of my communication troubles are linked to my writing. People who know me, have in all likelihood read emails, letters, posts, or text messages from me. I can write a good email, as long as I take my time. Texting goes ok, again with breathing spaces during the conversation. And hopefully, my longer missives are finely crafted communications.

Perhaps, some of my difficulties stem from the rapid nature of communication today. With the constant deluge of information of daily input, we have come to expect an instant response to our inquiries. We await that return text as though our lives depended on it. We cannot stand to sit still in our unknowing, when we can search for answers to billions of questions in a matter of nanoseconds.

In the end though, I know that the majority of my communication problems stem from within. I think and feel in a way that is not neuro-typical. I see and assess my surroundings in ways that take longer and more circuitous routes than those who are wired in non-aspie/non-spectrum ways. The pathways that the neurons take in my brain are in radically different formations than that of someone who is not on the autism spectrum. I reach conclusions that are atypical, a word I first learned in grade 7, when I had to use a thesaurus for a Language Arts (grammar) quiz. Ironically, my teacher marked my response using the word atypical as incorrect because she thought that it was not a word. But I stood my ground, and in what I see as an ironic twist, she left education for waitressing a few years later. Maybe she realized that if the student could be right, the customer was always right.

Regardless, I know that how I say my words will be a challenge for me and for those around me. The meaning may be good, but the terms and the syntax may prevent the listener from hearing the message. Sadly, the older I get the less tolerance I have for those who try to wordsmith what I say as I am saying it. I know full well that I may not have expressed my concerns, hopes, or whatever other thoughts in the best way. But, I am doing the best that I can. I wish that those listeners would wait a breath and hear me before they respond. Maybe we might both be heard more clearly if we paused for a moment.

Just Listen

And maybe, that's what we all really need if we want to be heard. If we don't want to lose our words. If we don't want to lose our meanings. We need to stop and listen. We need to breathe before we spew out a response. We need to wait into the conversation and hear what each other is trying to share.


And when we do that, we will gain more words, more meanings, and more trust in each other's abilities to work together.

Thank you for taking the time to listen to this part of the journey.

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

- Ari

Losing My (Genetic) Identity

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Ari

Legally Crazy; Walking the Tightrope of Mental Illness

Hello My Dear One,

It's funny, how we can pretend that enormous things are little, while we simultaneously create catastrophes out of details that will be forgotten by tomorrow. It's easier to focus on something we think we can control, rather than on a problem that is far beyond our reach. Think about when the grocery store is out of your specific brand of milk, versus climate change or gun violence.

That's the tightrope that we all walk, I think. And for me, visualizing it as a real tightrope helps me understand the issue better. When we imagine ourselves on the cord we only see the tiny sliver of path under our feet and ignore the large safety net below us. We can't even see the crowds in the stands, but we are acutely aware of their presence and the shame we will feel if they witness us fall off.

When one suffers from mental illness, like I do, that rope can seem to shrink to the width of a toothpick, and it feels like I'm wearing clown shoes. To extend the imagery, the tightrope also appears to rise higher and higher off the ground with every step. Before long, the height is dizzying and my anxiety has risen commensurately with the rope. I don't know if this is what it's like for others with mental illnesses, but it's been my experience over the years.

But as much as the mental illness, in my case Bipolar 1, sucks, there are ways to manage it. The largest one for me is the support net[work] of family, friends, religious community, and healthcare providers that I am surrounded by. Were it not for other people who are safely grounded on the floor I would be at risk for a ton of injuries, both psychological as well as physical.

There is another way that I deal with these things so that the fears and emotions don't send me flying. And that is being able to freely express the ins and outs of my illness in written form. Somehow, it makes it more manageable and less terrifying when I can get the words out of my head and into a more coherent form. I can read my thoughts out loud and hear if they make sense or not. I can see more of the picture, more of that balance beam I'm on.

But it's always in the back of my mind, that the disease can take over at any time, and the balancing act begins anew. And perhaps it's the balancing itself that is the issue, not the rope, or the net, or the crowds, or even my clown shoes. Maybe it's the ability to know how and when to lean into or out of a bobble or a potential fall. Maybe it's knowing how to steady yourself with something less instinctive, such as your feet, rather than grabbing out with both hands in a wild panic. Maybe, it's just being present to the situation and waiting for the feelings of fear to pass. Probably, it's a balance of all of those things.

Each day I'm confronted with the task of balancing the needs of my family with the needs of keeping my mental illness in check. Each day I hope that I have done a decent job and that both parties are satisfied with the end results. Each day I strive to be more balanced than I was the day before. But I am learning to forgive myself when I'm not.

The tightrope act.

I'm also learning to forgive others when their words or actions are delivered not with kindness but out of fear or a need for control. I'm learning to see others' panicky grabs for balance as a reflection of their fears instead of my own. I'm learning how to reach out to be a steadying force, rather than a reactive shove in the opposite direction where both of us are now flying off of the tightrope. And I'm learning to see the tightrope at the height it really is, usually no more than a few inches off of the ground, not 50 feet up in the air.

I will probably never master a smooth and steady walk across the tightrope of my life with mental illness. But perhaps, with the right supports and a steady group of people surrounding me, I'll make it to the other side in one piece.

Thank you for walking this tightrope of a journey with me.

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

Ari

Legally Crazy; Transgender Happiness

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ari

Legally Crazy; No Longer by the Water

Hello My Dear One,

I recently went to my old neighborhood to poke around and spend some reflective time on the beach. Yes, my neighborhood was on the beach, and no, it's not as glamorous as you might imagine. Still, the coastline of Maine is immeasurably breathtaking and I will always find a special connection to G-d when I am there.

That said, I had a different experience this time, as I realized that 20 years have passed since I've had a physical address there. It was no longer my home. And the changes that I saw had little to do with the buildings, stores, or license plates, but rather with the eyes that were looking at them.

I am no longer a young child experiencing the wonders and freedoms of a largely untouched stretch of rocks, sand, sea glass, shells, driftwood, and beach roses. I am not standing in the surf, delighted by the salty rush of water across my toes. Nor am I repulsed and frightened by the seaweed that wrapped around my ankles.

I am no longer an elementary schooler riding my bike around and around, passing the roaring waves as I sped alongside the cement retaining walls. I no longer plunge my feet into the cold wet sand or scramble across the giant rocks covered in oceanic detritus, daring to get as close to the sea as possible.

I am no longer a young teen about to start high school and witnessing the beginning of the end of my family. I have now seen my father and his mistress on my sacred space of beach, and how I will always know that betrayal. That breaking of my trust, and that breaking of my physical safety net.

I am no longer a troubled older teen, seeing the world through the beginnings of Bipolar 1, filled with uncontrollable emotions, rushing in the middle of the night to sit on the sand in the dark and cry. I do not walk along the concrete walls, curious what would happen if I fell. Or if I were to simply walk out into the unforgiving ocean and its undertow, if I would become one with the sea itself.

I am no longer a young adult, waiting for a future, somewhere, when I can be myself without fear of who that is.

I am no longer a 23 year old lesbian setting off on an adventure of marriage, an apartment, a budget, college courses, jobs, and a new life in a brand new town. 

I am no longer in my 20's still going home to see family and friends.

I am no longer by the water everyday. I am somewhere else and I am someone else as well.

I am a 43 year old transman, happy in my heterosexual orientation. I am still married to the same wonderful woman, but we will be celebrating our 20th wedding anniversary soon. We are living in the 3rd house we've owned, with our 2 sons, a dog, 2 cats, a budget, jobs, and a comfortable life that is fulfilling in most ways. We are part of a faith family that has and continues to support us, and that is integral to our children's development in all aspects of their lives.

I am a man in all my daily experiences, no longer a hurting being that wanted to die rather than live as who I was.

I am made up of all those past selves, but the sum of who I am now is decidedly greater than the sum of those parts.

The ocean is still the easiest place for me to find G-d. The infinite horizon, the infinite sea, the infinite mystery that is unknowable until we move toward it, only to have the horizon continue on ahead. And I will always return to the water to feel that sacredness and holiness.

But I will go as the man I am, the one I dreamt of being, the husband, father, writer, speaker, teacher, and man of G-d.

I am no longer by the water, but I am still in the presence of G-d.

Thank you for sifting through the sand with me on this part of the journey.

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

Ari

View through different eyes.

Legally Crazy; Why I Never Got Ordained

Hello My Dear One,

I have severe mental illness. I know you know that, but sometimes seeing it in black and white makes it less abstract.

I was asked recently which of my mental illness diagnoses (I have more than five) was the one that bothered/affected me the most, and without hesitation I replied "Bipolar 1 Disorder." The person was almost surprised, but I explained that it takes the biggest toll on my psyche. It's unpredictable. It's scary. It takes inordinate amounts of time and effort to keep it under control.

It's the reason, besides being half Jewish, that I never pursued any form of ordained Christian
ministry. I knew that the diagnosis would prevent me from passing the psychological fitness exam. But more importantly, I knew that the disease itself would prevent me from being a stable and safe leader. It's always seemed to me that training doesn't guarantee a profession. And further, my training in seminary was more about my transition as a transgender individual than about the spiritual care of others.

To me, the truest mark of why I didn't go for it was that I didn't take the four final classes. I never took Pastoral Care, Introduction to Worship, Church Field Placement, or Clinical Chaplaincy Placement. Those are the "where the rubber meets the road" courses and I put them off until it was too late to do anything about them. For years I blamed my advisor for doubting my call to ministry and her having me take theological/academic courses instead of pastoral leadership ones in the first years of seminary. But perhaps she saw in me something that I didn't see back then. She knew my mental health history, and she never came to terms with my gender identity and transition, but I don't think that was her only reasoning.

In looking back I think she must have seen the academic in me. The lecturer. The professorial dreams. The desire to learn and synthesize vast amounts of information, knowledge, facts, and theories rather than administrative or daily pastoral care. She herself was an academic nun, and hadn't felt the call to ministering to individuals in a pastoral way. Rather, she taught students for decades about the history and enormous value of Torah, or for her, the Old Testament. Even her History of the Bible course had only one class out of fifteen on the Christian Scriptures. She had a passion for the prophet(s) Isaiah and the writings, that was unparalleled in any of the other professors I had. She also had a thing for photocopied handouts, but that was a separate issue.

Now that I'm more than ten years away from that part of my journey, I can look back with a completely different lens. I used to blame her for so many of my struggles, but in retrospect I understand that ordination was never my path, and those struggles were what propelled me to be the theologian that I am. Though I do not get paid in money for my work or expertise, I do receive "G-d" pay for using my gifts of theological studies.

So, after a sermon I gave recently, I was able to name the fact that I am not a pastor, but I am a preacher. I am one who studies the inner depths of scripture and reports back the message that I feel called to share with others. Most of the time, I do this with young children in a religious education setting. But occasionally I get those opportunities to preach to adults and it is always a wonderful time in my spiritual life.


But none of that means that I wish to be ordained.

No, my love is for the studying itself, and the passing on of the understandings that I've gleaned. My heart is in the individual letters of the texts, right down to the vowel pointing in the original Hebrew writings. I gain my greatest fulfillment in parsing out the hidden ideas and ideals in ancient phrases passed down through an oral tradition and then captured in the markings that can relate them to those who will never hear the tales. I adore the process of entering into a narrative and searching throughout it, attempting to find a way that leads to something greater than just the text itself. That is a gift I wholly enjoy.

Preacher man.

So, I know that I want to keep going with what I do. I want to share my deep and profound love of finding truth and meaning in texts that are thousands of years old. I want to share the history, the words, the images, and the ideas that recount the faith of generations upon generations. And I need to communicate these things in all that I do. I need to commit to my passion. And I need to be present to my call in this direction.

Thank you for being present with me on this part of the journey.

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

- Ari

Legally Crazy; Medications and a Carrie Fisher Quote

Hello My Dear One,

Well, we've made it through the Chanukah and Christmas holidays, and it's almost a new year on the Western calendar. I never had a real meltdown, so that was nice, and I didn't curl up in the fetal position too many times, also nice. But I did suffer from the increased dosage of the medication I added in several months ago. Three months and three milligrams into it and I've successively gotten sleepier and more fatigued with each passing day. I've had a few "good" days here and there filled with energy and positive feelings, but mostly I've been flat. I haven't been depressed per se, or even remotely suicidal, just weighted down by the heaviness of medication.

Now, I don't want you to think that I've gone and changed things without consulting with my provider first, because I did consult with the appropriate people. I have chosen to switch when I take a medication from morning to night in an attempt to use the sleepiness to my advantage. You see, after about 10 to 12 hours of having taken the med I begin to feel happy, relaxed, and ready to get on with my day. Unfortunately, this is usually around 8:00 pm (20:00 hours) and that's not particularly conducive to my life. If I worked a late shift I suppose this would be okay, but since I don't it really doesn't help. And as an insulin dependent diabetic, sleeping all day and night doesn't really help my overall health either.

So, onto the experiment, and a hope for a little more energy during the day. I've skipped my AM dose today in order to try this, yes, it's the first day and I don't know what will happen, but I'll let you know in a week. But I wanted to share this more because I want to be proactive about what's going on in my life. I want to let you know that meds help, but they have side effects that can leave you wondering if the previous instability was better than the current stability. Which is exactly why people with Bipolar Disorder go off their meds. Either we feel better because of them and question why we need them in the first place or we feel rotten on them, read normal, and stop taking the chemical help we've been receiving. It's a perpetual loop of positive and negative feedback where it's almost impossible to know the truth. Sometimes it's best to look to family, friends, and other loved ones for perspective, and to trust them that they can see who we are even when we're not ourselves. So that they can see who I am even when I am not myself.

There is a marvelous quote from the late and amazing Carrie Fisher:
     ”One of the things that baffles me (and there are quite a few) is how there can be so much lingering stigma with regards to mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder. In my opinion, living with manic depression takes a tremendous amount of balls. ... At times, being bipolar can be an all-consuming challenge, requiring a lot of stamina and even more courage, so if you’re living with this illness and functioning at all, it’s something to be proud of, not ashamed of.” 

I miss her. I miss her because she was a voice for those of us with this fatal disease. Yes, Bipolar Disorder is fatal, but we can manage it for as long as possible with support from those around us and from those who are willing to speak out about it. 

We can live with it, medicate it, use therapy on it, use acupuncture, other healing options, and talk to it with our own voices even when it feels ridiculous to do so. We can live even as we are dying, and that takes a lot of courage and stamina. 

Thank you for bringing perspective on this journey.

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

Ari

Legally Crazy; Transgender Thankfulness

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Most people think an octopus has 8 legs.

Actually, they have 6 legs and 2 arms. 

How can you tell which are the arms?

Hit it on the head. 

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

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

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

- Ari  

Legally Crazy; My First Transgender Suicide Attempt

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

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

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

But how did I get to this point?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A spoonful of poison...

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

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

Thank you for living alongside me on this journey.

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

-Ari

Legally Crazy; Transgender in the Psych Ward, Disclosure

Hello My Dearest,

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

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

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

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

It means simultaneous existences in 2 disparate worlds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for being on my journey of disclosure.

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

-Ari

Legally Crazy, Transgender in a Psych Ward part 2

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old school technology.

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

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

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

- Ari

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

Hello My Dear One,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More muted than before, but just as beautiful.

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

Thank you for being on this colorful journey with me.

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

Ari

Legally Crazy, 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