So, apparently I have been detected... in France... cool!
So whoever is reading me, please comment, tell me a little bit about yourself! What kept you interested to read multiple posts? Comments, suggestions, constructive criticism? Empathy? Advice? Let me know!
Monday, October 29, 2012
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Eastern Medicine
Again I find myself with a spare moment. I'm in an Albertson's in Malibu, taking advantage of the free wifi, and some poor 19 year old sot is sitting here eating his lunch. What are you making of your life, young sir.
I'm happy with Xero. He is a good man. And so I have to wonder my organs are just not participating in the process lately. What did I do to mess them up? My brain is very attracted to him but my body is not with the program. If I didn't want to have sex with him, I would think that all parts of my brain would be on the same page about that. That's why I'm so confused that the spirit is on fire but the flesh is dry and flaccid.
I made him give me a massage. There is nothing quite so intimate as a partner who knows, to some extent, what they're doing, rearranging your muscles and healing you in a way that Western medicine just doesn't seem to appreciate. I had a long conversation with a woman studying Oriental medicine, as she calls it, but what others call Eastern medicine, and I have to say, in my mind there is some merit to it. She presented me with a theory that I think makes a lot of sense. Western medicine evolved from battlefield medicine. Repairing bodies and covering up ailments as quickly as possible to get a soldier back on the field. Dealing with an infected limb by hacking it off. And even though our knowledge of the body and pharmaceuticals has progressed drastically, there is still this philosophy of make it functional and get it done fast. Which isn't really healing. I may have a skewed perspective of Eastern medicine, but it seems that the emphasis is much more aimed at helping the body heal itself, about taking the time required, that time spent off one's feet is not such a terrible loss. Its just the way we live our lives, have lived our lives for many generations, this frantic rush to accomplish, not that anything particularly bad will happen if we don't, and yet that ifs the prevailing disposition. At this point, I suspect its genetic. White people. Something about growing up where its really fucking cold and having to get all the food in before the rains come to be able to survive 6 months of toe numbing cold. Only the desperately frantic, even without any clear conception of the consequences, survived. And so that is how we perform medicine, not just as doctors but as patients. Both are party to the intense need to get the patient back in operational order as quickly as possible. Minimize lost man hours. But when you're capable of slowing down, of working with your body as opposed to on it, or at it, then I think that is much closer to what we can clearly conceptualize as therapeutic.
And if we take this in context of the knowledge that the immune system is suppressed in response to stress, its no fucking wonder that we stay so sick and the healing process hurts. We always describe it as battle. Why not as growth? Its a very extreme paradigm shift but one that I believe is possible. We as a culture have embraced exercise as such, even though it is in a very real way damaging our bodies and can be a painful process. But we focus on the results, and thus can enjoy the process. Why not sickness? Why not go through that pain with calm and joy, secure in the knowledge that if biology is allowed to take its course, you will come out the other side stronger? Will to live seems to have more to do with survival rates than the medicine that we throw at a sickness. If this will to live were allowed to combine synergistically with a therapeutic calm, then I think it could be much more effective.
But these are just the thoughts of someone with no truly relevant training. Yet every day I become more and more convinced that getting training as a massage therapist would be a good thing in my life, because it is a good thing in others' lives that they just don't get often enough.
I want to see Tai Chi taught in inner city schools. The western conceptualization of physical education isn't doing anyone any good. Run around in circles, do sit-ups on hard surfaces. Training that is so painful and denegrating that these kids never perform the exercises except when they are forced to. That is not conducive to health. Not even a little bit.
I'm really the royalist hypocrite of all hypocrites. Look at me, having all these deep thoughts, while doing diddly about them and enjoying my wealth. What have actually ever done for anyone who really needed it? When have a sheltered the homeless, fed the starving? No, I give so little of myself, in any real sense. History will not remember me, not as I am now. Perhaps I'm waiting for the opportunity to show my colors. The new world order requires so much training to be of any legitimate use to anyone, that the beginning of any advanced endeavor has been pushed back by nearly a decade, for my profession. But perhaps I have internalized this artificial system, this lie, allowed it to be my excuse for not putting more of myself out into the world. Yes, its ridiculously expensive to fly out to third world countries for two weeks at a time, and so I try to do what I can, here, but even that isn't much. But the people I'm being given the opportunity to help, they don't need nearly as much help as I am willing and able to give. I am capable of so much and I am stagnant, and I am angry about this.
I wonder if massage therapy would be a viable therapy for kids with Asberger's, situational depression, etc. Human touch is very real and very important, and so often very, very neglected. Its probably something that would never, ever be allowed through public schools, but you never know what can be accomplished by the private sector. Its probably something that would be more appreciated at the middle and high school levels, although there is viability at the younger ages. I really don't know enough about it. I will have to ask a social worker for an opininon.
I'm happy with Xero. He is a good man. And so I have to wonder my organs are just not participating in the process lately. What did I do to mess them up? My brain is very attracted to him but my body is not with the program. If I didn't want to have sex with him, I would think that all parts of my brain would be on the same page about that. That's why I'm so confused that the spirit is on fire but the flesh is dry and flaccid.
I made him give me a massage. There is nothing quite so intimate as a partner who knows, to some extent, what they're doing, rearranging your muscles and healing you in a way that Western medicine just doesn't seem to appreciate. I had a long conversation with a woman studying Oriental medicine, as she calls it, but what others call Eastern medicine, and I have to say, in my mind there is some merit to it. She presented me with a theory that I think makes a lot of sense. Western medicine evolved from battlefield medicine. Repairing bodies and covering up ailments as quickly as possible to get a soldier back on the field. Dealing with an infected limb by hacking it off. And even though our knowledge of the body and pharmaceuticals has progressed drastically, there is still this philosophy of make it functional and get it done fast. Which isn't really healing. I may have a skewed perspective of Eastern medicine, but it seems that the emphasis is much more aimed at helping the body heal itself, about taking the time required, that time spent off one's feet is not such a terrible loss. Its just the way we live our lives, have lived our lives for many generations, this frantic rush to accomplish, not that anything particularly bad will happen if we don't, and yet that ifs the prevailing disposition. At this point, I suspect its genetic. White people. Something about growing up where its really fucking cold and having to get all the food in before the rains come to be able to survive 6 months of toe numbing cold. Only the desperately frantic, even without any clear conception of the consequences, survived. And so that is how we perform medicine, not just as doctors but as patients. Both are party to the intense need to get the patient back in operational order as quickly as possible. Minimize lost man hours. But when you're capable of slowing down, of working with your body as opposed to on it, or at it, then I think that is much closer to what we can clearly conceptualize as therapeutic.
And if we take this in context of the knowledge that the immune system is suppressed in response to stress, its no fucking wonder that we stay so sick and the healing process hurts. We always describe it as battle. Why not as growth? Its a very extreme paradigm shift but one that I believe is possible. We as a culture have embraced exercise as such, even though it is in a very real way damaging our bodies and can be a painful process. But we focus on the results, and thus can enjoy the process. Why not sickness? Why not go through that pain with calm and joy, secure in the knowledge that if biology is allowed to take its course, you will come out the other side stronger? Will to live seems to have more to do with survival rates than the medicine that we throw at a sickness. If this will to live were allowed to combine synergistically with a therapeutic calm, then I think it could be much more effective.
But these are just the thoughts of someone with no truly relevant training. Yet every day I become more and more convinced that getting training as a massage therapist would be a good thing in my life, because it is a good thing in others' lives that they just don't get often enough.
I want to see Tai Chi taught in inner city schools. The western conceptualization of physical education isn't doing anyone any good. Run around in circles, do sit-ups on hard surfaces. Training that is so painful and denegrating that these kids never perform the exercises except when they are forced to. That is not conducive to health. Not even a little bit.
I'm really the royalist hypocrite of all hypocrites. Look at me, having all these deep thoughts, while doing diddly about them and enjoying my wealth. What have actually ever done for anyone who really needed it? When have a sheltered the homeless, fed the starving? No, I give so little of myself, in any real sense. History will not remember me, not as I am now. Perhaps I'm waiting for the opportunity to show my colors. The new world order requires so much training to be of any legitimate use to anyone, that the beginning of any advanced endeavor has been pushed back by nearly a decade, for my profession. But perhaps I have internalized this artificial system, this lie, allowed it to be my excuse for not putting more of myself out into the world. Yes, its ridiculously expensive to fly out to third world countries for two weeks at a time, and so I try to do what I can, here, but even that isn't much. But the people I'm being given the opportunity to help, they don't need nearly as much help as I am willing and able to give. I am capable of so much and I am stagnant, and I am angry about this.
I wonder if massage therapy would be a viable therapy for kids with Asberger's, situational depression, etc. Human touch is very real and very important, and so often very, very neglected. Its probably something that would never, ever be allowed through public schools, but you never know what can be accomplished by the private sector. Its probably something that would be more appreciated at the middle and high school levels, although there is viability at the younger ages. I really don't know enough about it. I will have to ask a social worker for an opininon.
Brittle musings
So, I've been meaning to blog, and I happen to find myself with a few spare moments of being disconnected from any other distractions. So, despite being disconnected from the internet, a very unusual circumstance in my everyday life, I nonetheless have access to a word processor, and so, I type.
I have been dating this guy for... see now I'm actually doing the math. Almost exactly three weeks. And I don't know if by this time I had already given up on the marine biologist... I had this distinct feeling the first time I met Mr Mar-Bio that it was not meant to be. And even though I've only been dating this man for a short period, I have a very good feeling about this one. Not that that will actually mean anything in the prediction of the future, but its a nice feeling to have.
I was reading the book I checked out from the philosophy library (two weeks ago) today, and I'm glad I did. I knew why I checked out that book and it seems to be having the intended effect. Sex: A Philosophical Primer is some guy's 100 page summary of "if someone were going to make a philosophical study of sex, these are some things they should probably look at." I'm reading it in order to get a handle on my own feelings, to take control without strangling myself. To allow for the pleasant to occur without being led on into a painful recourse. I guess my real goal is to avoid becoming so attached that I get very hurt, but not be so distant if the connection really is good for me. So far, my instincts are leaning in the direction of "let go, have faith," but, I want to say I know better. In truth I know very little, but my experiences do not lend themselves to closing my eyes and falling backwards.
Although, I have to be honest. I, to my knowledge, have never been betrayed, not in any explicit sense. I have been emotionally manipulated within an inch of my being, at least it felt that way at the time, but if I were to be honest with myself, I have done all of the betraying in my romantic relationships. Not in all of them, but I know what I did, and I am sorry, not out of any romantic regret but simple human to human respect.
It's getting cold out here. Where is my boy? Light of my life, I await you. You'll already know that I'm here because my motorcycle is parked at your curb. Nonetheless I await you.
For the past many weeks I have had a secret hope that he would find my blog. I want him to know me, to know the things that I will not say, at least, would not vocally describe in such emotional detail, but I don't want to know that he knows. I have a crippling self-awareness, and so would be ever second-guessing what he thought about me in light of these facts, these musings, but nonetheless I do want him to understand me, as an emotional being. I do not flatter myself that my life has been so hard as to merit the poetic attention I give it, but, the pain is real to me, and if someone is to be intimately integrated into my life, they must be aware of that. Xero, I don't deserve the attention I seek, and it takes a lot of empowerment and selfishness for me to say that I want it anyway. I listen to you. I sit quietly, and you will just keep talking. You wear your heart on your sleeve. But I play close to the chest. This is how I communicate. I've gotten to good at keeping my mouth closed, and in truth, it is still important for me to maintain that state of discipline around many people. To break that habit for you, and to keep it up around others, is too hard. There's a term for it in cognitive neuroscience I'm sure, and if not it is definitely a well-described phenomenon. And besides, I will flatter myself on this, I am a good writer. Whatever it is, an intimate understanding of how others understand language, and ability to articulate abstract thoughts in ways that others can absorb, I have it. Usually, anyway. Some topics are harder than others. I'm just going to use that as my gett out of bluff free card.
Where are you, my sweet?! Your bane is here! To suck your life, to steal your soul, to poison the well of your well-being with concern for a person who will take and take and take and give until I die.
I am far too serious about this relationship. It is a little scary. I think mostly I'm scared of others finding out how serious I feel. Love at first sight is something you only get away with in fiction. Out here people look at you with a lot of... what is it? Suspicion? Worry? Doubt? Criticism. Disdain.
So many things to write about but they've all fled me now. Its getting very cold, of course by southern coastal standards which really isn't cold at all but my skin is prickling so stfu.
I have so much to do and I'm not doing any of it. I'm following my emotional self, to the death of objective, accomplishing self. But I'm growing, and with that I am attempting to find balance in my life. Of course what I really want to do is devote myself heart and soul and mind and body to my philanthropic cause, but the unfortunate fact is, I am human. If I ignore my other needs, love, friendship, comfort, intellectual stimulation outside the narrow range of my specific goals, then my accomplishment in that one direction will stagnate anyway. At least this is what I like to tell myself. If I cater to my human needs, then overall I will actually do better in my life's work than if I shunned them completely. This is my attempt to justify watching television and relentlessly (if a little shamefully) pursuing a gratifying sexual and romantic relationship. I will take care of him, and he will take care of me.
There is something that you can trust about senseless love. The way that oxytocin binds you into another person's mind. No matter how stupid, how sacrificial, how bizarre and inadvantageous to self an action might be, they will do it for you. If you are truly bound into a person's mind like that, you know that even when it is in their best interest, they will never hurt you. It's a trust beyond all other trust because you know that this devotion is beyond reason, self-serving motives, or sense. That even if this person went mad, they would tear down the house and destroy everything in their path and somehow, somehow, cut a circle around you, an island of peace and protection. In the rage of their mind you are suspended in a bubble, clear and beautiful and perfect, and you are the reason they live and die. Because that's what oxytocin does. And if you're lucky, your Bruce Banner won't have to turn into the Incredible Hulk to prove it to you.
And that's the thing. How do you know? How can you be sure that you are so securely bound into someone's mind like that, short of being the one person spared in their destructive rampage? By the way, this is not to say that love turns all people into rage-monsters. This is just an extreme and colorful example of what oxytocin is capable of.
I guess my question is, Xero, how will you know the extent to which I am devoted to you? People lie. And you don't want to think that I am lying but you've been lied to by people who said that they loved you, and so the thought is in your mind. I understand. And yes, I don't want to mislead you, I do have my doubts. Which is probably the only normal/acceptable emotion I'm having for a week 3 relationship. Would I move in with you? I don't know. Would I cosign a lease with you? At this point, probably not. Would I have your baby? Oh my god too much to think about. See, my friends would be proud. But this is all besides the point. I do feel very strongly for you. The fact that these questions don't already have answers is kind of a big deal.
Okay it is now 1:10 AM. I want to keep waiting for you, but... jeez man. This is getting a little ridiculous. Borrow someone's phone. Text me. Tell me wtf is going on. Conceptualize that I may not have checked my email and may just be sitting here at your front porch, being an idiot... Because, and I'm pretty sure this is true of other people too, I'm an idiot when I'm in love and there's the opportunity for emotional wholeness at the other end. I charge ahead reckless and foolish.
I have been dating this guy for... see now I'm actually doing the math. Almost exactly three weeks. And I don't know if by this time I had already given up on the marine biologist... I had this distinct feeling the first time I met Mr Mar-Bio that it was not meant to be. And even though I've only been dating this man for a short period, I have a very good feeling about this one. Not that that will actually mean anything in the prediction of the future, but its a nice feeling to have.
I was reading the book I checked out from the philosophy library (two weeks ago) today, and I'm glad I did. I knew why I checked out that book and it seems to be having the intended effect. Sex: A Philosophical Primer is some guy's 100 page summary of "if someone were going to make a philosophical study of sex, these are some things they should probably look at." I'm reading it in order to get a handle on my own feelings, to take control without strangling myself. To allow for the pleasant to occur without being led on into a painful recourse. I guess my real goal is to avoid becoming so attached that I get very hurt, but not be so distant if the connection really is good for me. So far, my instincts are leaning in the direction of "let go, have faith," but, I want to say I know better. In truth I know very little, but my experiences do not lend themselves to closing my eyes and falling backwards.
Although, I have to be honest. I, to my knowledge, have never been betrayed, not in any explicit sense. I have been emotionally manipulated within an inch of my being, at least it felt that way at the time, but if I were to be honest with myself, I have done all of the betraying in my romantic relationships. Not in all of them, but I know what I did, and I am sorry, not out of any romantic regret but simple human to human respect.
It's getting cold out here. Where is my boy? Light of my life, I await you. You'll already know that I'm here because my motorcycle is parked at your curb. Nonetheless I await you.
For the past many weeks I have had a secret hope that he would find my blog. I want him to know me, to know the things that I will not say, at least, would not vocally describe in such emotional detail, but I don't want to know that he knows. I have a crippling self-awareness, and so would be ever second-guessing what he thought about me in light of these facts, these musings, but nonetheless I do want him to understand me, as an emotional being. I do not flatter myself that my life has been so hard as to merit the poetic attention I give it, but, the pain is real to me, and if someone is to be intimately integrated into my life, they must be aware of that. Xero, I don't deserve the attention I seek, and it takes a lot of empowerment and selfishness for me to say that I want it anyway. I listen to you. I sit quietly, and you will just keep talking. You wear your heart on your sleeve. But I play close to the chest. This is how I communicate. I've gotten to good at keeping my mouth closed, and in truth, it is still important for me to maintain that state of discipline around many people. To break that habit for you, and to keep it up around others, is too hard. There's a term for it in cognitive neuroscience I'm sure, and if not it is definitely a well-described phenomenon. And besides, I will flatter myself on this, I am a good writer. Whatever it is, an intimate understanding of how others understand language, and ability to articulate abstract thoughts in ways that others can absorb, I have it. Usually, anyway. Some topics are harder than others. I'm just going to use that as my gett out of bluff free card.
Where are you, my sweet?! Your bane is here! To suck your life, to steal your soul, to poison the well of your well-being with concern for a person who will take and take and take and give until I die.
I am far too serious about this relationship. It is a little scary. I think mostly I'm scared of others finding out how serious I feel. Love at first sight is something you only get away with in fiction. Out here people look at you with a lot of... what is it? Suspicion? Worry? Doubt? Criticism. Disdain.
So many things to write about but they've all fled me now. Its getting very cold, of course by southern coastal standards which really isn't cold at all but my skin is prickling so stfu.
I have so much to do and I'm not doing any of it. I'm following my emotional self, to the death of objective, accomplishing self. But I'm growing, and with that I am attempting to find balance in my life. Of course what I really want to do is devote myself heart and soul and mind and body to my philanthropic cause, but the unfortunate fact is, I am human. If I ignore my other needs, love, friendship, comfort, intellectual stimulation outside the narrow range of my specific goals, then my accomplishment in that one direction will stagnate anyway. At least this is what I like to tell myself. If I cater to my human needs, then overall I will actually do better in my life's work than if I shunned them completely. This is my attempt to justify watching television and relentlessly (if a little shamefully) pursuing a gratifying sexual and romantic relationship. I will take care of him, and he will take care of me.
There is something that you can trust about senseless love. The way that oxytocin binds you into another person's mind. No matter how stupid, how sacrificial, how bizarre and inadvantageous to self an action might be, they will do it for you. If you are truly bound into a person's mind like that, you know that even when it is in their best interest, they will never hurt you. It's a trust beyond all other trust because you know that this devotion is beyond reason, self-serving motives, or sense. That even if this person went mad, they would tear down the house and destroy everything in their path and somehow, somehow, cut a circle around you, an island of peace and protection. In the rage of their mind you are suspended in a bubble, clear and beautiful and perfect, and you are the reason they live and die. Because that's what oxytocin does. And if you're lucky, your Bruce Banner won't have to turn into the Incredible Hulk to prove it to you.
And that's the thing. How do you know? How can you be sure that you are so securely bound into someone's mind like that, short of being the one person spared in their destructive rampage? By the way, this is not to say that love turns all people into rage-monsters. This is just an extreme and colorful example of what oxytocin is capable of.
I guess my question is, Xero, how will you know the extent to which I am devoted to you? People lie. And you don't want to think that I am lying but you've been lied to by people who said that they loved you, and so the thought is in your mind. I understand. And yes, I don't want to mislead you, I do have my doubts. Which is probably the only normal/acceptable emotion I'm having for a week 3 relationship. Would I move in with you? I don't know. Would I cosign a lease with you? At this point, probably not. Would I have your baby? Oh my god too much to think about. See, my friends would be proud. But this is all besides the point. I do feel very strongly for you. The fact that these questions don't already have answers is kind of a big deal.
Okay it is now 1:10 AM. I want to keep waiting for you, but... jeez man. This is getting a little ridiculous. Borrow someone's phone. Text me. Tell me wtf is going on. Conceptualize that I may not have checked my email and may just be sitting here at your front porch, being an idiot... Because, and I'm pretty sure this is true of other people too, I'm an idiot when I'm in love and there's the opportunity for emotional wholeness at the other end. I charge ahead reckless and foolish.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
What were you thinking about suicide
I called my boyfriend tonight, because I was missing him and wanted to talk. By which, I mean I wanted him to talk to me. He doesn't ask a lot of questions, but my questions that he chooses to answer, he does at length. And colorfully.
Well, tonight, I started the conversation (ie prompted his monologue) on the nature of darkness. See, to me, darkness is comforting. Its where I can hide, where my emotions can't be read on my face. Which I am learning is an important way that I unconsciously communicate. But he took it in the direction of depression. Fine. He had interesting things to say on the matter. But then he took an even more extreme tangent.
He told me about one of his best friends, a marine and police officer, a trouble maker and mischievous joker. A community serviceman and a loyal companion. And when he got in a fight with his wife in Vegas, he went downstairs to have a drink. It mixed badly with a medication he was on, and he spiraled into a depressive state. He sent a text to his brother, a suicide note, and shot himself. But he didn't die. He immediately started screaming "I don't want to die", "I didn't mean to", etc. He died 90 minutes later in the hospital, far from friends and family.
My boyfriend was choking up while telling me this story, but I couldn't help being angry at him. The more obvious surface emotion was, I want to be there for you. And there was an underlying reason. It hurt me. I was bothered by this, what was obviously an accidental suicide. Of course, it was no one's fault that being pregnant turned his wife into a royal bitch, so on that account he couldn't have avoided that particular stress in his life. And if he forgot that he wasn't supposed to drink after taking that medication, that's no one's fault either. Then it gets complicated. He was not in his right mind. He had enough gravity to contact a person that he knew loved him. But instead of talking to his brother, he sent a suicide note. In this moment, in a drug-induced state, he felt like he had no other choice than to kill himself. I can say plenty of "it could have been different"s, but it wasn't. And that's the point. Everything that was happening to him could have only led to that conclusion. To this suicide that even he didn't want.
This death is more tragic than others. Because there was support for him, and in truth, he didn't want to die. My boyfriend described him as the last person he thought would do this, and I believe that he was the last person who would, except for that moment, a drugged-up exception to the rest of his life.
Which is why that it cannot be used as an argument for why a person should not kill themselves. Some people, in right mind, for months and years on end without relent, do feel trapped. They do try other ways to escape the situation, and their anger, their sadness, their hurt, follows them anyway. These people feel unloved, like the people they would leave behind are not worth living for. And that's different.
My boyfriend argued that he wouldn't want anyone to go through what he went through with his friend's death, and that's why he wouldn't kill himself. Well, except that my boyfriend contemplated suicide as a cogent human. And I believe that, if as a cogent human, you believe that your pain is so great, that you need to leave, regardless of the consequences to your loved ones, then that is your right. You don't owe it to anyone to stick around, to make their lives a little more sound while you claw and scrape your way through your own. Anyone that is worth sticking around for, will make your life worth living. It can't be only one way.
My boyfriend called his friend when he himself was contemplating suicide. They talked about it. And my boyfriend is still alive today because of friends like that who were worth it enough to him to stay for, that he didn't want to hurt, and the fact that their hurt would be greater than his, tells me that his depression was surmountable. Having friends that love you can and should make all the other problems matter less. It just should. Because when all else turns to shit, you get down to the bare basics of the purpose of living; to enjoy it. And you do that with friends.
I don't know how I pulled through it. I think I just held on to the hope and reality that my situation was very specific and very temporary, and that there was a timer on it; I just had to survive long enough to get out. There were some days that I was so frustrated, so out of control of my own life, that I would sit and think seriously about it for hours. I thought about the people I would leave behind, and to be honest, none of them mattered enough to me to stick around for. They didn't make my life worth living, so why should I live for them?
By the grace of God I walk the Earth today. My life was not as bad as others. That doesn't mean I didn't feel real, deep, pain.
And that's another thing. True, I have been lucky enough that all of my at-risk friends survived. Some went into rehab, others got into relationships that picked them up, and one girl had a baby. But just because none of my friends completed suicide doesn't mean that I can't identify with the pain that goes with that. Despite expectations, I can understand that desperation of loss, the confusion, the anger. Just because I haven't been face to face with death in that manner, does not mean that I can't see through your eyes. So try to see through my eyes. Yes, I didn't go through that, but I went through things, things that were real to me and hurt me. The relative inseverity of the cause is no reason to discount my feelings.
There are some people who have seen terrible things, and are angry at those who self-describe as going through tough times without having had the same terrible experiences. I am angry at those judgmental fucks. To have felt that pain, you must know that it doesn't take that much of a loss to sweep your feet out from under you. Presumably, if you been to those dark places, you've been where they are now, and you know that while whatever they're going through is not as nearly as bad as it could be, it is painful, and it does disrupt your life. To such individuals, their tough times are tough, to them, and that needs to be respected. True, it is helpful to them to have perspective, to realize that their lives are no so difficult and that there is no reason life can't get better. But their lack of perspective should not open them up to bullying and ridicule, in light of their pain. Pain is real, and pain is painful to the one experiencing it, no matter what the cause. Put this in context of the recent infamy of Amanda Todd, and all of the harshness that has come with that, and perhaps you'll understand my anger.
Yes, many people think that what happened to this girl was her own fault, and that what happened wasn't bad enough to merit taking her own life. But what I see is a lack of effort to see it through her eyes, to understand her perspective, how she experienced her pain. And, especially, she had no one to talk to. I understand why Amanda killed herself.
But that young man had people to talk to, people who loved him deeply and would not stigmatize him for having thoughts of suicide. And so its harder for me to internalize that. If I were to be honest with myself, its hard for me to forgive him. I didn't have to meet him to love him, to miss him, to grieve for him. Or to be angry at him for leaving us behind.
PS
I don't know where to stick this but it needs to be said. Given, times are tough, its hard to get enough employment to keep yourself afloat, let alone support a family. When my boyfriend described how they drank to his memory, that's when I started crying. This man, in order to have enough money, took on twenty hour shifts and kept himself awake by chain-drinking Monster energy drinks and shocking himself with a stun gun. And that's when I got angry, that's when I saw the early warning signs that even now, years after his death, my boyfriend doesn't seem to have detected as a problem. A young man with other issues in his life, staying up for 20 hours, maintaining that with chemicals, shocking himself? That should have been the red flag. And when I heard it, I knew, or at least I hoped, I would have called it, that the warning sign would be caught and this guy could have gotten help before it got out of control. Even if he didn't see it as self-harm, there's multiple ways to look at this and see it as Bad. First off, he's making severe changes to his brain chemistry with chronic substance abuse and staying awake too long, along with shocking himself. Second, if you reflect on your own life, and you see that you have to do things like this just to keep a roof over your head and food on your table, how would that make you feel? I would feel angry, desperate, trapped, uncared for, that others could see this going on and not say "hey, this is not okay. You need to be good to yourself." Like my government had abandoned me and my friends didn't care. And maybe that's completely wrong, maybe this guy was a thrill-seeker and found a 20 hour shift to be a good excuse to mess with energy drinks and stun guns. But looking at what happened after, I can't help but draw a connection. I can't help but take it from my perspective. And that's the very same fault that I judge others for. Deja vu.
Well, tonight, I started the conversation (ie prompted his monologue) on the nature of darkness. See, to me, darkness is comforting. Its where I can hide, where my emotions can't be read on my face. Which I am learning is an important way that I unconsciously communicate. But he took it in the direction of depression. Fine. He had interesting things to say on the matter. But then he took an even more extreme tangent.
He told me about one of his best friends, a marine and police officer, a trouble maker and mischievous joker. A community serviceman and a loyal companion. And when he got in a fight with his wife in Vegas, he went downstairs to have a drink. It mixed badly with a medication he was on, and he spiraled into a depressive state. He sent a text to his brother, a suicide note, and shot himself. But he didn't die. He immediately started screaming "I don't want to die", "I didn't mean to", etc. He died 90 minutes later in the hospital, far from friends and family.
My boyfriend was choking up while telling me this story, but I couldn't help being angry at him. The more obvious surface emotion was, I want to be there for you. And there was an underlying reason. It hurt me. I was bothered by this, what was obviously an accidental suicide. Of course, it was no one's fault that being pregnant turned his wife into a royal bitch, so on that account he couldn't have avoided that particular stress in his life. And if he forgot that he wasn't supposed to drink after taking that medication, that's no one's fault either. Then it gets complicated. He was not in his right mind. He had enough gravity to contact a person that he knew loved him. But instead of talking to his brother, he sent a suicide note. In this moment, in a drug-induced state, he felt like he had no other choice than to kill himself. I can say plenty of "it could have been different"s, but it wasn't. And that's the point. Everything that was happening to him could have only led to that conclusion. To this suicide that even he didn't want.
This death is more tragic than others. Because there was support for him, and in truth, he didn't want to die. My boyfriend described him as the last person he thought would do this, and I believe that he was the last person who would, except for that moment, a drugged-up exception to the rest of his life.
Which is why that it cannot be used as an argument for why a person should not kill themselves. Some people, in right mind, for months and years on end without relent, do feel trapped. They do try other ways to escape the situation, and their anger, their sadness, their hurt, follows them anyway. These people feel unloved, like the people they would leave behind are not worth living for. And that's different.
My boyfriend argued that he wouldn't want anyone to go through what he went through with his friend's death, and that's why he wouldn't kill himself. Well, except that my boyfriend contemplated suicide as a cogent human. And I believe that, if as a cogent human, you believe that your pain is so great, that you need to leave, regardless of the consequences to your loved ones, then that is your right. You don't owe it to anyone to stick around, to make their lives a little more sound while you claw and scrape your way through your own. Anyone that is worth sticking around for, will make your life worth living. It can't be only one way.
My boyfriend called his friend when he himself was contemplating suicide. They talked about it. And my boyfriend is still alive today because of friends like that who were worth it enough to him to stay for, that he didn't want to hurt, and the fact that their hurt would be greater than his, tells me that his depression was surmountable. Having friends that love you can and should make all the other problems matter less. It just should. Because when all else turns to shit, you get down to the bare basics of the purpose of living; to enjoy it. And you do that with friends.
I don't know how I pulled through it. I think I just held on to the hope and reality that my situation was very specific and very temporary, and that there was a timer on it; I just had to survive long enough to get out. There were some days that I was so frustrated, so out of control of my own life, that I would sit and think seriously about it for hours. I thought about the people I would leave behind, and to be honest, none of them mattered enough to me to stick around for. They didn't make my life worth living, so why should I live for them?
By the grace of God I walk the Earth today. My life was not as bad as others. That doesn't mean I didn't feel real, deep, pain.
And that's another thing. True, I have been lucky enough that all of my at-risk friends survived. Some went into rehab, others got into relationships that picked them up, and one girl had a baby. But just because none of my friends completed suicide doesn't mean that I can't identify with the pain that goes with that. Despite expectations, I can understand that desperation of loss, the confusion, the anger. Just because I haven't been face to face with death in that manner, does not mean that I can't see through your eyes. So try to see through my eyes. Yes, I didn't go through that, but I went through things, things that were real to me and hurt me. The relative inseverity of the cause is no reason to discount my feelings.
There are some people who have seen terrible things, and are angry at those who self-describe as going through tough times without having had the same terrible experiences. I am angry at those judgmental fucks. To have felt that pain, you must know that it doesn't take that much of a loss to sweep your feet out from under you. Presumably, if you been to those dark places, you've been where they are now, and you know that while whatever they're going through is not as nearly as bad as it could be, it is painful, and it does disrupt your life. To such individuals, their tough times are tough, to them, and that needs to be respected. True, it is helpful to them to have perspective, to realize that their lives are no so difficult and that there is no reason life can't get better. But their lack of perspective should not open them up to bullying and ridicule, in light of their pain. Pain is real, and pain is painful to the one experiencing it, no matter what the cause. Put this in context of the recent infamy of Amanda Todd, and all of the harshness that has come with that, and perhaps you'll understand my anger.
Yes, many people think that what happened to this girl was her own fault, and that what happened wasn't bad enough to merit taking her own life. But what I see is a lack of effort to see it through her eyes, to understand her perspective, how she experienced her pain. And, especially, she had no one to talk to. I understand why Amanda killed herself.
But that young man had people to talk to, people who loved him deeply and would not stigmatize him for having thoughts of suicide. And so its harder for me to internalize that. If I were to be honest with myself, its hard for me to forgive him. I didn't have to meet him to love him, to miss him, to grieve for him. Or to be angry at him for leaving us behind.
PS
I don't know where to stick this but it needs to be said. Given, times are tough, its hard to get enough employment to keep yourself afloat, let alone support a family. When my boyfriend described how they drank to his memory, that's when I started crying. This man, in order to have enough money, took on twenty hour shifts and kept himself awake by chain-drinking Monster energy drinks and shocking himself with a stun gun. And that's when I got angry, that's when I saw the early warning signs that even now, years after his death, my boyfriend doesn't seem to have detected as a problem. A young man with other issues in his life, staying up for 20 hours, maintaining that with chemicals, shocking himself? That should have been the red flag. And when I heard it, I knew, or at least I hoped, I would have called it, that the warning sign would be caught and this guy could have gotten help before it got out of control. Even if he didn't see it as self-harm, there's multiple ways to look at this and see it as Bad. First off, he's making severe changes to his brain chemistry with chronic substance abuse and staying awake too long, along with shocking himself. Second, if you reflect on your own life, and you see that you have to do things like this just to keep a roof over your head and food on your table, how would that make you feel? I would feel angry, desperate, trapped, uncared for, that others could see this going on and not say "hey, this is not okay. You need to be good to yourself." Like my government had abandoned me and my friends didn't care. And maybe that's completely wrong, maybe this guy was a thrill-seeker and found a 20 hour shift to be a good excuse to mess with energy drinks and stun guns. But looking at what happened after, I can't help but draw a connection. I can't help but take it from my perspective. And that's the very same fault that I judge others for. Deja vu.
Friday, October 12, 2012
The weird ways I communicate
So I've been on all of one date with this guy. It's been six days since that first date. In that time, I had two killer exams and he lost his job. So Thursday night there was a lot of comforting to go around. But instead, I decided to drink and use that as a means of speaking my truths. There were things I needed to say. He was surprisingly receptive, and supportive. He brought out tears that I had been denying for a long time, he let me cry. Because he figured me out. I knew what signals I had been letting through, and he picked up almost all of them. But I learned something about myself from this. I really prefer to keep my mouth shut. I don't share personal experiences, I downplay my pain, and I "triple-think" before I speak; I very carefully consider the consequences of my words before I let them out.
But then you get a situation like this. I had to tell him things, things I thought might hurt him, that I didn't know how to say. Sober me would ruminate on it and it would never come out. But I knew I had a responsibility. So I drank, and the thoughts flowed. And you know what? I think he liked me more.
The funny thing is, I ran into a similar situation the next morning. You see, even for being significantly older than me, and being supported by his parents, and until recently working a full time job, he somehow also manages to have almost no money. He lives paycheck to paycheck. Now, this has two consequences in my mind. One, worry about his viability as a partner if he cannot be responsible with his money. Two, how I can possibly in good conscience allow him to wine and dine me. These two postulates can interact in an interesting dynamic. If he deems that he is able to treat me, then that is his right. He should be responsible enough to make that decision for himself. On the other hand, if he is not responsible enough to allocate his money reasonably, then he does then lose that right of courtship?
So when he checked his bank account to determine if he had enough money to take me out to lunch, I had an internal CPU surge. And, because I was no longer drunk, I took way too much time trying to figure out how to articulate my concerns without insulting him. Which, lets be real, when it comes to money, is almost impossible. But I realized that there was no way out of it, I couldn't hide that something was bothering me, so I talked. And he assured me that if was a problem, he would tell me. I really hope he holds to that. And if the situation now isn't a problem, I have to worry how bad the situation needs to be to qualify as a problem.
I asked how this had happened, and he prefaced with "that's where my life is right now." And for some reason, I understood. I realize now how easily I could be in his shoes, and how that wouldn't reflect my character. In better circumstances, I feel like his status would be very different. But that doesn't make him a lesser person now. But, I hope to be those better circumstances. To be a source of inspiration, a reserve of happiness. Of hope.
But then you get a situation like this. I had to tell him things, things I thought might hurt him, that I didn't know how to say. Sober me would ruminate on it and it would never come out. But I knew I had a responsibility. So I drank, and the thoughts flowed. And you know what? I think he liked me more.
The funny thing is, I ran into a similar situation the next morning. You see, even for being significantly older than me, and being supported by his parents, and until recently working a full time job, he somehow also manages to have almost no money. He lives paycheck to paycheck. Now, this has two consequences in my mind. One, worry about his viability as a partner if he cannot be responsible with his money. Two, how I can possibly in good conscience allow him to wine and dine me. These two postulates can interact in an interesting dynamic. If he deems that he is able to treat me, then that is his right. He should be responsible enough to make that decision for himself. On the other hand, if he is not responsible enough to allocate his money reasonably, then he does then lose that right of courtship?
So when he checked his bank account to determine if he had enough money to take me out to lunch, I had an internal CPU surge. And, because I was no longer drunk, I took way too much time trying to figure out how to articulate my concerns without insulting him. Which, lets be real, when it comes to money, is almost impossible. But I realized that there was no way out of it, I couldn't hide that something was bothering me, so I talked. And he assured me that if was a problem, he would tell me. I really hope he holds to that. And if the situation now isn't a problem, I have to worry how bad the situation needs to be to qualify as a problem.
I asked how this had happened, and he prefaced with "that's where my life is right now." And for some reason, I understood. I realize now how easily I could be in his shoes, and how that wouldn't reflect my character. In better circumstances, I feel like his status would be very different. But that doesn't make him a lesser person now. But, I hope to be those better circumstances. To be a source of inspiration, a reserve of happiness. Of hope.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Well, that escalated quickly; and Genderqueer
So, a few weeks ago a friend of mine invited me out with some of his friends. They were nice enough people. I liked one of them in particular. I got the sense he liked me too (he kept scanning me, however surreptitiously he attempted). So I asked my friend to give this new intrigue my phone number.
Saturday, lunch date. Sunday, home date. Sunday night, got a little rowdy. Monday morning, had coffee and conversation with the parental units. Went well.
When I told my close friends this, they decided to name my new paramour "The Escalator", since the relationship escalated very quickly. I didn't and won't bother to mention the multiple one night stands and the one "relationship" that started even faster than that. But this one is different. Sure, I might have had feelings for the last "relationship" (quoties for a reason, dear), but I wouldn't claim they were anywhere near this strong. There's this elation, that's a bit familiar and yet every time feels like the first and only time. With the last, I knew from the moment I met him face to face that this was not going to last. An unlove at first sight. But this one, I like him. Am I conceptualizing a future? No, but I haven't disqualified the existence of one. Not entirely, anyway. We have very different life paths; from the perspective of realism this is temporary, for fun.
But in my oxytocin-washed brain it is very, very real. I like him, a lot. But I hesitate, because, yes, this went fast. I did take the time to probe his mind, he offered up his past, I feel that I know him well, as compared to other first dates. Surprisingly, I feel like I can trust him. He's much bigger and stronger than me, but I'm not even a little afraid that he'll ever hurt me. So I took a leap of faith and offered up the most important points of my messy, infected life. I'm trans, I've cheated, and there's an ex that won't go away. I'm bothered that the trans bit is what bothered him most, but I won't let it be a deal-breaker. Ideals are nice to have, in theory, but life is too short to wait for the world to become the perfect place you envision in your head before you let yourself have some fun in it. God made me beautiful, even if for a long time I wished (and, in a more sedated way, continue to wish) for everything but. I've finally given up that dream, I think. Work with what you got. I'm not going to magically change into the person I was supposed to be. Maybe I'll re-approach the matter later when I find myself in the "ideal" situation. But life's too short. I have a beautiful man who thinks I'm beautiful and we're going to have fun together and if he wants what he sees as me rather than how I see myself then I need to just keep a lid on it and not go batshit crazy clawing at the peak of Maslow's pyramid. I used to think I could happy self-idealized, even alone, but now I know better. I crave intimacy above and beyond finding myself. I need another person to love me, more than I need to be trans. I guess this is a taste of how homosexual children in unsupporting families feel.
Maybe its in the language. I self-described as transgender because it was the only word I could grasp onto to describe my introspective identity. But now a new term has popped up. Genderqueer. And that term is much more forgiving, much more malleable. To describe oneself as genderqueer is to allow oneself to move seamlessly between identities as they fit best at the time. I think this can serve to reflect a more dynamic view of self. After all, my self-names have changed pretty consistently as I've grown, as well as my ideas about intimacy, and family. It allows me to safely navigate (what I see as) a contradiction between my fantasized identity and my real sexuality.
Over time my innate self-identity seems to be more, at peace, with my born gender. In dreams I am often my born gender rather than my transitive. In my dreams, my aesthetics are befitting of my born gender, and the androgyny I attempt in my daily life is lost. But these dreams are usually in context of my sexuality. Being sexually interested in a man grounds me to my born gender. I still can't decide if this is a betrayal of the person I was born to be, or if I should embrace the serendipity, and take my dreams and fancies as indicators that I have grown into a changing person. I do not abandon my transitive identity entirely. I do, however, entertain the possibility of accepting myself as dynamic, as non-binary, as genderqueer.
Its exciting to see how this field is evolving under the care of diligent and caring minds. Even as our society becomes more aware of the incredible variations in human gender and sexuality, the fluid non-binary nature of it all, we are now developing a language to talk about it, to put things in categories the way human brains can understand themselves. Even though we don't fit into categories, we often feel a need to organize ourselves as such anyway. The brain is incapable of conceptualizing the brain. And so terms like gender identity, gender expression, sexual identity, can help us organize our thoughts about the incredibly diverse and complex subject of these interrelated aspects of what it is to be human, but human in the way that connects us to our evolutionary ancestors. It's an exciting time to be alive. I'm glad I can share it with you.
Saturday, lunch date. Sunday, home date. Sunday night, got a little rowdy. Monday morning, had coffee and conversation with the parental units. Went well.
When I told my close friends this, they decided to name my new paramour "The Escalator", since the relationship escalated very quickly. I didn't and won't bother to mention the multiple one night stands and the one "relationship" that started even faster than that. But this one is different. Sure, I might have had feelings for the last "relationship" (quoties for a reason, dear), but I wouldn't claim they were anywhere near this strong. There's this elation, that's a bit familiar and yet every time feels like the first and only time. With the last, I knew from the moment I met him face to face that this was not going to last. An unlove at first sight. But this one, I like him. Am I conceptualizing a future? No, but I haven't disqualified the existence of one. Not entirely, anyway. We have very different life paths; from the perspective of realism this is temporary, for fun.
But in my oxytocin-washed brain it is very, very real. I like him, a lot. But I hesitate, because, yes, this went fast. I did take the time to probe his mind, he offered up his past, I feel that I know him well, as compared to other first dates. Surprisingly, I feel like I can trust him. He's much bigger and stronger than me, but I'm not even a little afraid that he'll ever hurt me. So I took a leap of faith and offered up the most important points of my messy, infected life. I'm trans, I've cheated, and there's an ex that won't go away. I'm bothered that the trans bit is what bothered him most, but I won't let it be a deal-breaker. Ideals are nice to have, in theory, but life is too short to wait for the world to become the perfect place you envision in your head before you let yourself have some fun in it. God made me beautiful, even if for a long time I wished (and, in a more sedated way, continue to wish) for everything but. I've finally given up that dream, I think. Work with what you got. I'm not going to magically change into the person I was supposed to be. Maybe I'll re-approach the matter later when I find myself in the "ideal" situation. But life's too short. I have a beautiful man who thinks I'm beautiful and we're going to have fun together and if he wants what he sees as me rather than how I see myself then I need to just keep a lid on it and not go batshit crazy clawing at the peak of Maslow's pyramid. I used to think I could happy self-idealized, even alone, but now I know better. I crave intimacy above and beyond finding myself. I need another person to love me, more than I need to be trans. I guess this is a taste of how homosexual children in unsupporting families feel.
Maybe its in the language. I self-described as transgender because it was the only word I could grasp onto to describe my introspective identity. But now a new term has popped up. Genderqueer. And that term is much more forgiving, much more malleable. To describe oneself as genderqueer is to allow oneself to move seamlessly between identities as they fit best at the time. I think this can serve to reflect a more dynamic view of self. After all, my self-names have changed pretty consistently as I've grown, as well as my ideas about intimacy, and family. It allows me to safely navigate (what I see as) a contradiction between my fantasized identity and my real sexuality.
Over time my innate self-identity seems to be more, at peace, with my born gender. In dreams I am often my born gender rather than my transitive. In my dreams, my aesthetics are befitting of my born gender, and the androgyny I attempt in my daily life is lost. But these dreams are usually in context of my sexuality. Being sexually interested in a man grounds me to my born gender. I still can't decide if this is a betrayal of the person I was born to be, or if I should embrace the serendipity, and take my dreams and fancies as indicators that I have grown into a changing person. I do not abandon my transitive identity entirely. I do, however, entertain the possibility of accepting myself as dynamic, as non-binary, as genderqueer.
Its exciting to see how this field is evolving under the care of diligent and caring minds. Even as our society becomes more aware of the incredible variations in human gender and sexuality, the fluid non-binary nature of it all, we are now developing a language to talk about it, to put things in categories the way human brains can understand themselves. Even though we don't fit into categories, we often feel a need to organize ourselves as such anyway. The brain is incapable of conceptualizing the brain. And so terms like gender identity, gender expression, sexual identity, can help us organize our thoughts about the incredibly diverse and complex subject of these interrelated aspects of what it is to be human, but human in the way that connects us to our evolutionary ancestors. It's an exciting time to be alive. I'm glad I can share it with you.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Moving On, and other updates
So, that nice man I've been rambling about for months and months? Has a girlfriend. Which I only found out because I had the balls to ask the really awkward question. So, there's that. And now our relationship is, limitedly awkward. Not terrible, so yeah.
And now my attention is turned to another man, also vastly out of my age range, but at least he's pretty safely out of "old enough to be my father" range. Unless he hit puberty really early, but you know what, same argument as before. This is normal all over the world EXCEPT where and when I happen to live. He and I have mutual friends that seem to vouch for him, so I'll take the chance. Also, except for choice of occupation, he seems totally my type. Bear. I look forward to fantastic cuddles.
So, yeah, it seems that my most popular hit is "my boss autistic" google searches. Which I find fucking hilarious, apparently this is a thing, but definitely not the focus of my blog. It's sort of disappointing that my explicitly audience-oriented post on transgenderism has gone largely undetected, but I guess there are more and better resources for that now. I wish that had been true ten years ago. I missed that boat.
I drew My Little Ponies on my motorcycle helmet. This makes me happy. If your boss is autistic, you should watch My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. It will make you feel better. Granted, I have friends that never got into it, even after a proper introduction, but se la vi.
Also I think Applejack doesn't get enough attention. When you ask people to name their favorite pony, I think AJ comes up last in the polls. Is it that her unique trait of family orientation is undesirable to me, and I'm just misinterpreting? Yeah let's go with that.
And now my attention is turned to another man, also vastly out of my age range, but at least he's pretty safely out of "old enough to be my father" range. Unless he hit puberty really early, but you know what, same argument as before. This is normal all over the world EXCEPT where and when I happen to live. He and I have mutual friends that seem to vouch for him, so I'll take the chance. Also, except for choice of occupation, he seems totally my type. Bear. I look forward to fantastic cuddles.
So, yeah, it seems that my most popular hit is "my boss autistic" google searches. Which I find fucking hilarious, apparently this is a thing, but definitely not the focus of my blog. It's sort of disappointing that my explicitly audience-oriented post on transgenderism has gone largely undetected, but I guess there are more and better resources for that now. I wish that had been true ten years ago. I missed that boat.
I drew My Little Ponies on my motorcycle helmet. This makes me happy. If your boss is autistic, you should watch My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. It will make you feel better. Granted, I have friends that never got into it, even after a proper introduction, but se la vi.
Also I think Applejack doesn't get enough attention. When you ask people to name their favorite pony, I think AJ comes up last in the polls. Is it that her unique trait of family orientation is undesirable to me, and I'm just misinterpreting? Yeah let's go with that.
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