Real Talk: Depression & Anxiety

Real Talk - Depression

Okay. Time for some real talk. A friend of mine asked me to write a blog about depression. She's never dealt with it herself, but her sister is in a difficult place emotionally, and she wanted some perspective. Since I'm pretty much an open book, (and her sister isn't, at this point) she asked me for insight on what it's like to have depression - what goes on in my head - and what things I could suggest that have helped me.

So. Little bit of backstory, for those who haven't been reading along up to this point: I grew up in a mentally, physically, and sexually abusive household. My father was an alcoholic, and my mother was a manic depressive, codependent "dry drunk." "Dry drunk" basically means she had all the destructive behavior of an alcoholic, although she had quit drinking before I was born.

My father never wanted children, and if he had to have one, he certainly didn't want another girl (he had two by a previous marriage). My mother, on the other hand, had suffered a miscarriage the year before getting pregnant with me, and had become obsessed with having a baby. She literally prayed on the hour every hour for months. When she finally became pregnant, she believed I was an angel sent from Heaven. Like, a real, literal angel. If you think that can't screw a kid up, you're all kinds of wrong.

Anyhow. So, my childhood sucked giant hairy donkey balls for a lot of reasons. When I finally started seeing a therapist - after I'd moved out of my parents' house - I was diagnosed with a laundry list of things, including: PTSD, acute depression, acute anxiety, social phobia, bipolar, dyslexia, and maybe Aspergers, though the jury was out on that one. However, by that time, I'd invented so many coping strategies that she felt I didn't need medication.

So what does all that mean? Well, the PTSD part means that certain things upset me - things that probably don't upset you, or don't upset you as much. Loud noises, for one. I startle very easily, and it can take a while to calm back down. For example, you might hear glass shattering and think "what did the cats knock over now?" I, on the other hand, am instantly mentally transported to a time in my childhood when the sound of glass breaking was a very, very bad thing. Coping strategies for this are kinda situational. Typically, I'll ground myself by touching something in the room - a chair or whatever - or looking at something specific, and reminding myself that this item didn't exist in my life back then, therefore I am not in my life back then. What can a person do to help? When avoidable, don't make loud noises. When not avoidable, warn me. Hubby and The Boy are very good about saying "loud sound" before a loud sound. I may still startle, but it's not nearly as bad because I'm expecting it.

The acute depression part means that sometimes I'm just sad. There's no specific reason. Nothing happened to make me sad. Nobody died, my puppy didn't get run over. In fact, I may be having a really good day otherwise. Coping strategy? Focusing on the positive things. Reminding myself that it will pass, because it has come and gone before, and I'm still here. What can you do to help? That's a hard question to answer. Ultimately, nothing. You cannot fix me. You cannot make my depression go away. You can however, make it easier by being nice to me. If you know I hate to do the dishes, then do the dishes. If you know I love fresh flowers, then stop by with fresh flowers - they don't have to be store bought, handpicked from the side of the road is just as good. If you know I like Star Trek or Supernatural, offer to watch a show with me. Or, better yet, ask me something about one of them. Ask me to explain something you don't understand, or ask for my opinion on something. Ask me about a time in my life that was fun, like a convention I attended.

Here's the thing: it's often very hard to find something that will truly bring me joy while I'm depressed. It's that way for most of us. So if your depressed friend wants to watch "Lake Placid" for the 900th time, watch it with them. If they want to color in a coloring book even though they're 40 years old, color with them. If they call you up one evening and want to ramble on about a recipe they tried, mute the TV and listen to them. If they want to sit on the couch and snuggle up to you while you read a book, let them. Things that seem trivial to you are monumental to us.

My acute anxiety means that I'm anxious about everything, all the time. Even right now, writing this, I'm worried I'm going to say the wrong thing and upset someone, or make someone mad. I live in a constant state of apology - I'm already sorry for whatever I'm going to screw up, and I know I'm going to screw something up because I can't do anything right. And I'm sorry that I'm sorry, because I know I apologize too much and that makes people uncomfortable, and for that, I'm sorry. See what I mean?

There are a couple ways to cope with the anxiety. For me, it's just constantly reminding myself that nothing is Earth-shattering. Barring killing someone, anything I screw up can be fixed. Maybe not easily, but fixed nonetheless. I haven't yet found a way that someone can help with this, other than keeping along those same lines - just reminding me that nothing is really going to end if I make a mistake. There's a quote I like: "The world will not end today - it's already tomorrow in Australia."

When you look at me, you see me. Curly hair, big, brown labrador retriever eyes, and round cheeks. When I look at me, I see every blemish on my skin, every scar, and they stand out like neon signs. I see everything I've ever failed at. I see everyone I've ever let down. I see every mistake I've ever made, be it a low grade or crashing my husband's car into a pole seven years ago. I see every time I wasn't good enough for my parents. Where you see a whole person, I see tainted, broken pieces.

One day, I was outside working in my backyard - raking leaves, pulling weeds, that sort of thing. I heard a bird chirping and looked up at my neighbor's tree to see this little house sparrow. I stopped what I was doing to watch it. After a few minutes, the bird looked at me and then flew away. It took me a solid five minutes of positive self talk, while I pulled weeds, to convince myself that the bird hadn't flown away because it knew I wasn't good enough to share space with it.

One of my coping strategies is this dollhouse Hubby and The Boy made me, which houses my sock monkey family. I like to dress them up and stage different things like tea parties, and then I share the pictures on their Facebook page. I took them outside one day to stage a camping scene, and during the process, misplaced the littlest one, Damien. I freaked the hell out. I was two seconds short of running into the house and screaming for Hubby to help me find him when it occurred to me - he's an inanimate object. He didn't walk off by himself.

This is what it's like in my head. This is what it's like in a lot of people's heads.

What can you do to make it better? Not a lot. The number one thing you can do is be supportive. Avoid saying things like "that's silly," or "you know better." Because no, it's not silly, and no, I don't know better. I don't know that I'm good enough. Try to avoid saying "I know what you mean/feel." No, quite frankly, you don't. Even if you have the same conditions as I do, everyone's experience is different. You don't know what it's like in my head unless I've told you. You can say, instead, "I understand that you're anxious/upset/sad," and then try to relate something to me. "A few years ago, this thing happened to me that made me anxious. I remember what that felt like. It may not be the exactly the same for you, but I respect what you're feeling. When I'm feeling this way, this thing helps." For God's sake, don't say "don't get upset." That's just invalidating, no matter if you have depression and anxiety or not. Everyone has the right to their own feelings. And don't say "you're okay." Hell no I'm not. Instead, try "it's going to be okay," or "we're going to make it okay."

Above all, try to understand that you can't fix it, and you can't expect us to respond 100% of the time. Sometimes, even though I know something should fill me to bursting with joy, all I can manage is a small smile. Understand the brilliance of that smile, though. Understand that whatever you did, it got through. Even if I can't give you the reaction you want or deserve, you did get through. Be patient. Nobody wants to be this way. Given a choice of any sort of personality traits I could have, I wouldn't pick any of the things I named off above. If there was a magic pill I could take and all this would go away, I'd take it in a heartbeat. I don't get depressed for attention. Trust me - I've got nice tits, a big ass, and plush lips - if I wanted attention, I could easily get it. Understand that, by and large, the issues I have are not my fault. Rather, they are a result of years upon years of torturous treatment from my parents. The things I endured left permanent marks on my psyche. Some of them have gotten better with time, but some of them haven't.

And understand that, all in all, I'm okay. Being depressed doesn't mean I'm dysfunctional. I raised two kids and ran a multi-million dollar company, all while dealing with my issues. I may be broken, in my own way of thinking about myself, but I'm not without value and beauty. Although depressed, I am kind, giving, loving, and compassionate. Although anxious, I am often ridiculously brave, especially when it comes to helping others. Although socially phobic, I will force myself out into the world and show up, especially when someone needs me. Although bipolar, I will stop what I'm doing and control my mood swings long enough to help you or to offer you comfort.

Although broken, I have worth. Although tired, I will fight.

#AlwaysKeepFighting

Health Update

Hey y'all!

Many of you have been following my health issues. I finally have some answers, so I thought I'd do a blog post and fill y'all in.

To recap, I've been having weird heartbeats for some time, along with pain and nausea when I look down. I also have random leg pains, and scalding pain along my scalp, behind my left ear. Most of these things have been going on for years, and I've been to various doctors to try and figure them out.

The last Sunday of September brought on another round of the scalding scalp pain. Unlike past episodes, though, this one didn't just pass. By Tuesday morning, I was in so much pain that I hadn't slept since Monday night. The bursts of pain were so intense my entire body would seize up. Around 5 AM, Hubby and I finally decided to go to the ER.

Through a series of multiple screw ups and generally bad patient service, I ended up spending the entire day in the ER. After explaining that I didn't have "a headache" about twenty-five times, I finally just gave up. I was discharged around 4:45 PM. And by that time, I had no answers. They'd run blood work and a CT, and neither had any diagnostic relevance. So they sent me home with some Norco and basically wiped their hands of me.

I followed up with a neurologist. I described my symptoms to her and her answer was "no - that's not a headache. That's occipital neuralgia." She gave me medication to control it. I haven't had an issue with it since starting the meds. She also sent me for an MRI and a Flow Study, because I'd previously been diagnosed with a Chairi One Malformation, and she felt my heart issues might be attributed to that.

As it turns out, I have "significant restriction" of my cerebrospinal fluid. It's so significant, that a neurosurgeon has suggested surgery.

Basically, what this all means is that at any point my CSF could block up in my head and I could die.

It's a fairly daunting diagnosis.

I haven't scheduled surgery yet, for a number of reasons. For one, it's very dangerous. It's surgery on my brain - the complication and risk rates are high, according to the surgeon. If this were to go wrong, I have no one to take care of Hubby. Also, though I have some symptoms, I don't have debilitating symptoms. I'm not going to risk my brain for something that is currently manageable.

However, a great number of my maladies have been explained: my strange heart beat, my insomnia, my hand/arm/leg issues, my stutter, my tinnitus, some of my vision issues, and even in small part, my depression. It also explains a whole lot of my childhood.

I can remember laying in bed as a child, screaming with leg pain, while my mother ignored me. Later, as I got older, I ended up bed ridden with migraines, which my mother also ignored. How anyone could listen to their child scream and beg for help and do nothing is beyond me, but that's what she did.

In any event, all this information was, understandably, I think, rather daunting. The neurosurgeon said things like "you could die" and "deadly" and "serious issue" a lot. He mentioned dangerous things like impacts to the back of my head causing seizures and death.

At first, I was freaked the hell out. I mean... Who wouldn't be? "Treat yourself like a delicate flower or you'll die" isn't exactly what anyone wants to hear. A lot of this situation is out of my control. Like, what if I get rear-ended in my car? For a full day, I dwelled on it. How the hell was I supposed to keep myself safe? What if I contorted in my sleep and died? What if I slipped and fell in the shower, or on ice, or what if.... Just.... What. If.

And after all of it I decided this:

Dear Shitty Genetics:
Fuck. You.
No Love,
Me

I may get the surgery in the future, if things get worse. Until then, I've got a ton of things I want to do. I've got more books to write. I want to meet Misha Collins. I want to travel. I want to find a Dom who will move in with Hubby and I so I can quit work and focus on writing and being a good little house sub. I want to add on to the Monkey House.

So, yeah. Fuck genetics.

With a Name Like Marci...

I announced it on Facebook and Twitter, but neglected to do so here.

I've started the process of officially changing my legal name. Going forward, I'll be known as Marci Nichelle Jansen.

Now, I knew my choice of name would cause some...confusion. And this morning, I was met with no less than 25 FB messages and 10 e-mails.

There seems to have been a two-pronged reaction to my announcement: The people who have simply accepted the change and moved on, and the people who have sought clarification.

I'm grateful to both groups - I honestly am.

Well, I'm grateful for the people who gently asked out of genuine concern. I'm not grateful for the person who demanded to know "just what exactly" did I think I was doing, or the person who began their message with "I knew you weren't really transgender!!!"

Yeah, I'm not grateful for you two. You two can kiss my ass.

So. An explantation is in order, it seems.

The first thing that comes to my mind, of course, is that it's nobody's galdurn business *what* I do with any part of my life, especially my legal name, since none of you address me by it anyhow.

The second thing that comes to my mind, of course, is that being in the spotlight - any spotlight, even one so small-focused and dim as our industry's - gives people the belief that you owe them something of yourself. It gives people the belief that they have a right to know certain things - your sexuality, your gender, who you sleep with, what your favorite ice cream is. Chocolate peanut butter swirl, if you're wondering.

So the overriding question seems to be - am I male or female? I've chosen an obviously female name. Does that mean I'm female, and no longer transgender?

The answer is... I don't know. I know it's irritatingly disappointing when someone can't provide you with basic answers about themselves, but that's the truth of the matter. I don't know *what* I am. I do believe I warned you about this in a blog post the other day, titled "Identity Crisis."

I don't feel 100% male *or* female. I'm just...me.

I'm not certain what my gender is, or what pronouns you should use.

Here's what I know about myself, with 100% certainty:

I love Star Trek TOS. I like baking, but only cupcakes. I like food, sweet wine, horror movies, sock monkeys, math (that's a new one!), candles, incense, and mushrooms - collecting items, not eating them - I hate eating them. I hate having dirty feet. I don't like large bodies of water. I love the city of New Orleans. I hate the West Coast - no offense, it's just too damned far away, and it takes too long to get there. I love photography. I love to write. I'm a parent to 8 wonderful beings - The Boy, The Older Boy, Wallace, Higgins, Mindy, Lollypop, Sassy, and Tina Jean. I miss my baby girl Ginger and my baby boy Duncan every day of my life. I have an irrational, deep, abiding love for William Shatner - that man could murder a baby or a nun, or a nun holding a baby, and I'd believe he was fully justified. I have a list - and Hubby does too - of celebrities we can have sex with, should the situation arise, and still stay married - it's call the Allowed List. Mine is much longer than his. I'm typing this blog with painted fingernails. The color is called "Bizerk Turq" by Funky Fingers, and it's a bright, minty sort of sea green. My socks are black with little pink hearts and lace at the ankle. I have more want than brains when it comes to spending money - my current PayPal Credit balance is over $3K, and I'm not ashamed of that. I believe my house has feelings. If I found out I only had a few months to live, I've got a mental list of people who would have about 24 hours left on this planet. I do not love my mother. I am pondering getting a perm and growing my hair out. I like data entry. I believe everyday should be met with a mug of hot tea, and ended with an episode of Star Trek TOS, because really - there's nothing tea and TOS can't fix.

If all or any of that tells you which gender I am, then you're a more perceptive individual than I.

Ultimately? Here's what I think:

Identity Crisis

I've realized something just a few days ago - for the first time in my life, I'm at a point where I don't need to morph my personality to meet the demands/needs/desires/wants of those around me.

For the first time in my life, I'm at a point where nobody needs me to be anything other than who I am.

For the first time in my life, I am free to just be...me.

I have no idea who I am, or what to do with myself.

I've spent the better part of the past 35 years playing carefully crafted roles. Intelligent for this person, ditzy for that one. Aggressive and bold for this person, passive for that one. Cold for this person, warm for that one. Masculine for this person, feminine for that one.

I've been straight, lesbian, religious, Atheist, Wiccan, nice, snotty, intellectual, stupid, bubbly, subdued, patriotic, unpatriotic, innocent, worldly, Dominant, submissive, creative, and boring.

I've been a wing man, a bridesmaid (and yes, a bride), a confidant, a mentor, a therapist (though unofficially, of course), a marriage counselor, and a Yes Man. I've been the go-to guy with the answers, I've been the guy who throws his hands up and doesn't have a clue.

None of those were truly me.

A stranger in a store asked me what I thought of some political nonsense the other day.

My first thought was to analyze the situation. This person was male, wearing an American flag pin - possibly making him a veteran or a patriot, he was older - possibly making him condescending toward youth, he was African American - possibly making him sensitive to racial issues, and he was holding a Bible - possibly - well, quite probably - making him religious - and with a crucifix around his neck, which I narrowed down to at least Catholic or Episcopal.


It suddenly struck me that the first thing I did, before even asking myself what *I* thought, was to analyze the situation, sum him up, and supply him with an answer *he* wanted. Something that would fit his comfort zone.

And then I thought to myself - My God, I'd been doing this my whole life. I've become quite good at it, too. I can usually sum a person up in less than 30 seconds. People have no idea what they give away about themselves with their clothing, hairstyles, makeup/lack of makeup, adornments/lack of adornments, and body language.


He peered at me for a moment, when I didn't respond, and then he reached over and touched my arm and said "Are you all right?"

I stood there, wide eyed and making fish-mouth at him. Was I?

I'm at a point where the only people I have to "answer" to are Hubby and myself.

No parents - I've pretty much ended my relationship with my mother. No family - other than my sister, they're out of my life (which is where they belong), no really close friends I feel the need to impress, no boss whose opinion I value (because, let's face it - I just don't care what she thinks of me or anything else), no children to look out for, and thus no other parents to put on a good face for.

I have no one to impress, no one to adjust for, no one to make apologies to, no one to hide from, no one to explain myself to, no one to judge me (well, other than society - but really, who gives a rat's ass?).

There's just me and Hubby. I've been waiting 13 years now for Hubby to figure out I'm not everything he thinks I am, to realize I'm actually just fruitier than a nutcake, to come to terms with the fact that I'm just too much work, and finally give up and walk out. It's becoming more and more clear that isn't going to happen.

The stranger eventually shook his head and walked away, no doubt thinking I was a nutter.

Well, maybe I *am* kind of a nutter. I don't know - I've only just met me.

Logically

The beauty of growing up as a child who desperately tried to balance the Human and Vulcan ways of life, is that you end up a rather emotionally stable adult. It also means that when you have a moment of very Human panic - real, raw panic - it is followed by an immediate, almost audible, click as the Vulcan side grabs control. Analyze the situation. Note the details. Determine the possible diagnosis and outcomes. Embrace the logic because it will prove helpful - suppress the emotion because it will make the situation worse. Of course, the downside of all this, is that you will never - ever - be the person who can shrug off all the possibilities and say "Meh, everything's going to be fine."

Last Friday morning, January 24th, at approximately 10:00 AM, my husband collapsed. He didn't just collapse, he had what appeared - to me at least - to be a seizure. He was sitting in his chair at the dining room table, and we were having a conversation. I don't remember the topic. Suddenly, mid-sentence, he went stiff, his hands and feet started to shake, and he slid out of his chair, face first onto the floor. 

I panicked. I screamed his name. I dove to the floor. 

And all at once, this is what happened in my head:

As he stopped speaking and started to shake: PANIC!PANIC!PANIC!PANIC!PANIC!

A stern voice in my head called out "STOP." Cue full stop to the panic.  The voice continued: "Emotion will not help. Not the details. Count the time - that will be important later. Is he conscious? Speak slowly. Speak clearly." 

At this point I was rational, calm, precise, logical. I had counted five seconds between the cessation of conversation and the fact of him being face down. I was acutely aware that his breathing had not changed, his limbs and trunk were not shaking - only his hands and feet. Not a convulsion then. His eyes were open. He was coherent and speaking - telling me he was fine. I determined, even before he did, that he had sustained no injuries. Not because I saw that he hadn't, but because my mind quickly replayed the events, calculated the distance to the objects around him, and concluded that nothing lay within his path. He had not hit his head, I knew, because the sound of the fall hadn't included the sound a skull makes when smacking against hardwood floor. 

The dogs were going nuts, upset, trying to get to him to lick him. He looked over at me and said "Kennel the dogs. I'm fine."

The inner war resurfaced - the human, emotional side of my mind shouting "NO! STAY!" while the Vulcan, logical side arched an eyebrow and murmured: "This is a logical request. The dogs are a hazard. Your thirty-second absence will have no impact. Kennel the dogs."

I hesitated. I jumped to my feet, yelling at the dogs to follow me, ran to the bedroom and slammed them into their kennels. 

I came back into the dining room and hovered near him as he righted himself, stood, and sat back down. I established that he was fine. Uninjured, save but for a scrape on his knee that hadn't really broken the skin, and that slightly amused, slightly confounded, incredibly pissed off look on his face of What the fuck just happened?

Hubby apologized for scaring me. I told him that was illogical.

I asked him to let me take him to the ER. He agreed, but only if I'd take him to lunch first. O.o

After lunch - and a drive through the car wash!? - we arrived at the ER. 

I won't go into that adventure, but suffice it to say, I've rarely been as annoyed. Okay, that's not true - I've been far more annoyed far more often that I'd like to recall.

They did an EEG, EKG, ECG, an ultrasound of his neck, a CT of his head, and several rounds of bloodwork. They admitted him and kept him Friday night and Saturday night. 

They have no idea what happened. There seems to be nothing wrong with him. 

They referred him back to his regular ear doctor, who has ordered a CT of his ears and neck, as well as referred him to physical therapy because apparently we all have crystals in our ears that sometimes fall out of place and can cause us to drop over, and there's a way to right them which involves physical therapy. Yes, it does indeed sound like something out of Star Trek. But I Googled it - it seems legit. 

I managed not to cry until I was driving myself home on Friday night - for all of 45 seconds. I haven't cried since, and I don't intend to.

It isn't that I hate to cry. On the contrary - I'm not one of those macho men who believe that tears somehow lessen the length and girth of my penis and make me less of a man. The beauty of having a silicone penis is, well, nothing can ever really diminish my manhood. Except perhaps a house fire. 

No, I don't hate to cry, I simply am annoyed by crying at inopportune times. I have no time to fall apart when things need to get done. Falling apart is something you do in the shower, or at 3 AM. It's not something you do in the heat of the moment. It's not something you do when everything is on the line. 

I grew up with very emotional parents. My father could get angry over anything, and my mother would cry at the drop of a hat. I found it - disturbing. Not just because the emotions were overwhelming, but because they interfered. Yes, your situation is quite tragic and I'm certain you're very upset, but I'm six years old and hungry and can't reach the kitchen counter - be a dear and make me a sandwich before you fall apart, okay? Yes, yes - you're angry - we all get that. But do me a favor and drive us home safely, so I don't have to fear for my life because some guy cut you off in line at the bank. 

Everything they could react to, they did. Largely. Loudly. Excessively. Often.  

Imagine my delight when I first met Mr. Spock. 

In any event, Hubby is basically on house arrest - he can't drive anywhere by himself, at least until we get the results of the newest round of testing. Which means I'm driving him around.

Understand, I learned to drive when I was a teenager from a teenager. My parents had no desire to teach me to drive. Mother claimed the "water in the ditches is too high" and she was convinced I'd somehow drive off the road, crash into a ditch, and we'd drown. Mind you, the ditches weren't as wide as any cars, so in the midst of driving off the road I'd have to somehow perform an impressive feat of vehicular acrobatics, wherein I lodged the car in the ditch on its side. Of course, it should be noted that the ditches weren't even four feet deep - I could stand in them. So even if I did somehow pull that magic trick off, the odds of us actually drowning were slim to none. 

I was taught to drive by one of my best friends. Her idea of teaching me to drive was pulling in my driveway, declaring she had a migraine and telling me to drive. In hindsight, not incredibly smart on either of our parts, but it worked out. She had a Chevrolet something - I think it was a Cavalier, and I recall it being blue, but it could've been another color. I do remember that it fit me perfectly to drive in, and I loved it. I didn't love it as much as the Dodge Omni my other friend owned - but then who didn't love a Dodge Omni? I did, however, get to drive it more than I drove the Omni - which was all of once. 

Am I the world's best driver? Of course I am. What - did you think I was going to say "no?" Don't be silly. I'm a great driver. 

Hubby is also a great driver. Especially from the passenger's side. O.O

Cause I'm Me, and I'm AWESOME!

I've been thinking about a lot of things lately, not the least of which is gender. Specifically, my gender. I made a comment on a post in a group the other day, and someone asked me "Are you a man or a woman?" because my gender marker doesn't show on FB (or at least, it's not supposed to - who knows FB from one minute to the next). I asked them why it mattered, and they said they "needed to know." I then asked, "Why? Is it going to change what you think of my answer? Does what's between my legs determine if you'll agree with me or not, or take me seriously or not? Do my genitals validate or invalidate me or my beliefs, opinions, and arguments?" To which they answered "No, of course not!" So I was still left with the "Why?"

Why must I label myself for the comfort of others? Why can't I be judged on what I bring to the table instead? Not just in writing, but in life.

Why can't I be judged on the fact that I overtip, or I talk to the homeless guy who hangs out around my college, or that I have a million phobias but I'm fearless when someone tells me "you can't" or "you shouldn't," or the fact that I write hot smut, or the fact that I'm passionate about a lot of things, or that I'm loyal, or that I type 96 words a minute and I'll turn in a 22 page report when the requirement is only 5-7 pages?

Why can't I be judged on these things? These are my merits, after all. These are the things I can influence on a daily basis. These are the things I can either fail at or triumph at. These are the measures of my worth. Not my anatomy. My anatomy is a random happenstance of genes - it's nothing I did or earned.

Which is why... I think... So, the other day, I went and had my haircut. The hairdresser referred to me as "she" and "female" and you know what? I really didn't give a shit. And I started to wonder...why had I ever?

Yes, I'm absolutely masculine. I'm absolutely male.

But what does that mean, really? Does it mean I'm automatically more worthy of something? Less worthy? Smarter? Stronger? Stupider? Weaker?

It means absolutely nothing. Nothing.

I'm me. I don't have to be male. I don't have to be female. I just have to be awesome.

The Path Less Taken

I was out walking the kids in the backyard tonight, and it occurred to me that I was automatically following my footsteps from the last time I'd walked them. It's been snowing most of the day, and my backyard is all stone and no grass. I walk in the same steps because I know there's no ice buried under there or anything that would make me slip and fall.

The simple action became suddenly metaphorical.

I've been doing that - walking in the same footsteps over and over - for most of my life. Following the same patterns because they were easier, safer. More acceptable.

I stayed in the closet throughout junior high and high school because it was safer. After that, I went back in the closet when I moved to NY because my soon-to-be husband had kids and a bitch of an ex-wife who would use my sexuality against him.

Even now, an "out and proud" bisexual and transgender, I still allow people to call me by whatever gender they prefer - whatever makes *them* comfortable.

It's only been in the last few months that I've finally sort of...I don't know. Come into my own? But I'm still getting there.

All my life I've played different roles for different people. I truly believe it's time I played the one I've always wanted to play - me. Just...me.

Sending out an S.O.S

I was just outside with my dogs, and I looked up at the sky. I look up at the sky every time I take the kids out at night, because I love the stars. I always have. Tonight, I was looking up, thinking about how, as a child, my night skies had more stars than the night skies do now. I know, of course, it's due to environmental pollutants and what have you, but it made my heart hurt to think, just for a second, that it might be because the stars were dying out. One more species of shiny things our human existence has extinguished.

In any event, I stood there thinking about the night skies of my childhood, and I recalled something.

I was around nine when my father started molesting me. That makes little difference to this recollection, other than the awareness of how young I was.

I loved the stars back then, as I do now. Maybe more. Back then they held the hope of freedom for me. Shortly after everything started, I would go out into my front yard at night with a flashlight, and I would turn it on and point it at the sky. The beam seemed to go on and on forever, and I was certain that Captain Kirk would see it. He'd come investigate of course. He'd have to - something like a strange beam into space wouldn't go unnoticed. He'd investigate, and I'd tell him what was happening, and he'd believe me, and he'd take me away to somewhere safe, where no one would hurt me anymore.

But night after night, no ship came. I got it into my head that I needed to learn Morse Code. You see, I'd surmised that the reason Captain Kirk never responded to my distress call must be because he didn't know it *was* a distress call. If I could learn Morse Code, it would be crystal clear.

I'd forgotten all about that, until tonight. I never did learn Morse Code.