Masculinity and Me.

Before reading this, I suppose a small introduction might be necessary. First, writing this triggered memories and experiences for me, so it might trigger things for you. Second, I was identified as male when I was born. I was raised male my whole life. When I was thirty, I finally had my first physical examination. After a series of test, the doctor "diagnosed" me as intersex-- hormonally, possibly chromosomally-- I am not quite XY-male. It took a little bit to figure out what that meant for me. Ultimately, it means that I am still me and still very much male. I consider myself fairly masculine, but at the same time I have my queeny moments.

The essay here presents little snapshots of my masculinity, through both fictive and non-fictive moments. I won't pretend to speak for all men, or even a majority. I also can't claim to give voice to all those who are not men, but identify as masculine. I can only speak for me and how I have been made to feel over my life. Hopefully it will do some good. 

“You’re too butch to be gay,” my mother would tell me anytime I would affect a Paul Lind/Charles Nelson Riley-esque speech pattern. Honestly, at the time, I had no idea what gay was or that these two men and the way they spoke was associated with homosexuality. It just felt sort of natural at times. Without any knowledge about what being gay was, being chastised made me feel like I really didn’t want to be gay. I just had to figure out what gay was, so I could avoid being it.

“No one likes a crybaby,” a boy told me on the playground. It wasn’t the first time I was told this, but the voice echoes in my mind all the time. Before then, most adults I knew described me as “sensitive,” or the adult equivalent of saying a child is emotional. Until then, I had no real problem with crying and demonstrating my emotions in front of people. After being told over and over about being a crybaby, I stopped being able to cry in front of most people. Being emotional became a private affair and in time even those tears dried up.

“There are three genders in singing: Men, Women, and Tenors,” said the choir director of Capital High School. When my voice changed, I had become a tenor, specifically a first tenor. I loved my high voice, before cigarettes and testosterone changed my voice a bit. But, she and her students were great to remind me whenever we had cross-town choir events that I wasn’t a real man, nor was any tenor. Men are baritones and basses. Boys could be sopranos and altos. But tenors were something quite different.

“What is that thing?” The third time I attempted to have intercourse with a woman, she was less than impressed with my endowment. She was still laughing as she left my apartment. I knew I wasn’t really into women, but I wanted to be straight. I wanted to feel normal. But, not only could I not be a straight man, but my endowment meant I wasn’t a real man, at least not to a random woman from the bar. The next morning, I woke up in a bathtub of cold water. Thankfully, my attempt to kill myself failed.

“I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to father any children.” My world crashed down when my doctor told me. Growing up, the one consistent dream for my future was that I would be a father. When I turned thirty, I finally had a physical examination. The doctor was concerned when he had difficulty finding my testicles and explained that I had hypogonadism. After a battery of tests that found that my testosterone level was significantly lower than the “normal” range for men. The hormones for body hair was perfectly fine and all of the other pituitary hormones were fine. This was the first time the word intersex was used to describe me.

“Well, I’ve found one of them,” the radiologist had been called in because neither the student tech nor the regular ultrasound tech could find my testicles. I had slipped on the ice the day before and due to gravity and the size of my body, I had managed to dislocate both testicles. A few months later, I was given a choice: “We can leave them where they are, We can open you up and pull them down and stitch them into place, but they won’t be able to protect themselves. Or, we can remove them completely. If they can’t regulate their temperature, there is a higher chance of cancer, so you may need to have them removed anyways.” Right now, they are still dislocated.

“Don’t be such a pansy.” While I have spent almost three decades subduing externalized emotions, such as tears and crying, I can be quite passionate at times. She, my boss at work, didn’t realize what she said or how it might affect me. I had made the mistake of voicing emotion, even without tears in my eyes. But it was clear that as a man, I shouldn’t feel anything. Or if I do feel something, I shouldn’t say anything. No one wants to hear a man express his feelings.

“You know that’s not healthy.” After being told by several friends that I should go see a therapist, I finally decided to reach out and get help. It was easier to talk to her about being raped by a friend and that my father abandoned me when I was quite young, than t talk with her about crying. As we were finishing our work on the primary concern, I told her I have only cried three times as an adult. I know it isn’t healthy, but I don’t know how to do it any more. Even if I did know how to do it, who would care?

“You’re a misogynist.” All I said was that I am frustrated by the #MasculinitySoFragile movement. We are all fragile. We can all be broken. Treating all men as if there is only ONE form of masculinity misses the point and puts us all in a box—often a box we don’t belong in. This isn’t about #NotAllMen. We’re told that people understand that it is a small majority who are toxic, but too many people lump all of us into toxic masculinity. They don’t seem to realize the microaggressions that take place every day, the little jabs that happen every day. But we have to toughen up, soldier on, no matter how much the constant bombardment of images, memes, hashtags, blogs, Facebook, Twitter, words. They hurt, but Chin up. Don’t let them see that they are getting to you. Don’t let them win.

“I can’t believe he’s gone.” There was a time when I hoped someone would say this. While I am not suicidal these days, there is someone who is. Someone who has been told over and over that he has to fit into a box—a box that is now belittled—that he never fit in. He has to sit and listen as people poke and prod at who they think he is because of his beard, his chest hair, his penis. If they only knew that at night he wrote poetry that he was too afraid to let anyone see. He cried himself to sleep because no one would listen to him. They always said he was the tough guy, because he stood 6’3” and spent time lifting. Thing is, he lifted because it hurt and pain was the one way he knew he was real. His sweats are crisscross scars from years of cutting. In death, maybe someone would notice that he’d been hurting and no one allowed him to heal.

We worry about toxic masculinity, but we forget how toxic our criticism can be to those who experience and live other types of masculinity. We reach out and slap others down for trying to put people in a box, but then we put certain people in a box and label them. We want men to be able to communicate, but silence them. We want them to express emotions, but we offer little compassion. In order to heal the toxicity, we need to help men be the people we want them to be, not tear them down for any perceived flaw. We need to remember that just as there is no universal sisterhood, whereby all women can be lump together, there is no universal brotherhood. There is no set standard for masculinity that all men can be judged by.

This should not be construed as a Men’s Rights Activist manifesto. Men have plenty of rights and privileges conferred on us just because we have a penis. Instead, this should be read as an appeal. That many of us are hurting and feel trapped. We can’t deny that we are men, but we also don’t like that our bodies lump us into a box that seems so terribly despised. I understand, there are some that specifically want men to feel as powerless as women have felt. To be universally treated because of your sex/gender. What does a win look like from that perspective? Men lashing out because no one taught us how to deal with our emotions? Suicides because we feel trapped?  How do we get it to stop? To begin the healing?

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.

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.

                                        

'Tis the Season

Christmas is probably one of my favorite holidays and has been since I was a little kid. I guess most kids that celebrate Christmas enjoy it. The big dinner, all the cookies and candies, plus the gifts. But for me, it wasn't just about that. It was quite a magical time, as clichéd as that seems now. Anything was possible. And it was the one time each year where I felt important, loved and connected with my family.

Most Christmases started out the same. My parents would ask me what I wanted for Christmas. "An Easy Bake Oven," was my usual response. I really wanted Santa to bring me one, because I knew they were a little bit more than my family could afford, but I really wanted one. Mainly so I could make treats for people.

After the usual question, came getting the tree. At our house, we always had a fresh tree. Dad would go out and find it. I thought he was going out into the forest to track down the perfect one and I wasn't actually disappointed when I found out that he was really just going to one of the little tree sellers that are ubiquitous during this time of year. We would dig out the ornaments from storage and I would take time to pull out all of my favorites and make sure that we had hangers for them. There were various ones that I made during school: a pine cone swirled in glitter to make it look like a little tree, various ones made of inedible dough in various shapes and painted or colored, school pictures. There were also the old ones that my mom still had from when she was a little girl. Every year there were fewer of those, as they were often made of glass and I wasn't as dainty as I should have been with them. We would also get a new ornament each year and usually get a few generic colored ones just to round out the tree. Steven or Mom would get the lights on the tree and then it was my job to decorate as high as I could, with my Mom and brother getting the top areas. And then we would tinsel it. And to finish it off, a bit of water and some ammonia to keep the cats way from the tree and the skirt to cover the stand up.

Buying presents came next and happened around the twentieth. Either my parents or grandparents would give me some money, somewhere between twenty and forty dollar to Christmas is probably one of my favorite holidays and has been since I was a little kid. I guess most kids that celebrate Christmas enjoy it. The big dinner, all the cookies and candies, plus the gifts. But for me, it wasn't just about that. It was quite a magical time, as clichéd as that seems now. Anything was possible. And it was the one time each year where I felt important, loved and connected with my family.

Most Christmases started out the same. My parents would ask me what I wanted for Christmas. "An Easy Bake Oven," was my usual response. I really wanted Santa to bring me one, because I knew they were a little bit more than my family could afford, but I really wanted one. Mainly so I could make treats for people.

After the usual question, came getting the tree. At our house, we always had a fresh tree. Dad would go out and find it. I thought he was going out into the forest to track down the perfect one and I wasn't actually disappointed when I found out that he was really just going to one of the little tree sellers that are ubiquitous during this time of year. We would dig out the ornaments from storage and I would take time to pull out all of my favorites and make sure that we had hangers for them. There were various ones that I made during school: a pine cone swirled in glitter to make it look like a little tree, various ones made of inedible dough in various shapes and painted or colored, school pictures. There were also the old ones that my mom still had from when she was a little girl. Every year there were fewer of those, as they were often made of glass and I wasn't as dainty as I should have been with them. We would also get a new ornament each year and usually get a few generic colored ones just to round out the tree. Steven or Mom would get the lights on the tree and then it was my job to decorate as high as I could, with my Mom and brother getting the top areas. And then we would tinsel it. And to finish it off, a bit of water and some ammonia to keep the cats way from the tree and the skirt to cover the stand up.

Buying presents came next and happened around the twentieth. Either my parents or grandparents would give me some money, somewhere between twenty and forty dollar to get five gifts. When I was very small, I would go with my Mom and brother to get gifts. I'd buy Steven's gift while I was with Mom and then he and I would dash off to find something for her. Books were almost always the perfect things to get both of them. Mom would either get a Shannara book (if there was a new one out), one by Danielle Steele, or some trashy romance novel (I had no idea what was in them, but I would find ones that looked like the ones she usually read). Steven would get a horror novel or some book he had pointed out a week or two before. Dad was easy to shop for, usually soap on a rope and some socks. Grandma and Grandpa were tough. I never really knew what to get them and I would tirelessly try to find the right thing. Eventually, my Mom would suggest something like slippers or a set of different flavored jams and I'd agree that would be good.
As I got older, Christmas shopping became the one time every year where I was free to wander off alone in the store. I insisted on it, because I didn't want to spoil the surprise of the gift. Although I love the idea of presents being a surprise, I still struggle with keeping them that way. Steven and I started out own tradition of telling each other what we got for the other and then seeing who could act the most surprised. It couldn't be over the top campy surprised either. We had to be believable because we were afraid that Mom and Dad would figure it out and make us stop doing it.

Once all of the presents were wrapped we put the ones for each other under our wonderful tree and keep the ones for Grandma and Grandpa separate. It was usually a good idea. The cats seemed to take out their dissatisfaction with the ammonia and not being able to play with the tree out on the gifts. If they got a big enough piece off of one of mine, I would try to figure out what it was. My parents got wise to this and started doing the Russian doll trick with the presents for both Steven and I.

On Christmas Eve, we would go up to Unionville, where my grandparents lived with our gifts in the trunk and Steven and I pressed together in the back seat of the family Chevy Citation. One year, as we drove up and I stared out the window, I swore I saw a sleigh and some stuff in it. By the time I tried to get Steven's attention, it was a blur behind us and no one believed me that I saw it. I still don't know what it was, because it was gone when we went back to town. Every time I drive up that road, even as an adult, I try to figure out where it could have been, because there just doesn't seem like there would have been a place for it.
 I loved the way my Grandparents decorated for Christmas. Grandma would take the Christmas Cards she received and use them to decorate their small artificial tree. Instead of lights, they had a spinning lighted color wheel that was aimed at the tree. It was just beautiful. We would have some dinner and I would tell myself I was going to try a green olive, but I never did. Once we ate our fill, it was time to pass out the Christmas presents. We started the tradition of naming one family member to be Santa. This person was responsible to grab each present and hand it directly to the person who it was addressed to. The role of Santa alternated for a while, but eventually fell to me. By the time I was twelve, this was literally the best part. The thing I looked forward to the most. I loved grabbing a present and giving it to the person and watching their face light up. When I came to one for me, I would get a little awkward and open it, or I would try to just put it aside and find another one I could give to someone else.

My favorite gift that I gave to someone was after I was grown and moved out of the house. By then, Grandma had passed and my parents were living with Grandpa up in Unionville. Growing up, my mother had very few picture of me from when I was a baby. My Father kept them after the divorce and wouldn't part with them. Once he and I started speaking with one another in my adulthood, I asked him for the pictures or at least the negatives or something. I really didn't know what I looked like as a baby. And he was nice enough to send them to me. I had a set of them developed and got nice wooden frames for them. I wrapped them and brought them up on my yearly trip to Unionville. When I gave them to her, I just stopped and watched as she ripped the paper off. One tear and she saw the face and she started crying and shaking and needed a moment to get through the rest of it. There were four pictures that she had thought were lost. It was wonderful knowing that she had them again.

After presents, the family would get into two cars and drive to Saint Peter's Episopal Church. We would try to get there early enough to get a good seat. Midnight Mass there was always so amazing. Often included a large choir, brass and percussion, piano, organ, and there were so many lights. The carols and hymns were my favorites to sing. When I was young, I would often find a way to fall asleep during Mass, which probably worked out for the best. Little boys in suits trying to sit still when they are full of energy are not the easiest things to keep contained. As I learned how to settle down, I was able to stay up through the whole service and loved every minute of it.

Whether I started my slumber at church or not, sleep usually came pretty easy for me. But Christmas morning was even cooler than Saturday mornings and I would be the first one up and waiting for everyone else. Once I was in my pre-teens that meant I was responsible for making the coffee for everyone. I learned not to wake my family before they are good and ready to wake up. Think waking up a den of bears early from hibernation. Coffee only saves you a little bit. So usually I would just sit and watch TV (Christmas parade of course). Once everyone was up, we would pass out gifts. For some reason, it took me longer to get my parents to do the Santa thing at our house. Once I was able to get them to do it, I was designated permanent Santa, which was fine by me.

Christmas also marked the second holiday each year that was celebrated with Turkey dinner. Mom would start cooking usually while we started passing out gifts. It was an all-day process to make the Turkey, stuffing, jello salad, mashed potatoes and all the rest of it. Just like Thanksgiving, we would eat our fill and spend the early evening in a food coma. If anyone got a new board game, we would play that after our senses returned to us.

Since I moved to Missoula, I haven't been able to travel to Helena for Christmas. Typically, I work the day before and or the day after and making the trip in the snow is precarious at best and I am not a good driver. Instead, I have hosted a number of holiday get-togethers with my family here. These have ranged from Secret Santa or White Elephant exchanges to our annual tradition of China Buffet for Christmas dinner. I love being able to spend this holiday with the people I love and sometimes complete strangers. There have been a few instances at China Buffet where Britain and I have welcomed someone that we saw sitting by themselves to our table – just to make sure they weren't alone.

Whether you celebrate Christmas or not, I hope that this year you are able to spend the day with family. Christmas, at least to me, is not just celebrating the birth of Jesus. It is celebrating hope and light in a dark time of year. It is about family and making sure that we do what we can to take care of one another. There is so much hate and intolerance in the world and this is a time of loving. It can be a hard time of year for many people and the rate of suicides are highest this time of year. Remember that your actions have consequence and reaching out to a loved one or a stranger can be the one thing that saves their lives.

Nollaig Shona Daoibh (Happy Christmas to all). 

My Safe Place

            There is a passage in the Bible that haunts me during my dark times: First Corinthians 13:11, “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” When the stresses of adulthood reach their peak and I feel like I am ready to break, I seek shelter in the safest place from my childhood and I simply cannot seem to put it away. There is this empathic resonance that makes me feel safe and secure there, even in my memories.

            It’s a simple enough room I suppose; four walls, two windows, bed, card table, dresser and closet. It was special because it was the first time I had a room to myself. The four years we lived on Elm Street gave me my own space, away from my elder brother. It was in that room that I could get away from the real world and step into my own mind; my own imagination.

            The most important aspect of the room, the one that provided me the security was the lock on the door. If I wanted to be by myself, that lock made sure that no one could come in, unless I wanted them to. It protected me from the frosty grip of reality when my father abandoned me. My father promised if I was a good boy he would be at JB’s restaurant to pick me up for our week together. He never showed up, even though I had been especially good since our last visit. When my mother pulled into the driveway of the little duplex, I ran for my room and locked that door. I had to think it through, with the mind of a child, and puzzle through what I had left undone. With the door locked, nothing else existed.

            The room had this strange smell that was two parts wood smell from the press-board dresser and one part turtle-water. The first summer we stayed in the duplex, I watched a painted turtle that was a class pet from the school where my step-dad worked. I was trying to prove that I could keep an animal, so that I could get a pet of my own. The turtle was neat, but he wasn't really the kind of pet you could take out and play with, but I would take him out and play in the yard. When he wasn't being played with, he lived in a large metal tub that sat atop an old card table. After that summer, I got a kitten of my own, but the turtle lived on and the smell of his water just never cleared the air.

            After the turtle left, the card table became home to my stuffed animals. Not all of them mind you, just the most numerous type: stuffed bears. My favorite was an antique Winnie the Pooh who had lost his red felt shirt a few years before we moved in. This bear originally was given by my Uncle Gary to my older brother, who in turn gave it to me. His yellow fur had become dingy in places; the casualty of being handled by a small boy. Pooh was joined by a cadre of Care Bears and other nameless stuffed bears, each with the power to banish nightmares or go on a rocket adventure.

            The bears certainly weren't the only stuffed animals. I had a veritable menagerie of stuffed animals: lions, and tigers, and bears, as well as rabbits, penguins, and raccoons. Each had a place within the room. The stuffed cats occupied the top of my dresser, the penguin in the corner between my closet and the window opposite of my door, and the raccoon in the opposite corner, beside my bed, while the rabbit sat between the door and my bed. Each had their place and I would often pretend it was a zoo and I was the zookeeper, though in reality they were taming the animals in my own mind.

            My room not only served as a place to sleep; it was also the contents of my imagination. The walls were decorated with wide-ruled lined paper, drawn up to resemble computer screen and ship controls. The animals, stuffed and alive, were my crew and I often found myself light years away from the loneliness I felt outside of those four walls. I would draw the blinds, shutting out the neighbor kids, lock my door, and push the make-belief comm-control and announce to my crew that we were leaving. A quick series of taps on another set of control and I would jump onto my bed, which served as my means of navigating the interstellar vastness inside my imagination.

            After a few years of freedom inside my room, we had to move. My step-dad was going back to College and my mother couldn't provide a three bedroom place for us any longer. My brother and I were forced to share a room. While I no longer physically had those four walls to keep me safe, I still carry it inside me. Sometimes, when the strain of a job, school, relationship, and depression become too much to bare, I close my eyes and I am in my room. The door locked, surrounded by my stuffed animals, tapping away at the controls and rocketing through space. These precious moments are often the only respite I can enjoy in my hectic life, and while I have grown into a man, I just can’t put away those childish things.    

Coming Out and Coming to Terms

It pains me when I hear about people committing suicide due to being bullied. Every time I see it, I think about my own time when I was suicidal. I am thankful that I was never really bullied. Instead my torment came from a much more personal source. Me.

I didn’t always know I was gay. Some people do. My partner is one of them. I always knew that I liked guys. I was fascinated by them. I remember being little and my dad telling me not to stare at people when we were changing to go swimming. So I clearly had queer tendencies as a young person. But I didn’t know that they were queer. I thought it was normal. It was just another part of being me.

Somewhere along the line, I got the idea in my head that having feelings for another guy was wrong. My parents never talked about it one way or another, although I know now that they are very liberal in their views. I know that my feeling of wrongness happened before I had ever heard a minister talk about same-sex relationships.

This sense of wrongness bred in me a hatred that was so intense. I wanted to die. There wasn’t a day that went by between the ages of 10 and 22 that I didn’t wish that God would take the breath from my lungs. I didn’t want to have the feelings I had. I would spend nights praying that I wouldn’t wake up in the morning.

I started to come out to people when I was 16. And even though every person that I told was ok with it, I still wasn’t. Inside, I still didn’t like myself for who I was. Added to this was the fact that I never saw any big gay guys in the media. They were all skinny guys that were only into other skinny guys. This made me feel even more alone in the world, which added to my hatred.  Eventually it got to be too much, and I decided to take matters into my own hands.

When I think back, I am so glad that I didn’t go through with it or was prevented from doing so. I blacked out before I could. Instead of slitting my wrists, I had cut my upper arm with what I found out were Norse runes used for protection. Basically, they meant Strength, Victory, Honor and Intuition. It was probably the most powerful message that could be sent to me. It meant that I was worth saving and that I was meant for something. It was in the hours after coming to that I finally started to accept myself for who and what I was.

I was still afraid of being alone. I didn’t know anything about Bears and the Bear community. I didn’t know that there were guys out there that would be attracted to me and love me for being me. But it showed me that there was a reason to live. Since that time, I have learned how to love myself and in return be capable of loving other people. And I am grateful for all of the people that love me.

If you are reading this and feeling like there is no point, please I urge you to reach out. There are people out there that love you and who can help you love yourself. Please check out the following resources. And remember, it really does get better.

The Trevor Project

National Suicide Prevention

American Foundation for Suicide Prevention