Gender - what is it good for?

I suppose this works as a follow up to the post I wrote the other day. The news of the day (well, really the last couple of days) is our public introduction to Caitlyn Jenner. The first moment I saw the cover and looked at Caitlyn I thought to myself, "She looks amazing!" What I saw was a woman who looked comfortable and confident in her body. When I watched the interview with Diane Sawyer, I saw something different, a person that looked uncomfortable. Perhaps this was partially projection on my side, but looking at the two side by side, there is a difference.

The downside to such a public transition is the very public voice that begins to emerge. Of course, in my news feed I see many comments of support. When I click on the various articles and links and look at the comments on them, a different voice is seen. People refusing to use the new name. Refusing to use the correct pronoun. People describing this as disgusting and against God's Will. And, of course, those who see this as nothing by a stunt to get more ratings.

My first experience with transgender folks was back in the late '90s. I was working for USWest at the time and one of my co-worker's husband was beginning to transition. As a male, he struggled with depression which fueled an alcohol addiction. He felt trapped in a life that wasn't right. He loved his wife, but hated his body and who he was. My co-worker had taken the job at USWest partially because she needed the pay it offered, but also because of the medical benefits it provided her spouse. These benefits included hormones and surgery.

This co-worker was the first I'd come out to at work. I was out in my private life and USWest had an LGBT employee organization that gave me the courage to be out at work too. After I told her, she had someone that she could open up to about what she was experiencing with her spouse. I didn't know really anything about transitioning. I especially didn't understand why someone would want to. I was raised as a boy and always felt comfortable with all of my bits and pieces. I couldn't really wrap my brain around the idea, but I lent a sympathetic ear.

The hardest part for my co-worker was that she wanted to get her spouse out of the house. Living in Helena, her spouse was terrified of going out. Of the looks and the comments. I left USWest and started managing a movie theater. It became their special treat with one another. They'd come during the week, when we didn't have many customers. They knew that I'd make both of them feel welcome. The first time I met my co-worker's spouse I was confused. I didn't know what to say or how to act, but I smiled and thanked them for coming in. I keep using the word spouse because that was how they preferred to recognize each other.

I understood immediately why her spouse was afraid to go out. She had a very masculinized body, even after being on hormones for quite sometime. She told me on one their nights out that she hated that all anyone saw was a man in a dress. I told her that I didn't see her that way and she told me I was sweet. But it was true. I didn't see her as a man in a dress. I saw her as a woman. With tears in her eyes, she kissed me on the cheek.

After I moved to Missoula, I had the good fortune of meeting other people who were in various stages of transitioning. I still didn't understand it, but I supported them. I made a few stumbles, mixing up pronouns or deflecting my own insecurities and lack of internal understanding with my usual off-color remarks. One particular moment of stupidity on my part came when I asked a friend if she planned to have surgery. She said she wasn't sure and my brain hit a speed bump. Until then, I thought the end goal of transitioning was complete transformation. I made a remark, which I won't repeat here, that ended up ending our relationship. It wasn't my intent to insult her or hurt her. I reacted without thinking. It has been years since it happened and I still feel utterly ashamed of it.

The first moment of understanding happened when I had my first complete physical examination from a doctor. I was thirty at the time, which probably sounds odd that I was that old before having a physical. I was never involved in any athletics or other activities which would require it and I had never thought to actually schedule an appointment to have one. After the urging of my husband, we agreed to do it together. Our doctor's office let us set up back to back appointments with our doctor and he examined us together. I was the first one of us to have to "turn his head and cough," and that was when it happened. He couldn't find my testicles. I was horribly embarrassed in the moment, especially when he looked up at me and asked why I had never noticed that I was different, given that I am a homosexual man and likely had seen other men. I figured everyone is a little different and just chalked it up to genetics. He eventually found them, but was concerned and ordered an extra set of tests.

When my lab results came back, I met with the doctor again. He explained that normally a male should have a testosterone level of between 300 - 1000. Mine was 60. Another round of tests looking at the pituitary gland and other areas that could affect it showed those levels as normal. He said it was possible that I was XXY. We could run tests to confirm it, but they'd be expensive and my insurance wouldn't cover it. This visit was the first time I had heard the term intersex and he used it to describe me. He wasn't convinced that I was XXY as I lacked many of the tell-tale body signals for it, including the fact that I had quite a bit of body hair. Before meeting with me, he had contacted an endocrinologist and showed him the test results and the recommendation was to treat me as if I was XXY and put me on testosterone replacement.

I remember trying to reconcile myself as intersexed. Up until that moment, my understanding of myself was that I was born male, I was raised male, I felt male. I had a rough time growing a beard, but had long attributed it to the Native American genes I'd inherited from my father. I had some struggles at first, but resolved that I was male. There was no question in my mind about this at all.

This changed a couple of years ago. It was a particularly icy winter day. As long as I can remember, I have been terrified of icy conditions, always afraid I was going to slip and crack my head open. I got to the bottom of my stairs and slipped on a patch of ice landed on the right side of my butt. After a couple of failed attempts, I struggled to my feet. I walked around the corner of my building to my car. As I stepped off the curb, my foot found another patch of ice and down I went, landing the same way as I did before. I was frustrated, cold and wet as I pushed myself up. I drove in the early morning darkness to work. I noticed I was running late, I tried to walk quickly and carefully towards the office doors. I saw the glimmer of another patch of ice and figured I would try to get to the get around it, but missed the snow covered ice patch in from of me. Down I went, but this time with more speed and force. Like the previous two times, I landed on my right side. This time was different. As I got up, I felt like I had taken a swift kick to the groin and my stomach was in knots.

I told the security guys about my fall and had to write up an incident report. I reported it to my supervisor and she gave me the Worker's Compensation information. I told her I was certain that it wasn't necessary, but took it anyways. The whole day was one of general pain, as anyone who has been kicked can attest.

I didn't realize anything was wrong until I got home and started a shower for myself. I saw the dark bruise along my thigh from my wallet chain. I could see each link in the bruise. As I started to wash up, my mind became aware even if I didn't want to be. Two things were missing. They might be different from other males, but I knew where they should be and they weren't there. My testicles had vanished. I was too embarrassed to insist on going to the ER, figuring a trip to Urgent Care in the morning would be ok. I was in shock. I couldn't really think. The next morning, the doctor confirmed they were not where they should be. After a trip to radiology to get an ultra sound, I was told by a student technician, a regular technician, and then a radiologist that they couldn't find both of them. The radiologist did find one, but not where it should be. Returning to Urgent Care, the doctor said that they may have retreated and the trauma may have caused swelling. He gave me some NSAIDS and sent me home. I dubbed this whole even "Finding Nemo," only we still hadn't found them.

I scheduled a follow up with my doctor for a few weeks later. They had moved, but still hadn't returned home. The doctor felt around and eventually found both of them but was unable to get them to go back to where they should be. He let me know that both of them were dislocated, something I didn't know could happen. It is rare, but can (and clearly does) happen. My doctor's initial assessment was that since they seemed to drop down to regulate temperature, it could be left as is. We could also set up surgery to pull them down and stitch them into place. The last option was to have them removed, since they weren't doing their normal job anyways. He cautioned that if they stop regulating temperature, it may lead to testicular cancer, at which point removal would be the only viable option. To date, I haven't had any surgery.

The accident brought back up the questions I had about my sex. Now, part of my external was missing. It created a good bit of dissonance for me. Inside, in my mind, I felt male. Outside, in my body, I felt distinctly not male. Given their size, I was surprised that it could feel so different, but it did. Over the years I have questioned myself if I'd feel more male if I had them pulled back into place. Or should I have them removed and see if replacement would work. Since I haven't done it, I don't know, but the veil had been pulled back for me. I realize that this isn't quite the same for transgender folk, but I started to understand. The accident dropped my testosterone level even lower (putting it at 40). I felt externally more akin to the doctor's diagnosis of intersex. But, that isn't who I am inside.

My mind started to settle when I took a class on Gender, Race, and Class. Added to this, I also took a class focused on Queer Theory. Through these classes and by reaching out and talking to my friends who are transitioning, I started to consider sex and gender differently. I realized that I could be intersex and male. That the bits didn't define how I, or anyone else, had identify or express themselves. I can be masculine most of the time and have my feminine moments and still be male. People transitioning don't need to have surgery. The goal, at least as I have come to understand it, is to be happy and healthy and be who you are supposed to be. And, ultimately, to have the world see you for who you are.

I have to thank all of my friends of all sorts of genders. I know I haven't always been the quickest learner. Sometimes, as much as I'd like to just be able to understand and empathize/sympathize, I need to experience some part of it. All of you have been wonderful about answering questions, especially when I have felt awkward asking. I have always felt like we have grown into a culture that is too afraid to ask personal questions. Sometimes the answer, isn't any of our business. And I am always ok with the answer of  "None of your business, Will." But, for me at least, the easiest way I can understand to question. To take the answer and mull it over and take into me all of what I can of it. Sometimes, it leads to more questions. Other times, it clicks and I get an "AHH GOT IT!"

I decided to write this after seeing so many hurtful comments out there about Caitlyn and others in transition. To me it seems odd. As we grow up, we change. For me, I have changed names a few times. I was Cody for a while (and still am to my family). I have been Bill. Most of the time, anymore, I am somewhere between William and Will. And when I am especially Irish, I am Liam. I am not the same person I was when I was 6. Nor am I the person I was in my twenties. I can't even say that I am totally the person I was three years ago, before I started school. At no point, was I ever met with resistance about my changes. No one ever told me that it was disgusting that I had changed. Nor was it unnatural. Or against God's Will. Now, admittedly, these types of changes aren't the same as people who are transitioning. And most people, looking at me, wouldn't know that I am classified as intersex. But, I feel like people should accept the changes people make in themselves. It takes a good deal of courage to be who you are. Love them. Accept them. Support them. Even if you don't fully get why they might have changed-- because life is too short and precious to fill with hate.

Embodied Identities and Social Othering

I would never consider myself an attractive person, in general. Certainly there are people that find me to be, my husband being one of them, and I am thankful for that. But, I just don't see it. Our appearance is the first thing people judge when they see us. Even if we consider ourselves fairly open minded, our brain is studying the body as we come into contact. The body language we emote is being mirrored in the observer's brain and attempting to relate. We also spend a good deal of time looking at each other's faces and especially the eyes of another person. Whether we are conscious of it or not, our brain is attempting to classify, identify, and understand each other by looking at one another's bodies.

I saw a meme recently that really got me thinking about appearance:

This image bothers me because I identify more with the image on the left. Attractive, non-geek/nerds, have said similar things to me as I was growing up. But, at that time geek wasn't chic, so I am sure even if I was attractive I'd have caught hell-- probably more so because I was break attractive protocol and operating outside of my designated areas. Yet, now that we are in a world that has embraced the geek and is profitting from people's geekiness, here we find a terrible othering that is happening. 

I will not say that I am an absolute expert on cultures, but it is one of my areas of study. Biologically, we are more apt to be attracted to attractive partners as they are often more fit and our offspring will benefit from the coupling with such a person. Additionally, related animals (even humans) are more likely to be altruistic towards members who have high fitness. I suppose it is important to clarify that fitness in this sense isn't necessarily your ability to run a three-minute mile and then immediately go for a swim and then bike. But, rather fitness in this sense is actually our ability to produce offspring that will survive to breed and ensure genetic material is passed to subsequent generation. Altruism in this case, especially among related folks, helps ensure familial genetic information moves forward. But, what is beautiful and attractive cane be quite different from culture to culture and region to region. 

What is frustration, is that when something is not identified as beautiful culturally, we (at least as Americans) tend to reduce them, othering them and separating those who are not from those who are. These physical characteristics which we may or may not be able to change become part of our embodied identities. I was recently talking with a co-worker. She and her daughter had gastric bypass surgery done a year and a half ago and her daughter has had some startling changes happen for her. Since the surgery, this young lady has lost over 190 pounds and looks great. But, she still has her big girl attitude and has made the comment that she just could never be a "skinny bitch." For this young lady, her size had become part of her identity, yet now without the size, she retained the identity and attitude that had been forged from it. 

Being a person of size, people have often asked me if I had considered weight loss surgery as a way to get healthy. My immediate reactions are: just because you have lost weight doesn't make you healthy and currently, other than my testosterone serum, all of my numbers are fine. This includes my heart rate, blood pressure, and my body chemistry. I have thought about surgery and each time I remember I have spent 36 years in this body, it is part of who I am and how I see myself. Drastically changing it may not be the best for my mental health. 

In addition to my size, I also have noticeable psoriasis on my face, scalp, and ears. Each time I go to the doctor, usually the clinic on campus, I get the questions, "do you want something to help with that rash?" I explain that it isn't a rash and identify what it actually is. I previously was on medication for my psoriasis that made it less apparent, but with changes to my prescription coverage, this medicine is too expensive and I ceased treatment. We usually end up talking about alternatives and I explain that I am ok with the way it looks. I have dealt with people thinking that these red areas are sun burns or, worse, something that is contagious and treated like I am infectious, even after explaining what it is. But our preoccupation with the external causes many folks to question why I don't "do something about it." They feel that it is gross and, by extension, I am gross for just letting it be. 

Returning to the picture, we see two young women. Both with glasses and both with longer hair. The acceptable one is depicted as blonde and slim, even athletic. The othered is shown with red hair, which currently seems to be an "in" hair color even if gingers are socially discussed as soulless. The one characteristic that seems to make the young lady on the left "unattractive" is that she is a bigger girl. Admittedly, having her hair pulled back also conveys a look that suggest her hair is oily because of its sheen. We can't see enough of the left's clothing style, but it can be difficult to find "trendy" clothes when you are plus sized. Without being able to talk to the girl on the right, we don't know if she is poser-geek or geek for chic, but if we approach from the idea that these two are equally nerdy/geeky, with similar tastes in TV shows, video games, table top gaming, etc, then the only things that really differentiates them is a few pounds and the ability to find "attractive" clothes that flatter their body. Yet, these incredibly superficial things create a privileged identity for the young lady on the right and the other is a marked other, who is diminished verbally and socially othered and shamed. 

This doesn't just happen for women either. There is another co-worker who is animatedly into anime. During his breaks, he can be found pacing from the cafeteria to the cozy nooks near the books, cellphone to ear, talking about some aspect of his geeky interests. I remember one day, he was having a particularly loud discussion about Dragon Ball Z. The gentleman has dark hair that often looks greasy, glasses, usually some kind of unkempt stubble, nasalated voice, a shifting/shuffling gait that just adds to the perceived oddness of him. His clothing style is suggestive of thrift shop, but not in the Macklemore sense, but rather colors and styles that have fallen from popular and hispters haven't re-trended them. This particular day I became conscious of the ways I was internally othering him. The nasalated voice and his gait particularly affected the way I thought of him and I caught myself thinking this is what the world sees when they think of geeks. In that moment of awareness, I realized that I was doing the same thing that I wished others wouldn't do about me. And I wondered, if he looked different, would I think differently of him than I did in that moment?

We can't always control our thoughts, but I would challenge you -- just as I am challenging myself -- to try to be more aware of your thought process. How are you othering people in your thought and how would that be changed if they looked different? What do you normalize and what do you other? What modes of internal or external identity are privileged to you and which are marked and are cast out or aside? I know a few in my circle that will socially say that they see everything as equal, but you might be surprised when you take a step back. I have found that the people that are most interested in free thinking spend most of their time trying to get others to think like themselves, because they have privileged their own thoughts and others anyone who doesn't agree with them. 

Reflections -- Gazing and Understanding

This last week has found me much in my head. I suppose I spend most of my time; or rather I spend all of my time here. All of the things I see, feel, experience and think all exist within my head. Most days, I feel like I am outside of myself, connecting and interacting with the people I come in contact with every day. Friends, acquaintances, professors, customers, random people I am never likely to see again. As I observe them, in my mind I am thinking about them. I wonder what they are thinking or feeling in that moment. What is going on in their world and in their mind.

Then, rather suddenly, I was pulled out of all of this. A friend, or rather a person I think of as a friend and exists as a friend in my mental framework, pointed out that he and I had only interacted once physically. The rest of our interactions have existed as text, passing back and forth through text and instant messages. We had been having a rather intellectual exchange over the course of a couple of days and then he pointed out that in all reality, he doesn't really know me.

It seemed incredibly odd to me. We have been talking for several years. Sometimes, there would be months where there was little contact, followed by periods of frequent communication. When we are talking, I am quite open about my thoughts and feelings and who I am (or, at least, who I feel I am). These are all of the same things I do with people I have physical contact with as well. Yet, he didn't really feel that we knew each other at all. And that got me thinking about how little I really know about any of the people around me.

Certainly, we know the parts of each other that we present as forms of self and identity. Yet, this is a singular dimension. It was in this moment that I realized that the only person I may be able to claim knowledge of is myself. I know how emotions feel to me, but I struggle often to describe them. For example, when I say I feel depressed, it is short hand for both an emotional feeling as well as physical sensations in various parts of my body, and a series of thoughts that occupy my mind. Yet, if someone else tells me that they are feeling depressed, I don't know what that feels like for them. And, I have learned that it isn't necessarily best to assume that their feeling is much like mine at all.

When we share an experience, such as a social experience together, I know how I feel being surrounded by the other people. Yet, I have no idea how the other people who are sharing the experience are feeling. What types of thoughts are they having? Are we experiencing it in any way that is comparable or really shared?

Feeling rather out of sorts about the whole line of thought, I reached out to another friend. He shared that he has similar ideas and expressed that, for him, it felt more like we are all little islands with a dark sea around us. Each of us has these lights on that show us that there are other little islands out there, but we can never build a boat and go to another island. We have to content ourselves with knowing the other islands are there. I suppose the best we can do is try to float messages in bottles to the other islands in an attempt to communicate.

All of this then made me profoundly aware of my self. I suppose for the bulk of thirty-five years, I have taken for granted that I am just a single mind, peering into the world through two eyes. Of course, I am aware of my body: the girgling tummy, the painful joints, the vibration in my shoulder and chest when I am happy. Despite all of these things feeling like me, they are all being observed by my brain.

People often remark that I am rather preoccupied if there is a mirror nearby. My eyes will dart towards my own reflection and I find myself gazing at my body. Exploring my appearance and trying to reconcile what I perceive with what I feel inside. When I realize that perhaps I have gazed too long, I try to return to looking at those around me, but always the pull of the mirror is felt. There are times when I see that part of myself and I can't make sense of it. Why is it that he looks so foreign and infinitely (and intimately) familiar? There is pleasure felt in gazing at my reflection, much like the pleasure in looking at other people around me. But, the pleasuring in looking at myself is somehow different and also somewhat disturbing. Not that I feel that I am unpleasant to look at, but that the practice of looking at one's self is unpleasant. That we should not look too much at our self. And, unless I am alone, I become quite self-conscious of my own self-gazing.

I don't know how it is for other people, but when I close my eyes and attempt to bring to mind the image of self, I look nothing like the reflection I see in the mirror. My inner gaze depicts me as smaller than I am, both in height and weight. My skin is both whiter and darker. My hair is redder and my beard fuller. I see myself as bigger in the chest, thick with muscles that spread to my shoulders. My legs are also more muscular. My eyes are brighter and my cheeks always seem a bit more red with dimples that appear when I smile. My complexion is clear, free of the scaling of psoriasis and other blemishes. My nose is unscarred.

As much as I try to look at myself in the mirror and introduce what I see to the inner self, nothing really changes. I find myself looking at the differences between what I see and what I feel and try to understand them. Always, I feel compelled to look away, though. That it is unnatural to desire to gaze and to understand. I don't feel this way about other people. In fact, I feel quite comfortable with looking at them. And, I am fine with them gazing back at me until I realize that they are doing so. Then, I become anxious. Which me do they see? Maybe they can see something about me that I can't see or make sense of? I don't know what they are thinking. I don't know how they feel. I only know how I feel and what I am thinking.

Maybe it is safer to not know. I am quite sensitive about things. Small comments made by others become much bigger in my mind. Yet, if there was some way for us to really know what each other are thinking, maybe I wouldn't be hurt by little comments. I'd realize that I am not so very different from those around me. I'd know that we all have these little thoughts about ourselves and about others that just happen. And I'd know it was ok to just be who I am. Maybe the world would be a better place if we didn't just look at things from our own perch -- from our own brain. Maybe we'd all learn to love one another for the beauty we bring to the world instead of being made to feel like we have nothing to offer. Maybe we can build little ships to visit all of the islands and we wouldn't have to be so alone in the dark.

How to get better often starts with seeking help

            Many people see me as a rather fun-loving, affable, bear. I’d say that most days this is a pretty spot on description of me. But, this isn’t necessarily true all the time. I have struggled with depression for as long as I can remember. The first time I had suicidal thoughts accompanied my realization that I was a gay male. I hated everything about me and I felt the world did too.

            When I was around seven years old, my father abandoned me. Well, at least that was what it felt like to me. My parents divorced when I was four. My mom brought my older brother and me to Helena to live with her mother. After a while, my mom and dad worked out an arrangement for visitation. I remember my dad dropping me off at JB’s, the hand-off spot my parents agreed on, and telling me, “If you’re a good boy, I will pick you up in a few weeks.”

            Sometimes it is hard being a “good boy” when you are eight. You try hard, but it always seems like there is some sort of hiccup in the plan. But, I figured I’d been pretty good, all things considered. Mom took me to JB’s a little before the scheduled hand-off to make sure I got breakfast. I had a hard time sitting still and I remember watching the cars through the windows waiting to see my dad. The waitress asked how I was. “Excited,” I replied. She asked why. “My dad is coming to get me.” I was beaming. A couple of hours later, I was getting hungry again. It was lunchtime and mom got me some more to eat. I could tell she was getting upset. “He’ll be here,” I said.

            By dinner time, my mom had given up. I begged her to let us stay. “If we leave, he won’t know where to pick me up.” I didn’t think he had our regular address. Mom was adamant. She reminded me that he had our phone number and scooted me out to the car.

            I sat in the back of the car, trying to think of all the things I’d done wrong. As a child, you don’t understand enough of the world. At least I didn’t. The cars passed by and I hung my head against my seat belt, the fabric digging in along my jaw, as I rested my head against the window. The cold from the glass filled every part of my insides. I couldn’t figure out how I had been bad.

            When my mom pulled into the drive way, I didn’t wait for her to turn off the engine before I unfastened my belt and dashed for my room. I could feel the tears boiling up from my gut and I didn’t want her to see me cry. I didn’t want anyone to see it. I ran for the safety of my room and locked the door. I couldn’t stop crying as I sat with my back pressed up against the door. My mom banged and begged for me to open the door and let her in. The truth is, I couldn’t let anyone in. My mom figured it would pass and eventually I’d get hungry and come out. I spent the next twenty-four hours crying, alternating between the floor and my bed. The whole time, I wrestled with all of my flaws. I was certain I was at fault. Not just for him failing to show up, but for my parent’s divorce as well. If I hadn’t come along, everyone would have been happy, I told myself.

            I cried until there were no more tears. The next evening, I came out of my room and went to the bathroom to wash my face. Despite the fact that I opened the door, I never really felt like I left the room.

            I cut myself off from my family at that time. I was certain that eventually my mom, brother, and step-dad would all realize how defective I was and would leave me. My child-brain rationalized that if I cut myself off from them, it wouldn’t hurt so badly when it happened. I took to asking my mom if she really loved me (something I unfortunately still do with my husband). I’d ask if she was going to leave me too. She always told me she wouldn’t, but I didn’t trust her.

            Of course, tied to the belief that they would leave was the paradoxical desire to keep everyone in my life. I was terrified of losing anyone. I spent years trying very hard to be everyone’s friend. I made bad decisions that got me hurt more often than not. But, my personal well-being didn’t matter as long as they still liked me. I let myself get taken for granted. When I was thirteen, I was raped by the person I considered to be my best friend. I didn’t tell anyone because I was afraid he wouldn’t like me if I did. I also never said no to him again after that night.

            Somewhere along the line, my understanding that I was defective grew into thoughts of death. They’d been there in that room. The thought of how much better everyone’s life would be if I wasn’t around. A voice sprung up from those thoughts that told me no one would even notice if I died. I would sometimes spend the day silently conversing with this voice about how to do it. The voice grew louder and I felt smaller.

            “No one really likes you,” it’d tell me when I was playing. I’d try harder to make them like me. I’d lie if I thought it made me sound cooler.

            “You’re too fat,” it’d tell me when I ate. I’d starve myself for a few days. Then I’d lose the weight.

            “You’ll never amount to anything,” it’d tell me when I dreamt about my future. I’d get good grades and then someone might notice me. But I felt like no one did.

            “No one likes a faggot,” it’d tell me when I saw a boy I liked. I’d date a girl and maybe she’d make me right.

            No matter what I did, the voice would always find a way to make it all seem so meaningless. I felt dead inside. Occasionally, I’d cut myself to feel something. I used to lie about it. It started with my hands. First the left one, by my thumb, but I didn’t cut deep enough. Then the one on my right, that scar is still visible. But no one noticed. Then I took to cutting across the bridge of my nose. When I cut, the voice was quiet. But when my parents would ask, I’d lie. I didn’t know how to tell them.

Eventually the voice won out. In my early twenties I let it beat me and I tried to take my own life. Thankfully, I passed out before I could finish. When I woke up, instead of slit wrists, I’d cut some Norse runes in my arm. I still can’t figure out how I did it. They meant “Strength,” “Honor,” “Victory,” and “Intuition.” I took it as a sign. Some part of me realized that the voice was wrong, but I didn’t know how to beat it. A few years later, I had those same runes tattooed on my arm. My pledge to myself not to let the voice win again.

I realize by this point, someone is thinking to themselves is this his way of saying goodbye. Not at all. All of this is to explain the hurdles I have had to clear to get where I am today. As most of my friends know, I started seeing a counselor this semester to work through some of this. While I may have a very conscious understanding that my suicidal thoughts and depressed feelings are simply a chemical imbalance in my head, the constant tugging of that voice has shaped how I interact with people. In my professional life, I have had a few experiences that added strength to the voice. It made me feel like I was broken and that everyone is constantly looking at me, judging every action and word. I didn’t matter what my intent was; only what they perceived as my intent. It made me second guess myself and intensified all of my social anxieties. There have been days where the only place I feel safe is in my home, away from the view of people.

Over the last several weeks, with help from the counselor, I have had an opportunity to work through many of these things. Where I used to view that room as the place when I realized I was broken, I know now that I wasn’t at fault. My dad made a decision to leave and that is on him, not me. Even when I did go visit him when I was fourteen and he told me I’d never be as good as Jimmy, my older brother and his first son, I know that is his opinion and doesn’t mean I am defective. Every day I have had to stop and remember that I can’t control other people, I can only work to be the best me for me and my family.

It has helped me start walking around campus. I used to be afraid to because I am quite slow and have to stop because of the pain in my joints. I realize now that no one is timing me. No one is watching me. And I have lost weight because of it. Thursday, I found myself bounding up the steps of the Liberal Arts Building, a feat I never thought I’d be able to do.

I have recognized when I am negatively self-talking. When I have drank the voice’s Kool-Aid and joined in to tear myself down. When that happens, I find myself going to my safe space and breathing and looking for constructive or positive comments. I also recognize when others are negative self-talking and the impact it has on me. I have found myself reaching out to help redirect them, for their sake and mine.

Friday I shared these things with my counselor. She was beaming. I also shared with her that I’d talked about my experience with the technique she used to help me get past the issue with my dad. She pointed out that it wasn’t magic. It was a very long and emotionally draining experience, but that I had been doing quite a bit of leg work between sessions to make it successful without realizing it. She wanted to make sure I understood what I was doing to affect my own mental health.

That’s when it hit me. We talk about eating right to feel right. We talk about the power of exercise. Or dressing for the job you want. We rarely talk about mental health. I knew it was ok to get help, but I was always too stubborn to ask for help. It took the prompting, prodding, and little jabs from friends to finally get me to ask for help. Mental health is just as important as eating well and exercising. Just like we might need a dietitian to help us understand how to eat better, or a personal trainer to teach us how to use the equipment and what exercises are right for us, we occasionally need trained professionals to help us change how we think about ourselves and the world around us. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. It can literally save your life.

                                        

The Problems with Masks.

I posted on Facebook earlier that I feel that All Lives Matter. This isn't to say that I feel that we all end up getting treated the same, but I wish that we would. I believe in a future where we can all be treated with dignity and respect without regards to genetic permutations that we have. I believe that in order to make that future happen we need to make changes today. Our lives matter because we are all human. It disgusts me that there are those that think that a few differences in our genes make some less human than others.

When I was a small child, I was blessed with darker skin. I'd say that I still looked pretty white compared to full-blooded Natives, but I was darker than I am now. My grandmother, who taught English on the Crow Reservation, felt it was important for me to know about my Native heritage. This was especially true given that my biological father had been raised by people that taught him to never admit that he was a quarter Native. My grandparents took me to many Pow Wows when I was a kid. Every trip to the Flathead area always included a stop in Browning. I was surrounded by Native images in my room. I saw myself as Native. I was proud of it and I looked forward to spending time with "my people."

Then something weird happened. The summer after I turned fourteen, I participated in a car wash with DeMolay. Up to that point, I had never really needed sun screen. The summer months were easy on me and my skin always bronzed up pretty nice. As such, I never even thought to put any sun screen on. I spent about twelve hours in the sun and I got burnt. Despite wearing a t-shirt, I was bright red pretty much from head to toe. I was miserable waiting for it to heal. When I peeled, my skin wasn't brown. It was white. More peeling. More white skin. I still had my freckles, but I just wasn't as dark as I had always been.

After that, when I'd go to Pow Wows, I got weird looks. Those same looks followed me when I'd go to Browning. I was made to feel unwelcome in these places. I was made to feel that they weren't my people. I was too white now. It got to the point where I stopped going. I took down all of my Native images from my room. I was told I was an outsider. And I hated that feeling.

When I was much younger, before my mother moved us to Helena, my one close friend was a girl. We'd play with dolls together. If we played with her Barbies, I was always some variation of Barbie and she was always some variation of Ken. I didn't really mind. My mother moved us to Helena when I was around three and the first toy I remember was a Strawberry Shortcake doll my Grandma Riley had. I can still smell the manufactured strawberry scent from the doll's plastic skin. I remember there being a Raggedy Ann and a Raggedy Andy doll at my Grandma Riley's house. I preferred the Raggedy Ann one. But, when I started asking for an Easy Bake Oven from Santa, my mother told me, "Santa doesn't bring girl toys to boys." I switched the kind of dolls I played with, preferring to get the boy action figures like G.I. Joe or He-Man. My favorite of these two genre were a Jinx action figure (a female ninja G.I. Joe) and the She-Ra one of my female friends bought me. But, I kept these two a secret, because my guy friends would laugh at me for playing with them. They were for girls, after all. Like my Native things, I kept them hidden and locked away.

My friends started talking about girls and I was flummoxed. I didn't understand their interest. They'd ask me to comment on one or another and my heart would race. Not because I was flushed with young love, but because I was anxious. I didn't know what to say. I'd either lie and try to sound like them or I'd make an excuse to go home. I didn't like girls the ways my friends were beginning to like girls. But, I liked them that way.  I ever acted feminine, my mother would tell me I was, "too butch to be gay." I didn't know what gay was, but apparently I wasn't it. I didn't know what I was, because I didn't know anyone who as gay. I didn't know that what I was feeling was normal for someone like me. I was made to feel abnormal because I didn't feel like everyone else. I hid it away as much as I could. I dated girls because I was supposed to.

Once I came out, I started to meet other gay people. I hoped that by being out, I'd find some sort of acceptance. Instead, I was told I wasn't gay enough. "You should dress better if you're gay," I was told. I have been a big guy all my life and there is slim pickings when you are husky. I wore what we could afford. By that point, I was too gay to fit in with some of my straight friends and too straight to fit in with my new gay friends. Gays were starting to be shown with more regularity, but none of them were fat. Again, I felt alone because I didn't fit someone else's definition of who I was.

People that know me may know that I struggle with social anxiety. I have an irrational fear that people are staring at me and judging me. It may seem irrational to someone that has never had it done to them, but so many parts of my life it has been my reality. I try to identify as one thing and I am told that I don't fit in. I try to fit in and I am told, both by my self and others, that I don't fit in. I don't know how to act. I don't know how to fit in. For the better part of thirty-five years, I have been judged by the outside world and told how I should be, what I should like, what I should play with, how I should think, how I should act. And every time I try to be the person that people seem to think I should be, I make some misstep and find myself falling out of the box someone put me in.

Despite my social anxiety, I made a decision a few years ago to try to just be me. To stop trying to fit in other peoples boxes and just act like me. I get reminded constantly that people aren't comfortable with me being me, despite the fact that those closest to me tell me it is ok. They love me for being uniquely me. But, the rest of the world still stands there, in judgement.

Things I have heard in my life:

I am too white to call myself Native.
I am too girly to play with boys.
I am too boyish to play with girls.
I am too straight to be gay.
I am too gay to be straight.
I am too fat to be attractive.

When I said on Facebook that I felt that Human Lives Matter, I wasn't attempting to dismiss the ways that black people are dehumanized. I wasn't trying to say that Trans lives matter less. I was not speaking as a white man and dismissing how unjust the world was. I was trying to stand up for people like me. People that have been told all their lives that they need to fit in a box and are dehumanized when they don't or can't fit.

The fact is, there was a time when I believed my life didn't matter. I felt like an abomination, not simply because I was gay, but for all the things that make me exactly who I am. I was so convinced that my life didn't matter and that I wasn't human I attempted to end my life. Since then, there are who continue to try to make me feel like my experiences don't matter. My life doesn't matter. That I need to "Man Up." I need to accept that "Life is Tough all over." I am told that it is irrational to think that other people are judging me, but at the same time told that I need to act this way or that. People don't even realize that they are judging each other.

I have written this a few times, but it is appropriate here too.

I put on faces to hide from the pain.
I put on faces to keep me sane.
I put on masks
   for anyone who asks
the Truth.

Those words have been in my mind for over twenty years. Despite trying to be myself, I still feel this way. I want to live in a world where there are no boxes. Where we are all human and are all treated as equals. I want to live in a world where I feel like I belong. Where I don't have to wear masks and try to fit in. But that world isn't the one I live in. I live inside this box, right now, right here. If I speak out, I am slapped down. I am told "How Dare You?!" when I try to stand up for people like me. Thankfully, I am too stubborn to give up and say, you win. I stubbornly try to keep just being me. Sometimes my words will come out wrong. My intent muddled by other peoples interpretations. I will fall down. I will get hurt. I will be emotional. Because that is who I am. A human, trying desperately to get rid of his masks.