Sprained Wrists

If someone has a sprained wrist such that handshaking is painful, shaking their hand anyway because they should “toughen up” is being a jerk.  One should not feel ashamed by having an overly sensitive hand shaker.  Sprains happen.  One does not choose to be hurt by shaking hands.

Many people have the emotional equivalent of a sprained wrist.  Things said that would give others a chuckle insults and hurts them.  They lash out   They seek to humiliate in retribution.  Because they have been so shamed for their over-sensitivity, because they’ve told they are weak because of their thin skins, just pointing out their sensitivity often hurts as much as the original insult.  But, as with the sprained muscle, there is no shame in having triggers.  One cannot heal by simply “toughening up” or “chilling out.”  Healing, especially emotional healing, takes time.

It is the responsibility of others to be aware of these tender points and to be as careful with their words as one would take care not to vigorously shake the hand of sprain victim.  It’s not about walking on eggshells.  It’s about not adding to the hurt.  It’s about not being a jerk.  If they post weepy pictures on Facebook or call you “horribly vile,” one should not be angered, complain about “political correctness,” or call them a “pussy.”  Take that yelp of pain for what it is, an invitation to shut the fuck up. 

Just as those with sprained wrists should not attend hand-shaking parties, those with triggers should not attend events where those triggers are likely to be…um…triggered.   To go to event where jerks are likely to be jerks in order to righteously lash out at them is itself a jerky thing to do.  

Those with emotional sensitive spots should also recognize that, outside of comedians, most people aren’t assholes and don’t want to hurt you.  They’re just people…people who make mistakes.   And unlike computers, people can’t be simply programmed to change their speech, especially if insensitivity to your trigger is (pun warning) a “gag reflex.”  They have to be trained not to worsen your injury…sort of like puppies.

Guy Fawkes Day 2017

It important to remember on this Guy Fawkes Day that our current troubles are not a recent development.  The support for and tendency towards Oligarchy has been in place from the very beginning of this country…put there in no small part by the very Alexander “fuck the poor” Hamilton that is revered so much of late.  Consider these excerpts from the Workingmen’s Party Declaration of Independence of 1876:

The present system has enabled capitalists to make laws in their own interests to the injury and oppression of the workers.

It has made the name Democracy, for which our forefathers fought and died, a mockery and a shadow, by giving to property an unproportionate amount of representation and control over Legislation.

It has enabled capitalists ... to secure government aid, inland grants and money loans, to selfish railroad corporations, who, by monopolizing the means of transportation are enabled to swindle both the producer and the consumer ....

It has allowed the capitalists, as a class, to appropriate annually 5/6 of the entire production of the country ....

It has therefore prevented mankind from fulfilling their natural destinies on earth -- crushed out ambition, prevented marriages or cause false and unnatural ones --has shortened human life, destroyed morals and fostered crime, corrupted judges, ministers, and statesmen, shattered confidence, love and honor among men, and made life a selfish, merciless struggle for existence instead of a noble and generous struggle for perfection, in which . equal advantages should be given to all, and human lives relieved from an unnatural and degrading competition for bread ....

FTS

A recent blow to my ego from a family member triggered a shit storm of self-hatred. Some days are worse than others, but it never goes away. 

It's not depression. I know depression well. Depression is an emptiness, flatness. Depression is the absence of emotion. It's like soul death. This is different. It's raw unadulterated fury. This is fiery hatred and disgust with my existence.

This is a fire and brimstone preacher unrelenting in their condemnation of me to hell.  I'm fat and can't move without difficulty. I'm isolated and alone because no one can stand to be around me. I'm a trans freak. I can't write for shit. Thinking that my work (writing, comedy, or art) has any value to anyone is complete self delusion. I am utterly inconsequential and could disappear for months before anyone even noticed I was gone.   No one will even read this blog entry. 

I'm trapped and can't get away from this tormentor.  I can't seek "professional help" because I'm one of the "fell through the cracks" people without insurance.  Retiring early did get me away from all the bigots that made my life hell, but it also cut me off of having funds to deal with any of this. 

I'll just have to slog through it on my own.   I know that well too.  

Happily Ever After

People sometimes ask me why I am not interested in living forever. I tell them that my life has been like a great movie, with a definite beginning, middle, and end. Living forever would be like seeing a movie that just doesn't quit and goes on and on. The tedium of that eventually overshadows what thrills and laughter might have happened in the main part of the film until all you can remember is the tedium.

Life pacts

When my son Dylan was born, I stayed right next to him for his first hour as he passed around from one neo-natal room to another. He was confused and frightened, and he held my finger as though it were a life preserver. As I tried my best to assure him that everything would be all right, I was struck with an almost mythic feeling that we were now tied to a great circle of life. As I comforted him as he came into the world at one end of the cycle, I couldn't stop thinking about the two of us at the other end of that cycle, when he would be there to comfort me at the end of my life. Contemplating the profundity of this moment gave me great joy.

It occurs to me as I go to Iowa to see my father before he dies, that he and I are in a similar pact. As he was next to me when I came into the world, it is necessary that I be there next to him as he is leaving the world. There are no tears, except those of joy that this life cycle will have been fulfilled.

The girl who could fly

This poem came to me in a dream last night. I have no idea what it means, but for some reason, I weep inconsolably when I read it:
.
.
Though Lily had cherished her mama,
When she left they both started to cry
They embraced for they knew it was time to let go
For Lily had learned how to fly.

When she’d float down the street people loved her.
When she soared across town no one jeered.
When she raced with a jet they applauded.
When she charged into space people cheered.

But one day she stopped all her flying
For she heard a small voice in her head.
She floated down gently to Mama’s old house
And hovered there over her bed.

“Oh Lily, my love, I can see you.
I knew you would come if I bid.
You are there in the dark ceiling corner.
I knew that you’d come and you did."

Then the nurse came and asked “what’s the matter?
Take your meds. Are you starting to feel?
If you think it’s your daughter the end is quite near.
For a girl that is floating’s not real.”

“I am here,” Lily said. “Are you ready?”
Her mama then nodded, “prepared.”
Lily gathered her up and then silently rose
Through the roof just as though it weren’t there.

Mama’s house got increasingly smaller
As Lily rose up to the sky.
Her Mama just watched, “She’s so strong and so sure.
I’m so proud that my daughter can fly.”

“What color is heaven?” Mama asked her
Lily smiled “What shade do you think?”
“I’ve always liked bright friendly roses my love”
“You’re in luck then ‘cause heaven is pink.”

Lily passed through the last misty cloud bank
and they both looked across and were awed.
Mama held out her finger before her and stretched
And just touched the finger of God.

Alan Mead

I met Alan Mead in high school.  When I realized his sense of humor was as wicked and well...sophomoric... as mine, we became fast friends. Truth be known, though, he was always funnier than me.   Because we were part of a tiny group of males in the predominately female drama class, we were cast in nearly every production...often doing several parts.  We became a team.   When Mrs. Husted read off  who would play what part in "U.S.A",  we were doing so many parts that she eventually just said that the part of so-and-so would be played by "AJ."   The crowning glory of my high school performing career was "Mark Twain Tonight."  Alan, who was even more of a Twain freak than I, immediately volunteered to do the makeup.  The makeup he designed turned out to be as much of a triumph as my performance.

Alan and I nearly died together once.  We went on an ill-conceived hike into the Rincon Mountains ...in the middle of summer.  We both wound up suffering extreme heat exhaustion.  Had it not been for the kindly park rangers who took pity on the idiot children passed out by the side of the road, we might never have made it back.  When we were in bed recuperating from our ordeal, my sister teased us that half of our bodies was white and half was red.  Alan's response was "we're part Indian."

When Alan's family moved to Mesa, he stayed with my family to continue going to High School in Tucson.  It was a slightly illegal situation, but it took the Man six months to catch us.  For that six months that we lived like brothers the laughter never stopped.

Alan moved to California after High School.  He visited, although not nearly as often as I would have liked.  On one of those visits he came out to me as gay.   I was totally surprised but he said not to worry.  He was surprised when he found out too.  Unfortunately, I was also sad to learn he was gay...not because there's another wrong with it...but because the friend I had loved all though years was gone and I would never see him again.  I grieved for one day until I was able to accept this new improved friend and get to know him. 

Years later I was able to return the favor by coming out to him as trans.  (I'm paraphrasing here of course.  Trans wasn't a word back then.)  His only response was to warn me not to make it public knowledge because it could be used against me.   His "sayings of sooth"  were tragically prophetic. 

In High School, Alan promised me that on Jan. 1st 2000, he would come to my psychiatrist office (that's what I wanted to be back then....ironic huh?)  and announce that had come to see the "Sakeeatrist."   I don't remember what prompted this or even where he had come up with the word, but he vowed he would do it.   I looked forward to that time and was heart broken when the millennium came and went and Alan never showed up.  Since I just learned that he recently committed suicide, I guess now I can stop waiting.  

I will always love you, O greatest friend of my youth

Alan Mead 1956-2016