vi.sualize.us

I am a dreamer. Head in the clouds and feet always steps ahead of tomorrow. This lack of attentiveness to the daily minutia of adult responsibility has caused no end of concern for those who care about me. I have never been very good at the whole 9-5 job thing—preferring instead the flexibility that comes with freelancing. I like to set my own hours, work at my own pace (that old adage “If it weren’t for the last minute, I’d never get anything done,” was written with me in mind), take vacations whenever I want, and always fit in a nap in the afternoon. I’m a big proponent of the siesta.

There are down sides to this particular way of life, however, and the main drawback is that there are definite times of feast and times of famine. When I moved back down South I landed a really wonderful contract design position that lasted just over a year. The work was great, I only needed to commute three days per week, the campus was beautiful, and the people I worked with were even better. But, as with all good things, it came to an end just a week before my wedding. I’d had my time of feast and little did I know, I was about to embark on the worst time of famine I have ever experienced.

My last check paid the last of the vendors. There were no pennies left in the coffers. We were bone dry. Just enough. We cut back as far as we possibly could and then we cut back some more by changing our honeymoon plans at the last minute. I held on to promises made from previous and prospective clients that work would be waiting on the doorstep upon my return. I came back to dry and brittle leaves and tales of cutbacks and delays. I began to come around to the reality of my situation: I had no job. I had no money. Li and I, not yet living together, still had to maintain two separate homes and I was already behind in rent and utilities. I looked at my child and thought, “Now what?”

I started applying for everything. Overqualified. Overqualified. Overqualified. Not to mention the number of scam artists out there that prey upon the millions of unemployed. Oh, the vitriol I spewed upon those who take the underprivileged for granted. As freelance work started to trickle in, I knew my situation would be temporary, but the plight of this country is far from over and I became infuriated at the sheer gall that anyone would try to rip off someone desperately looking for an honest day’s work.

As the days turned into weeks and kind-hearted friends began to quietly press handfuls of bills into my palm at church services, I wept in humiliation and slept in long bouts of depression. A dear friend sent me an email with a list of emergency services in the area that help those who cannot help themselves. It was two weeks before I finally pulled out the cardboard box containing all of my unopened bills that I knew were red-stamped for discontinuation of service. I would rather have faced a firing squad than faced what was in that box. An idealist doesn’t want to know that the reality of the situation is that they can no longer support herself or her child—even temporarily. She doesn’t want to admit that she’s reached the bottom of the barrel yet again and in order to pull herself up she’s going to have to swallow every ounce of pride and join the ranks of those who line up early in the morning to tell her story and lay her financial soul bare and hope and pray for the compassion of strangers. She doesn’t want to work a part-time, seasonal retail job for $7.75 an hour for the next two months to put a few presents under her kid’s Christmas tree while she waits 30 days for her freelance work to start paying off. What she wants is a miracle. What she gets is a friend who is willing to drive her there and sit with her during the whole ordeal.

So I found myself at the mercy of the volunteers at Crisis Control Ministry at 8:30 a.m. on a Friday morning. Armed with a legal pad, pen, and a blue folder containing all of the necessary paperwork, I was called into one office after another. Repeatedly telling my story of how I came to be there and why I needed help. Me. I needed help. My gut churned and a hard lump remained firmly planted in my throat. The physical manifestation of my abject humiliation. Just one in a room overflowing with humanity in need. Eventually, someone came to me with two checks. My heat would stay on. My water would keep running. Their lack of private funding prevented them from doing anything about my rent. So they gave me a list of other places I could go and I thanked them profusely and found myself shuffled into another room with a shopping cart placed before me.

Wait. What? I’m the woman who volunteers as often as I am able. I’m the woman who donates to food banks on a regular basis. I’m the woman who serves meals to the homeless and hungry. An unsmiling, tired woman with a clipboard is pointing out a shelf of canned goods and telling me how many dented cans of green beans I can take. I wanted to turn and run. I didn’t want this kind of charity. And then, somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny little voice of reason spoke up and reminded me that I would not see a real check until mid-December and I had a child to feed.

I swallowed past the lump in my throat and backhanded the tears. I took the green beans and waited for my next instructions.

The following night our church held a concert benefitting a local food bank. The price of admission was at least one non-perishable food item. It has been a long-held belief of mine that you give even what you don’t have and so we showed up that night with four plastic bags of groceries. I sat in the second pew and watched the piles grow as my son took the cans, boxes of pasta, and macaroni and cheese from the parishioners and artfully arranged them. Everyone remarked at the bounty we had gathered. But my heart ached because I had the experience of being on the other side, of seeing how many people in just one morning needed assistance, needed help paying their bills, needed food for their tables—and just how small that storeroom actually was and how quickly those supplies dwindled. Our bounty wasn’t bountiful enough. It was but a drop. I closed my eyes and thanked God for giving me the opportunity to learn this lesson in humility and need, but also to know first-hand the lack of support we have in this country to fulfill the needs of the millions that are unemployed and underemployed.

I got my instructions that night: Pay it forward, child, pay it forward.

vi.sualize.us

It was the last full day of our honeymoon. We spent the morning trail riding through the Smoky Mountains. The weather was perfect, as it had been all week, 75 degrees and not a single cloud to mar the robin’s egg color of the Tennessee sky. This was our second day in Cades Cove and we’d only seen a single wild turkey during our ride. We made occasional small talk, a few chuckles at my vain attempts to urge my lazy nag into a trot to keep from being run over by a much larger stallion on the way down a very steep decline.  For the most part we basked in the listening silence of the primordial forest, broken only by the flick of a tail, the twitch of a mane, and the crackle of the dry, fall leaves under our beasts’ heavy hooves.

We ate sandwiches out of the car, pulled over by a steep ravine. We talked of how we could have ridden all day. My inner thighs were sore and I was still getting my land legs back. Li got out to smoke a cigarette and I took a few pictures with my ancient Cannon. Lacking the immediacy of a digital camera, I still thrill to the surprise of picking up my photos at the drugstore, holding them in my hands. Tactile things, memories that I can place in an actual book to peruse on rainy days for years to come.

We returned to the 11 mile loop of Cades Cove, bypassing the buildings we’d stopped at earlier in the week. It was Saturday and the tourists were out in droves. We crept along at a snail’s pace. Bumper to bumper. I opened my window and slid in a CD of southern hymns played on the hammer dulcimer that we’d picked up at the Craftsman’s Fair the day before. Strains of Wayfarin’ Stranger echoed from our old Subaru and out into the early afternoon as we inched forward through the checkerboard. Light. Shadow. Light. Shadow.

It wasn’t long before we came across a huge field, empty save for one large fallen tree. It was long dead and stripped bare of its bark. The limbs were gnarled and created amazing shapes that criss-crossed one another. It begged to be photographed and Li stopped the car at the next pull-away. We both got out and started across the field. She was ahead of me as I stopped to take some shots of the breathtaking mountains flanking the fields all around us. They cradled us and I felt intense peace and happiness. Until I heard barking. Barking made by humans. Boys. Not young boys. Older boys. Young men.

I froze. I couldn’t turn around. I didn’t know which of us this abhorrent sign of disrespect was directed at but I was no longer standing in two feet of grass in a Tennessee field on a perfect day celebrating the culmination of the best two weeks of my life. I was 12 years old. I was walking down the hall of my elementary school. Lockers on one side, classroom doors open on the other.  A water fountain.  A group of boys. Faceless. Nameless. I am in that horrible awkward pre-teen phase of life. Large, thick glasses adorn my thin face with its mouth full of metal braces, I wear a plaid skirt that just skims my bruised and knobby knees, I remember knee socks white with blue stripes and feet clad in something we called earth shoes. Whatever I wore on top doesn’t matter. I was flat-chested, late in life to bloom. All angles, greasy hair, desperately unhappy, and…being barked at on my way to my next class.

The idyll was broken. Shattered. I forced myself to walk toward Li. Mechanically, I lifted the camera to my face. I framed a photo of the downed tree. Snapped a few shots. We spoke little. I looked at her in her cowboy hat and riding boots. No hips or breasts to speak of. Broad shoulders and wiry musculature. Certainly, they could not have, without hearing her voice, perceived her as female. No one ever does. So, was it me? Self-doubt and humiliation flew all over me. A lump settled somewhere between my stomach and my throat. I fled back to the car and rolled up the window. I wouldn’t look her way. I couldn’t. Hot tears flowed down my face. My breath hitched raggedly. Li gripped my hand. She was angered in ways she couldn’t express. In a single instant everything felt ruined. We had gone from being surrounded by an enormous amount of love and acceptance to…this.

Eventually cars pulled away and we caught up to those boys with only two cars between us. My focus became nothing but those boys. Teenage rednecks sprawled foolishly atop a compact car. Three boys and one girl with long black tresses, leaning back, laughing, kissing her boyfriend. I felt the hate as it bubbled up within me. I willed them to pull over so I could get out and get it out of my system. I needed to speak to them. I first thought of all of the hurtful, angry things I could say to them. Then I thought of all the witty things I could say, those things that would go right over their heads, lost on them but gratifying to me at least. Those things I could gloat about later. Laugh about with my friends.

I was solely focused on that car. Those boys. I stopped looking around me. The day was waning. Late afternoon and I had let those boys live rent free in my head for the better part of the last day of my honeymoon. They never did pull over. At one point a black bear crossed the road directly in front of their car and I inwardly chastised myself for hoping that it would drag one of them off into the woods by his sneaker clad ankle. I often say that hate is a wasted emotion and when it wells up in me I am reminded of why that is. It is a bitter black bile that hurts to swallow. That day…that day that should have been a perfect day…was marred by a little catcalling by some teenage boys who probably never gave it another thought. Boys who had no idea that their actions carried with them the weight of 34 years of emotional scars. Boys who, I hope, will someday learn that their silly little games and hoots, hollers, and barking, actually do hurt people and , perhaps someday, they may be on the receiving end of that hurt and may think twice before they do unto others.

We processed the events of that day together. And alone. I am still working out my issues surrounding those events. I suspect Li is as well. Her story may be quite a different one. I hope she tells it.

The real plot point of the whole fiasco is also the real reason I’m writing at this hour. The older of the two children has turned 18 and at the request of her brother, she makes a single phone call to the cryobank used to obtain sperm to create both children, and within days they are face to face with their bio-daddy (who miraculously lives in the same city, but that’s another contentious point). From then on, he becomes a central character in their lives, more than just a concrete face to go with a heretofore unknown name.

My own son was conceived in much the same way. Well, actually, the very same way. My then partner and I spent several years and an enormous amount of money trying to get me knocked up. Initially, we approached a friend to be the donor and were turned down–as he felt that he could never be truly hands-off when the child was born. In retrospect, this was a very good thing, as our relationship ended in divorce and the addition of a known donor who was also a friend might have made things much messier than they already were. For several years we exclusively used donors who were willing to be made known to the child when he or she turned 18, just as in the movie. However, when it came down to the cycle that resulted in the successful conception of my son, our top three choices were unavailable. Providence dictated that our son was conceived using a donor who had signed a clause stipulating that he was not willing to be contacted by any of his potential offspring.

As you can imagine, this movie–while I loathed the film itself–brought up more than a few issues for me. My son is young, not yet a teenager, just into double digits. He is, and always has been, fully aware of the nature of his conception. He has seen photos of his donor father. He has seen photos of a few of his half-siblings. At this point, he seems not to care. The circumstances of his birth served to bring him into an extended family of loving women. He has many friends who are being raised in similar circumstances and as far as I can tell, none of them are yet asking to know who their paterfamilias is. My child currently moves through the world easily and unashamed. He is very forthright about how he came to be. At 10, he is a bright student, a gifted athlete, and popular among his peers. He also has no qualms about his “three moms,” as he puts it and easily explains that his “mama” lives far away but they talk almost every day by phone. He is ever eager to share the news of his latest camping adventure with the cub scouts or the grades on his report card. When my partner had to pick him up from school one day when I was sick he was asked to identify her before they would let him leave with her. “That’s Li,” he said simply. The teacher said yes, but who IS she? He looked at her as if she had suddenly gone dull in the head, “That’s my MOM.”

Today, she is his “Maddy.” It is nearing dawn on Father’s Day. My son came to me on Mother’s Day with a dreamcatcher he had found in his room. “I want to give this to Li but not today,” he said, “today is Mother’s Day. I’ll give it to her for Father’s Day.” I just smiled and nodded. He identifies with her as the more masculine role in the family. She does the yard work, teaches him how to handle power tools, they work in the wood shop together, and go “man shopping” for my birthday and Christmas gifts. He has male role models in his life; some men have moved in and out of his life, some, like my father and my brother-in-law, are constant. But he is learning to be a man from my female-bodied partner. She is his “Maddy”; that strange combination of mother/daddy influence. When he has questions or concerns that are “boy-related,” he goes to her. She teaches him about loving and respecting women. She teaches him how to be the man of the house. Together, they exude this testosterone-driven miasma and until I recently acquired a female kitten, I often felt like the only woman in the house.

For now, my son has no interest in his biological father. When we talk of him, he quickly moves onto other, more interesting, topics of discussion. Meanwhile, I see this stranger’s face in the face of my child. His eyebrows, the shape of his mouth, his long and lean frame. I wonder what we will all do if he begins to exhibit interest in knowing who this man is today; if he will have questions as to why this stranger chose to father unknown children. In the meantime, I celebrate this day. I thank God for the chance I was given to bring this amazing child into the world, into my life, and into the lives of those who know and love him. This stranger, this unknown man, made a sacrifice (albeit a paid one) to provide me with the means to have a biological child. Whether we ever know who he is or why he did it, I will be forever grateful.

So, unknown donor man, I raise my proverbial glass to you. As we get together with my own father today, I will think of you as I watch my son play ball in the yard with his “Maddy,” and I will say a silent prayer of thanks for your assistance in this incredible creation. No matter what lies ahead of us, I am truly blessed. So, unknown donor man, I wish you a very happy Father’s Day. And no, I won’t be jumping in the sack with you, should we ever chance to meet.

Just in case you were wondering.

Several nights ago I decided to Google whatever information I could glean from the Internet. It’s a widely known fact that most of my knowledge is obtained from the digital ether. I determined that the blood streaks were coming from flea dirt. Yep, that would be the bloody feces left behind by a flea infestation. Now lest you think I should be reported for animal cruelty, let me tell you that my cat does not scratch; has only escaped the house three times in the past year and was returned to the house within minutes; I have seen no fleas on him, on our carpets, or anywhere else in the house for that matter (and I’ve had pets my entire life so I KNOW fleas!); in addition, none of the humans in the house have exhibited signs of bites. It’s really the last thing I’d have suspected.

Regardless, I determined to do something about the problem immediately.  A trek to Walmart yielded the motherlode of flea-be-gone products. Shampoo (that’s foreshadowing for you, in case you missed it), a three-month supply of drops, a new flea collar, and two de-foggers for the house. In spite of the fact that I’ve got a lovely case of the flu, my son and I embarked on the first mission. Shampooing the cat to kill any fleas, larvae, and eggs that might be residing in his thick coat of fur. I donned a grimy t-shirt over my capris, took off my sandals and cleared the bathroom of the throw rug and scale. I started running the water and grabbed the cat who immediately grabbed me back. Score one for Simon. (No, I did not think about gloves, long sleeves, or shoes…in retrospect, leather Falconer’s gloves might have been of some help but who knows?) As I used the washcloth to begin to wet him down he began the amazing and instantaneous transformation from housepet to Chupacabra. All gnashing teeth and bottle brush tail. His wailing could be heard for miles.

After escaping the tub once and slamming his head into the bathroom door in an attempt to get as far away from me as possible, I had the brilliant idea to get into the tub with him. Yep. Thus began the epic battle. Like the Frumious Bandersnatch, he extended his evil claws and cleared a runway in the top of my right foot. Blood swirled around us as I tried to manhandle my slippery feline into submission. Realizing I was no match for him either in strength or talons, he sunk two of his back claws into the fleshy part of the underside of my upper arm. Curved and honed into machete-like blades, they caught my veins and the skin around the puncture wounds turned black even before I could disengage myself. Meanwhile he worked away at other parts of the same arm and as I twisted away from him, I threw my back out.

Simon wins by a knockout. I didn’t even get a punch in. I stood panting in the tub, fur mixing with my own blood as it made its way slowly toward the drain. I hurt all over. The cat, meanwhile, sat in the corner, licking his wet fur and gazing balefully at me, daring me to try again. I gave up. I was beaten. My son gathered towels and I washed myself as best I could. Eventually I limped out of the bathroom and lay on the bed, ice on my puncture wounds. My partner, Li, arrived shortly thereafter to administer first aid. Concerned about possible cat scratch fever or blood poisoning she added insult to injury by washing me down in pure rubbing alcohol. I was not stoic about it.

I admitted defeat and mentally licked my own wounds as Li and my son applied the flea drops and encircled Simon’s neck with his new collar. As I write, he sits like a meatloaf, paws tucked under his massive body, grinning at me. The Cheshire Cat. Now you see him. Now you don’t. And nothing left but his victorious smile.

According to Wikipedia, that bastion of academic standards (cough, cough), the purpose of Lent is defined as “the preparation of the believer — through prayer, penitence, almsgiving and self-denial — for the annual commemoration during Holy Week of the Death and Resurrection of Jesus, which recalls the events linked to the Passion of Christ and culminates in Easter, the celebration of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ.” On this, the eve of Ash Wednesday, I have been doing some reflective thinking about the Lenten season. This, in itself, is unusual for me (reflecting on the Lenten season, not reflection itself as I do happen to utilize my gray matter on occasion); although I have been a spiritual person in one way or another all of my life, I grew up Quaker and we didn’t dwell much on the meaning of Lent as it leads up to that which I consider the holiest of the liturgical periods during the year. While there have been long periods in my life when I turned away from Christ because I felt that I, as a lesbian (a black sheep, a heathen, the one who stepped out from underneath the protection of  God’s umbrella) was not worthy of His love–I have since come to embrace my spiritual nature and celebrate the good works of God in my life and the lives of those around me. In doing so, I’ve discovered that while I love the Christmas season, it is that period from Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday that truly moves me. It is a highly emotional time for me: the anticipation that builds during palm Sunday, the mournful voices raised up in my favorite spiritual, “Were You There,” in the darkness of the Tenebrae, the bitters upon my tongue on Good Friday as I can almost feel the physical pain God’s son endured upon the cross and the anguished cry, “My God, My God, Why hast thou forsaken me?”

Then, there is the jubilation of Easter Sunday. The glory of the resurrection. The knowledge that all that is broken can be made whole again and that we can be redeemed not just that day but every single day of our lives. Would that I had a better understanding of this season. Despite attending church my entire life, I am no Biblical scholar. I cannot quote scripture, I do not read the Mystics, I cannot carry on an easy discourse of theology. I am humbled in my rough-hewn attempts to explain my thoughts surrounding this time of the year. But bear with me, I meant to talk about Lent.

Lent. “prayers, penitence, almsgiving, and self-denial….” Self-denial is what has always come immediately to mind when I thought of Lent. I did not begin the practice of giving something up for Lent until a few years ago–and frankly, it has never gone well. I’ve never made it 40 days without cheese, much less 40 days in a desert (either literal or figurative). I am an abject failure when it comes to self-control. This year, I vowed I would find something that I could give up for 40 days and stick with it. I wanted it to be meaningful, something that would be difficult for me, nearly impossible. It wasn’t until I received the monthly announcements from my church that I decided upon my own course of action. Our pastor wrote the following:

In the youth class on Sunday we spoke a bit about traditions in Lent of giving something up.  A fast from chocolate or meat or Dewey’s sweetcakes might just be the transformational sweet spot for you.  But this Lent there may be an invitation for us to “give up” something that is right in the path of our intention, our awareness of love and forgiveness.  This might just be a fast from inner self criticism that does not lead to constructive evaluation or a weekly Sabbath from internet/Smartphone technology replaced with intentional conversation.  This might be actually an intention to add one practice like a slow, mindful walk or attention to breathing at traffic lights, grocery lines, or washing the dishes.  Then, of course, the Carbon Fast is more than just an ethical endeavor; it may just help uncover a new place of joy and attention.

“…a fast from inner self-criticism…” The line hit me like a ton of bricks. I have been struggling terribly with my self-esteem of late. Oh, who are we kidding, I’ve been struggling with my self-esteem my entire life. However, in the nine months since I’ve moved back to the South, I’ve somehow managed to gain 20 pounds. That may not seem like a lot, but when you consider the fact that I am now 80 pounds heavier than I was when I graduated college, it’s a lot. When I realized I was fast approaching the 200 pound mark, I hit the panic button. I’ve agonized, cried, anguished, and generally thrown a giant pity party for myself loud enough for anyone within a 900 mile radius to hear. I look in the mirror and I think the most hateful, vile thoughts. I say things to myself that I wouldn’t say to my worst enemy. I have a deep sense of hatred for this body and automatically assume that the flaws I see immediately are picked up by anyone even glancing in my direction (that double chin, my stomach, the cellulite, on and on and on and on). It’s superficial and disrespectful. It’s a habit that has been ingrained in me for years and I abhor the energy I spend on such frivolity when there are people close to me dealing with life or death health issues; when there are countries at war and gas prices skyrocketing and our carbon footprint getting larger by the day.

This single paragraph from my pastor made Lent less of a time to be penitent and live in self-denial and more of a time to be truly mindful and nurturing in preparation for our rebirth. His words led me to decide then and there to give up self-loathing. My assumption, my fervent hope, is that by spending 40 days focusing on the affirmation of this vessel that houses my spirit, I may actually learn to give up this hatred of self altogether. I feel a sense of letting go, of hopefulness, of true intent. In the coming days, you, dear reader, may be hearing more of my affirmations–my coming to appreciate the temple of my familiar. In concentrating on this sense of self, I hope to let go of this concentrated self-absorption. In moving past the self-absorption, I hope to acquire a greater sense of peace with myself, my family, my spiritual journey, and the world around me. My intent is purposeful: to be reborn as a person of substance. Someone who has a better understanding and appreciation for all that this physical body can do for me here on the Earthly plane. I am awash in the possibilities that lay ahead of me. The coming days and weeks will no doubt be difficult and I may well stumble and fall back into the comforting habits of inner vitriol. But, as all is forgiven, I too shall know forgiveness. And I shall practice forgiving myself as I forgive others.

I am not going to be tempted into making jokes about Fat Tuesday. I will simply say this: We are given a great gift in this time before the Holy week. Use it wisely, be mindful, be present, learn from it, don’t dwell in self-denial, rejoice. Rejoice. Rejoice.

Dear Bug,

You are the one person in my world that I most need forgiveness from. You may not consciously be aware of the consequences all of my actions throughout your decade-long life have wrought upon you, but I ask you to forgive me now for all of the hours you will spend in therapy later in life. More specifically, I ask you to forgive me for all of the following and more.

Sweetheart, forgive me for not always giving you everything you ask for. I do everything in my power to give you everything you need, often foregoing many of my own needs or wants in the process. Forgive me also for constantly reminding you to be grateful that you do have what you need—there are so many that go without even the basic necessities in life, and you, my dear, have ever so much more than that. We are not wealthy. We are not even “well off.” But we are rich in our love and we have an abundance of the basics.

Forgive me for not always having the energy to entertain you constantly. I started trying to conceive you late in life and it took a while before you decided to set up housekeeping in my womb (three years, to be exact). At 46, I am a big fan of naps and I need to read to decompress. While I am happy to join you in a board game, a session of Rock Band, shooting hoops over at the school, or an outing to the park, I think it is important that you learn to entertain yourself as well. We all need time to be alone with ourselves and comfortable in that aloneness. If you can do that and do it well, you shall always be able to rely on yourself for companionship as you grow older and can never complain of “having nothing to do.”

Forgive me for passing my migraines along to you. I know you understand that I suffer from them frequently and you are so good about letting me take time out to recover. It is one thing that I’ve had to live with them since I was barely older than you are now, it is quite another to know that you’ve inherited that particular bit of nastiness from me. When I pick you up at school and your eyes are black, your face drained of color, and you lay down upon the seat as I drive you home, I know we are in for a long night. Stroking your hair as you dry heave over the toilet and then sleep the sleep of the dead, I curse the pain you are forced to endure at such a young age.

Forgive me for snapping at you sometimes (and yes, sometimes it feels like I’m always snapping). I do lose my patience. I hear myself when I am harsh and it hurts my ears as much as it hurts your feelings. Please understand that it is extremely annoying when you holler my name two dozen times from your bedroom because you are just too lazy to get up and get a glass of water on your own. It grates on my nerves when you ignore me whenever I ask you to do something (like put your toys away or pick up your dirty socks), but want to begin a heartfelt conversation the second I get on the phone with a client or good friend that I haven’t spoken to in weeks. I hate repeating myself and sometimes I feel like a total shrew when I just lose it and start yelling…but yes, sometimes I lose it and just start yelling. Forgive me. Someday when you have kids, you’ll get it.

Forgive me for not being able to give you the baby brother you’ve always wanted. Having you almost killed both of us. I never meant for you to be an only child and would love to have had another baby after you were born. It wasn’t meant to be. Physically, financially, or emotionally. We’ve been on our own (relatively speaking) for many years now. People have drifted in and out of our lives, but when the chips were down, it’s always been you and me, kid. I’m too old and tired to take on the responsibility of another child (especially a younger boy) at this point in my life. When you get a bit older, I encourage you to get involved in the Big Brothers program. Maybe you can provide another only child the opportunity to have an older, wiser, much cooler guy to hang out with.

I know there are many other things that I need to ask your forgiveness of, and they often creep up on me in the wee hours of the night when sleep evades me and my shortcomings surround me with taunts and jabs. I do want to ask you a big favor, however, and that does have to do with those that I’ve let into your life from time to time. I haven’t always made the best choices. You need to remember that parents are only human, and humans are fragile and often stupid creatures that think with their hearts and act from the gut. My instincts have often been wrong and for many years I was very, very selfish. I reached out when I was scared and lonely and latched on to the first person I thought would fill the hole in my heart and could help me make it through each day. I didn’t know enough to realize that only I could fix that which was intrinsically wrong with me, and that in the end, you were all I needed to think about while putting one foot slowly in front of the other. I know you bonded with people that abandoned you. I know you have a difficult time trusting. I know it has taken you a long time to get to the place you are now—a place of comfort, of openness, of happiness, of joy, and of peace with yourself and with me. You are wise beyond your years and you’ve experienced far more than any child your age should ever have to go through. Forgive me for ever giving you the impression that I was so weak that you needed to take control and parent me. I may not always seem entirely on the ball, bug, but I do my best. I will always be here to take care of you and I will do my best never to let you down.

I love you beyond words.

Your mom.

vi.sualize.us

As quick as the twinkle in Santa’s eye, our first Christmas back in North Carolina has come and gone. The tree will stay up for at least a few weeks—but the gifts underneath are now free of their colorful wrapping and await our attention to organization. Leftovers litter the refrigerator and my son plays quietly in his room with his new laptop computer (“Mom! This is THE BEST CHRISTMAS EVER!!!”). The world outside, caught in a fit of global warming, is blanketed in thick, heavy snow—threatening to knock out our power for good. Later, I shall brave the underplowed roads and risk life and limb in my ancient Subaru to get Li and bring her back here. The two miles that separated us last night seemed ever so much farther than the 900 that separated us for the first six months of this year.

Our plan this year was to be in the mountains from Thursday until Sunday. My parents’ second home offers room for 16 (tightly packed, of course), and I was looking forward to a warm fire, a complex puzzle set up, and my mother playing Christmas carols on her hammer dulcimer. The forecast altered our plans, however, and we spent Christmas Eve down the road with Li and her mother. The four of us, feasting on turkey and baked beans and potato salad, napping and then watching Bell, Book, and Candle (a Christmas tradition that I’ve kept since I was younger than my son is now) before heading  home to play Santa. Li graciously offered to eat the cookies and a few of the carrots set out for the reindeer although my son professes disbelief in Santa Claus now.

Christmas day found me waking in a panic, a mere 15 minutes before Li and her mom were scheduled to arrive. I’d anticipated being woken up at the ass crack of dawn and having to tame my child until 8 a.m. but I had to rouse him from a deep sleep and we rushed around like maniacs, opening the door still clad in bathrobe and bedhead. We took turns opening presents and dined on quiche and sweet rolls before they took their leave for an hour or two. When the snow began earlier than expected, we all decided to start our half-hour trip to my parents’ home at noon.

When I was younger (in my thirties perhaps—before I had a child of my own and began to appreciate the wisdom of my parents), I would accuse my mother (behind her back, of course) of trying to orchestrate Hallmark moments. I bristled when she wanted everything “just so.” Yet the older I got and the more I began to entertain, I craved similar times. There, in the warmth and beauty of the home I grew up in, I envisioned a minivan pulling into the driveway. I imagined my sister and her family getting out and my tentative steps out the front door. I pictured the two of us, with tear-streaked faces, hugging tightly and apologizing to each other over and over again.

But Christmas came and went. I never heard from my sister or spoke to my nieces and nephew. My mother never once said that she wished we were all together for the holidays. Years of reality has shown her that Hallmark moments can’t be created, don’t truly exist. We make our moments where we can—we usually find them in the most unexpected places. The easy laughter at the dinner table; the sudden hug from my child; Li’s warm hand reaching for mine as we open gifts; the tender goodnight spoken on the phone when the storm keeps us from being together on Christmas night. I can continue to hope for reconciliation, but hope is all I have. Someday, perhaps next Christmas or the one after that, maybe we will all be together. But family is variable and fluid—and in my world, right now, it is an ever-growing circle of love and peace and harmony.

The very nature of my religious upbringing centered around the idea of Peace on Earth and peace within. I have struggled most of my life trying to find the peace within. Like many, I have knee-jerk reactions to situations that offend my sensibilities and people that just plain piss me off. I tend to act first and think later, which seems to be a fairly universal theme that underlies violence in our society. If we, as a human populace, stopped for just one moment to think before we act, there is a very good chance our actions would be different. I believe very strongly in the words of one of my favorite hymns: “Let there be peace on Earth, and let it begin with me.” Likewise, I believe that we should “think globally, act locally.” Peace starts within and spreads like the most wonderful contagion.

It takes no effort to smile at your neighbor—even the one that glares at you when you don’t keep the grass mowed to their satisfaction. Stopping to let a car out at a difficult intersection takes a fraction of a second out of your day—even if they don’t wave in thanks. Talking to your child about how to deal with bullying at school in a non-violent way is crucial to their well being—even if you think he or she isn’t listening at the time. Reaching out to express your opinions in respectful discourse with someone who has an entirely different belief system is a powerfully moving experience—even if they stick firmly to their guns (so to speak).

These are but a few small gestures that we can make each and every day. Yes, we can rally for Peace. We can band together and raise our voices and try to make the powers that be hear us. Or we can listen to that still, small voice inside that tells us to bring it home. This is where peace begins.

And we pay it forward.

And it spreads.

If each of us can find the peace within, imagine how quickly viral peace will spread. Eventually, hopefully, we will find Peace on Earth.

I grabbed hold of you because I was terrified of being alone. I had not been single since I was 17 years old. I had suddenly found myself adrift with a young child and no steady income. I panicked. What I reached for turned out to be, not a branch to hold onto, but a viper with unbearably sharp teeth and venom that continues to suck the life out of friendships I once treasured. I never thought I was the kind of woman that would let myself be controlled by another human being. Within the span of 4 months, your lies, deception, blind anger, and jealousy provoked me to do things that were utterly against my nature. I turned my back on the very essence of who I was—who I thankfully returned to—and alienated people who were extraordinarily important in my life and the life of my son.

I never believed that I could be so naive, even in the face of hard evidence, that I didn’t realize what was going on under my very nose. I honestly thought you were sick. I took you to the emergency room time and again thinking that you were sick. I had no idea what you were really after when you’d ask me to leave you there and come back. I took care of your child—fed her, clothed her, and put her Christmas presents before my own utility bills after you got yourself fired while “sleeping on the job.” Sleeping, really? You slept all day, how could you have been that tired? Oh, you know I have all the answers now. I won’t ever know how you pulled it off but I thank God I finally found out and kicked you to the curb before you literally killed me.

In retrospect, I was probably already dying. At least metaphorically. I spent 4 months in constant fear—failing at my job while I tried to keep your temper tantrums at bay during my working hours. I wondered for the longest time how you managed to dredge up so much damning information about those close to me and then realized, not that long ago, that you weren’t doing background checks, you were reading personal letters and medical files on my computer when I wasn’t at home. The only good thing that came out of that entire mess was the fact that I lost 30 lbs. from September to December. I look at pictures from back then and my face is so thin—my eyes so haunted. While the weight all came back and then some, you would never believe how my eyes shine now.

I don’t hate you. I can’t. It was my choice to bring you into my life. I may have been completely vulnerable and a good patsy for your game, but God gave me free will and I should have been strong enough to exercise it once I realized the damage that was being done. I hurt someone so very dear to me—our romantic relationship had ended but it needn’t have gone the way it did. It took a long time to smooth that over and earn her trust again. I also lost a great many very good friends in the process. In particular, a group of truly wonderful men who I had the pleasure of sharing Sunday dinners with every week for years and years. We had shared vacations, birthdays, holidays, weddings, funerals, and even homes together. You tore me away from them. Likely they shall never forgive me, but I will never blame them for fleeing from a burning building.

Yes, having you in my life caused me the most pain I’ve ever endured. My life has been fraught with things/people/events I have cause to regret, but don’t. You, however, are my one regret. I can’t take back that time. I lost four precious months of my life and the damage that was done to my son was nearly irreparable. That is what hurts the most. And yes, that is all on me as well. He is finally, thankfully, happy and secure—he is finally able to trust again. I suppose in a way, I should thank you, I came out of that time a broken woman—I spent a week as an inpatient recovering from a massive nervous breakdown after you left. I was thin, scared, alone, and one day, not long after, found myself seeking welfare. Oh, how the mighty fall. But because of all of that, I grew up. I pulled up my big girl underpants and I learned how to become a mother to my child. I learned how to go it alone and do what needed to be done to put him first. Most importantly, I learned to watch out for people like you and to never, ever let anyone come into my life again with the sole purpose of exploiting me, controlling me, and tearing apart my life in order to step in and remove me from all my loved ones.

I hope you have found peace within you. I hope you have finally and honestly gotten clean and sober. I hope you never physically hurt anyone like that ever again (and if you do, I hope they kill you before you inflict that much damage—oh, but that would be ill will, wouldn’t it?). I also hope that you learn what true love really is. And, finally, I hope I never, ever hear from you again.

From the one who will never again be led astray.

Dear GLBT Teens Who Are No Longer With Us,

vi.sualize.us

It seems strange to write a letter to a group of young people who will never read this. The sad fact is, you’ll never read anything now. Not the next great American novel, not the next copy of Rolling Stone, not the next birthday card from your best friend. You opted out. Sounds harsh, doesn’t it? Yeah, well…I earned that right…been there, tried that, and lived to tell about it (trust me, there is a letter for this coming soon and I’m dreading every day that brings the writing of it closer).

I know that each and every one of you felt that you were taking the only possible step toward relief. I know that your life was a living hell. I know that others were making you feel utterly alone and completely freakish. I know you felt this was the only way out and your lives were never going to get any better. Really? You never stopped to think that perhaps this too shall pass and that maybe you were throwing away what might have been a truly full and incredible life? I get it, trust me, I totally get it.

Here’s the thing. Except for a lucky few BMOCs and prom queens, captains of cheerleading squads and football teams, high school is fraught with major suckage. Those four years were the worst of my life. My only saving grace was that I hadn’t come out yet. The knowledge was there—that base sense that I just wasn’t quite like 90% of the other girls—but I wasn’t ready. I was too busy running around killing off my lungs, liver, brain cells, and reputation in order to quell the unabated misery from a pretty traumatic freshman year. I wouldn’t try to hit the eternal snooze button until I was 28. Suicide wasn’t in vogue back then and frankly, I just never thought of it.

You, however, were driven to the point that you saw no other way out. You expected the rest of your lives to be filled with anger, harassment, violence, and discrimination. You couldn’t see past it. You couldn’t see that even though you might have to deal with some of that in the future, by taking your lives you were robbing yourselves of every single moment of happiness to come. And there would have been many. The GLBT community is tightly knit. We try hard to take care of our own. You had peer counselors to reach out to. You had your “elders,” those of us who’ve gone before you and taken the same kind of heat and come out on the other side. Each and every one of you had at least ONE person who loved you enough to mourn your passing and they would have been there had you reached out for a helping hand.

Do you want to know what you’ll miss? Love. There is someone for everyone and even if the moral majority views us as an abomination? We live for love. You missed out on finding your soul mate, your anam cara, your future husband or wife or significant other or partner. You may have had a family together. You may eventually have had grandchildren. At the very least, you’d have had a strong group of friends who would have laughed with you during the best of times and cried with you during the worst. But, you’ll never experience any of that, will you?

To your peers who are struggling with the idea of staying and toughing it out or just checking out now and standing down from all the bullshit—I say this: Think about one single moment in time that you would miss out on and tell me if it’s worth it. This time is fleeting. It may seem eternal, but it isn’t. It’s a blip in the continuum. A drop in the proverbial bucket. If you can’t defend yourself at the risk of being hurt at the hands of others, for God’s sake, please go to someone else for help. Find a family of choice, seek out the local Metropolitan Community Church and become part of the congregation, tag your friends, call the suicide hotline, get a therapist, talk to God.

You are not alone. There are millions of us out here and we have each dealt with discrimination in one form or another at some point in our lives. Those of us that are still here have learned to make the best of it, and let me tell you, as someone who tried and failed, I am so very thankful that I am still here. I am nearly 46 years old and I LOVE my life. As queer as it is, I thank God every single day for one more chance to live in this earthly realm and receive the bounty that has been given me.

To you who are no longer with us? We miss you. We do. I pray you haven’t died in vain and that others will know they are not by themselves in this. To you who are still here? Glory hallelujah! Stick around—it only gets better.

With so much love from a stranger who lived.