Customer Service Frustrations

A little background, I suppose, before I delve into my online frustrations. I graduated from high school in 1997, after which I planned to take a year off and then travel to Three River's Michigan to join a monastery. About eight months into my year off, I was struck rather suddenly by a feeling that if Michigan would be in my future, I needed to postpone and I started looking for a job. It didn't take long before I was contacted and eventually hired by USWest Communications. I spent five and a half years working for them, through their merger with QWest, before I opted to leave to go manage a movie theater. Since then, with the exception of almost a few months after I moved to Missoula, all of my adult employment has been in customer service. Sure, I have had my giggles at the First World Problems my customers have experienced, but in every transaction I have I genuinely want to help them get what they want within whatever confines I might have. And I expect the same when I get customer service at other location.

An important aspect of customer service for me is the words we choose to use. There are definitely times in face-to-face or over-the-phone customer service where I have stuck my foot in my mouth, but these don't happen terribly often. In written correspondences, I expect the person to take the time to consider the words they are using and at least consider how they sound. Read them out loud if needed, and try different tones, since writing lacks that part. Does it sound snarky or condescending (in a non-productive manner)? Additionally, does it sound friendly and professional?

I am currently in a business deal with an online printer. It wasn't the one I originally wanted to work with, but my husband assured me that this one was better-- he had previously worked as a graphic artist for this company and highly recommended them. He assured me they had quick turn around times for projects and were quite easy to work with. He took care of the logistics and placing the order. They quoted a 5 day turn around, printing it on my work order. He submitted the order and the image file on February 29th. They promptly sent me a confirmation email with the work order attached and links to their website to view the status of the work order at any time. On March 1st, they sent me a link to proof my job and did so a couple of hours after they sent it.

Generally when I work with businesses, I assume that any time frames given should be considered business days. Both my husband and I figured their quote of 5 day turn around meant that it would be here by today (a week after submitting it). I click the "check status" link from my first email and find the status as "Proof Approved" and had been in this status since March 1st. I email them to check to see what the potential hold up might be. The email I sent sounded concerned and asked the sales rep assigned to my order to check to see why it appeared to be stuck at one spot and what was preventing it from getting delivered within their promised turn around time. Her email read as follows:

     "Hello William,

     Our online system does not continually update the location. We did receive your approval on 3/1 and your order is in progress and will ship on Wednesday.

     Thank you"

Having worked in customer service and with plenty of different companies online, I don't necessary need it to continually update. However, it is expected that if the company provides a "Click here to check the status of your order" that the company has some way to keeping the status updated, usually as they move from one stage to another. Additionally, there was no indication of why I was quoted a 5 day turn around when there is no way that a ship date of Wednesday works within that time frame. When I sent a followup email to get more information about the 5 day turn around, I was sent a response that simply said that the sales rep was incorrect and they expect delivery of product on Wednesday. Does this mean that the project will be finished and sent today? No indication.

This series of transactions is frustrating to me as it doesn't really seem like the sales rep is familiar with how to provide digital customer service. This is something I could expect if the bulk of their work was done as face-to-face transaction. However, this particular company is primarily an online print center, similar to VistaPrint but run here in Montana. This means that her primary means of contact with her customers is going to be online, which makes her emails the primary point of customer service and satisfaction.

Especially as we move towards a more global and digital market place, the power of text is that much more important. You can't tell what the customer service representative's tone sounds like or see their body language. This is critical, as we have cognitive systems that have been culturally adapted to combine tone and body language with words to provide the full context of meaning. In fact, a good chunk of our communication is tied to these two modes and digital communication eliminates them completely.

The question then becomes, "Can we map tone into our digital communications?" My answer would be an emphatic "Yes!" And we can do it in some of the same ways that we do it through phone. Now, I will admit that as a customer, I strongly dislike overly friendly vocal tones. They simply do not sound realistic, which makes me aggravated. Additionally, if your apology sounds scripted it doesn't come across as genuine and also leads me to distrust most of what happens during the transaction. My approach over the phone is to sound as much like myself as possible. I talk with people nearly every day and I am aware that I my tone can sound gruff at times. Especially now that customers are able to give direct feedback on their experiences, I have found that if I sound "overly peppy" they respond negatively, just like I do. But, when I use my regular voice, even if at times it sounds snarky or crass, customers react more positively than if I am bubbly and happy.

How does all of this relate to emails? It means that you want to stick with an every day tone through the words you choose. You want to avoid pre-scripted emails that are copy and paste as well. And you want to match your customer a bit. If I took the time to send an email with a few different questions, make sure to spend an equal amount of time on your response. It makes it feel less like my email was a waste of your time. So, an example response to my initial email could be:

     "Hello William,

      Thank you for contacting me this morning. It seems like this print order is a top priority for you and I want to make sure you get the business cards in a timely manner too. I apologize that your order status hasn't updated since 3/1. I checked in with our graphics team and it looks like everything is on time for them to be boxed and shipped today and we expect them to arrive at your shipping location on Wednesday. Feel free to reply if you have any additional questions about this order or if you have any further printing needs we can help with.

    (Representative's Name)"

This type of reply sends the message that this work order matters to you and also recognizes that this might be the one and only communication we have. It addresses the overall tone of my email, which was clearly broadcasting that the turn around time is really important to me. Instead of making me feel foolish for thinking that as the order progresses from stage to stage the status would update, there is an apology. This recognizes that most other companies that have an online status update it frequently so that customer's do not need to contact the company to find out what the status is. It shows an action that the sales rep took. Even if "I check with our graphics team" means "I looked up your order in our work order system and it shows X, Y, or Z" it demonstrates that you invested time in my concern, which validates me. Additionally, this email provides the followup actions that will take place today, reassures that the work order is on time, and provides an estimated arrival time for me. By closing out with an invitation for additional communication this way, the email is also soliciting future business. This is key, as it plants the seed in my mind that I may want to do future print jobs with this company. One other pet peeve of mine for email transactions are email signatures. They are a great way to provide name, address, phone number, etc. However, if you use them, make sure that they are in the same font that you use for the rest of the email.

While the email may have taken a few more minutes to write than the one I originally received, it prevented the sales person from having to read a second email from me, "sounded" more friendly and engaging, while anticipating that I may want to turn to this company for future work orders as well. There are going to be those who may say that people should not read too much into an email and that nearly any text communication can be read in a negative way. This may well be true, but people should be aware that each email is an advertisement for yourself, your business, and your brand. Cultivate it in your transactions with your customers and you are likely to build a reputation that will ensure your success.

On the Topic of Writing

I always mean to sit down and write, but something always seems to find its way in to distract me. I tell myself, I'll write in the evening, or on Friday when classes are done, or take a leisurely amount of time to myself on Saturday and jot a few things down. Sometimes, I open a blank page and stare at the cursor, willing it to produce even while my fingers sit motionless on the keys. Other times, I will get about this far into something and delete it all, thinking it all sounds like rubbish before I even really get anywhere.

Even when I can get a few minutes to just type, too often it is stolen away for a school project. Weekly reading journals, micro-writing to build up a paper bit-by-bit, forum posts and replies, along with emails to professors and fellow students capture most of my day-to-day keystrokes. It seems, with what little time I have between school, work, relationships, and sleep, I convince myself I just don't have time to get any more words on the page.

"This summer," I tell myself. "I'll set-up a whole series of posts on various topics and then have them timed out to hit the page on a weekly basis. But, then I took up an editing project, balanced that with my internship, and work and pushed aside my writing. It shouldn't be this difficult finding time to do the thing I tell nearly anyone who will listen that I love to do. "I love writing," I say. "I love the way the words feel in my hands. Knowing that those words are coming from some part of me." But, if it is something I love so much, how is it that I can't ever find the time to do it.

Recently, a friend of mine introduced me to the Podcast Writing Excuses. I love the format, as it is only fifteen minutes long and is perfect for listening to in my car on the way to school or work. I got in on it toward the end of season 10 and have been enjoying season 11. One of the early episodes, titled Newton's Laws of Writing, really caught my brain. The first law, then, is a word count at rest tends to stay at rest. It seems so simple, but ultimately true. The only way I am going to write is to write. Thinking or writing isn't getting any word count down. Planning what to write can be beneficial to word count, but only if you actually sit down to write. Set aside time each day. Don't tell yourself that you are going to do it, actually do it.

I live in a fairly textual world. That's why I felt like I was writing. I write funny retorts for friends political rants, fire off witticisms through Facebook posts, use text and private messages as a second form of speech. My eyes are sifting through text nearly ninety-five percent of my waking life. But now is the time to sit down and just let my mind stretch. I really do love to write, as much as a dear friend loves to go walking. It relaxes me. It is my safe space, though why I post my personal essays for the rest of the world still remains a mystery to me. Even if no one reads any of the essays, though, it still gives me a chance to stretch my mental muscles and do something I feel is creative.



I fell in love with writing at an early age. When most kids were running and playing outside, I was inside. When I would visit my grandmother, she'd try to get me to go out and play. But I was more content with causing mischief inside. To quell the potential danger of an overly energetic youngster in the house-- one that on more than one occasion broke some of her jewelry because I was too fidgety-- she sat me down in front of a typewriter. She taught me how to type and I would spend hours plunking away at the keys. I am sure I looked rather comical, having to go one key at a time and really jam my finger against the keys to get them to leave a good mark on the page. She taught me how to set margins and type columns of print, which I would cut and glue to make my own little news papers.


Each time I write these days, some part of me reconnects with that little boy. The one who was smiling ear-to-ear as he would jab his tiny fingers at the keys. Occasionally, when I get stuck, I am more like the little boy who got his finger stuck between the keys and yelped for grandma to come help. Yet, despite the sticks and sputters and false-starts, writing is the one thing that lets me really let go and relax.

My best advice, for myself and anyone else, is take a deep breath and write. It doesn't matter how perfect it is. It doesn't matter if it is only a couple hundred words. Even if it is only for a couple minutes each day, it is time well spent. Over the course of a month, a couple hundred words can add up. You can build momentum, and you will find yourself spending more time doing the thing you love and less time staring blankly at Facebook or Twitter waiting for the next witty response.

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.