Decrying Gravity

I have two posts halfway written, and even more I need to write.  But I think time is one thing I'm about to get an abundance of; my apologies for the disjointed nature of the next few days.  It's quite the transition.

Speaking of transition, I thought of Laura earlier.  I haven't talked to her since Valentine's Day, and I don't really anticipate that changing (save from random happenstance) anytime soon.  But, although she's not an active player in my drama, she' still very much a presence, and I think that bears attention.

Laura broke me.  That might be harsh, but I say that with the knowledge that she also, in many ways, put me together.  I was hers to break.  Before Laura, I was suicidal, self-loathing, perpetually depressed, often suicidal. I'd been that way, with brief exceptions, for three and a half years.  And then, in one swift week, I made progress in group therapy about my dad and, one afternoon, Laura came to my dorm, climbed into my loft bed, and kissed me.  It was never simple.  It was rarely easy.  But from then on, I had what I'd always thought I wanted: someone who loved me.

There's no doubt that Laura loved me.  Or, she loved a construction of me.  Whether of my making or her own (or, of course, both) is hard to say.  It wasn't even delusion; it was an authentic part of me.  But it was a part.  She never understood my depression, never understood my dysphoria, never understood the depths of despair I was capable of reaching.  But she loved what she understood.  And when the rest started becoming overwhelming, for myself and her, she found me different from the person she loved.  So, as people do, she stopped.

When she stopped, I broke.  For two and a half years, she had been my linchpin.  I looked forward to seeing her like I'd never anticipated anything before.  Just seeing her name appear on my Caller ID was worthy of flutters.  Her laughs, her drollness, her enthusiastic cuteness.  I do disservices to people with my descriptions. But even towards the end, she was the brightest force in my life.

Of course, part of the reason I'd always been so desperate for such a person, such a love was that I was incapable of fostering such positivity in and of myself.  I was a non-entity:  I didn't identify with my body and my mind was a twisted weapon of self-abuse.  I hated myself, found minimal pleasure in life, and, when left to my own devices, crumbled.  But with Laura, I could feel vicariously.  I could like myself, vicariously.  Hell, I could enjoy life vicariously.  And it was lovely, since I'd never done it before.  But it was still second hand.  And it was unfair, to her, to use her as a vessel for my fulfillment.

But she was also all I had.  All I had in the face of an increasingly bleak career-setting, a place of daily terror and inadequacy.  And when she left, when I no longer had any joy in my life, when I no longer had even vicarious hope, I broke.

It's hard to say how things might have been if she hadn't.  Impossible, really.  She's said that she couldn't handle my transition.  Maybe I wouldn't have taken so many risks.  I certainly wouldn't have leaned so heavily on so many people.  I wouldn't have flailed and floundered and felt so miserable for so long.  And I'd already started exploring the dysphoria before she left, so it's not as if she was the impetus.

But even if her departure was not the impetus, I can't help but think that it was the catalyst.  Finding myself in utter misery, lost and abandoned with seemingly no salvation in sight, I had to fundamentally shift my worldview.  Up til then, I had always opted for the "safe" choice.  I did not take risks, I did not rely on feelings, I did what was best for the greatest number of people, what was easiest (in the sense of nonconfrontation) for them to handle and for me to sustain.  I'll talk more about teaching, but, suffice it to say, it was the safe choice.  UT was the safe choice.  Ignoring my gender dysphoria was the safe choice.  Settling for possible contentment instead of taking a risk on happiness was the safe choice.  And all of these safe choices, all of these decisions made to minimize risk and chaos had led me to where I most feared: hating myself, hating my job, having no hope, and suffering it all alone.  Safety betrayed me.  Safety, ironically enough, was practically guaranteed to do myself harm.  And when Laura broke me, it was the culmination of years spent being safe only to find that I had been deluding myself all along.

So I was broken.  And where Laura had once built me, I had no one to do it for me now.  I had to rebuild myself.  And through a lot of counseling, introspection, thought, and feeling, I've been doing just that.  From that moment when I was broken, I was on a path to becoming a new person in so, so many ways.  Not the person I thought I should be but the person I was finding I needed to be, wanted to be, had to be to be happy.  And where once I needed another for acceptance and joy, I hope to be able to foster both within myself as I move forward.

Laura broke me.  But I'm not angry at her.  She reminds me of what I had and now lack, certainly.  But I think I needed to be broken.  I feel like I've been through a forge, steeled, hammered, molded into something more powerful, more durable than before.  I have hit the bottom, as I see it, and, in my privileged way, cannot easily fathom going lower.  Before me are seas of risk.  Tomorrow, I'm getting my hair cut.  And, if things go as planned, I'll look, at the very least, obviously androgynous if not feminine.  I'll start laser treatment, a "point of no return" which, coupled with the hormones, represent permanent alternations to my body in somewhat intimidating but so very freeing ways.

Before being broken, I would have been really scared about tomorrow.  Going into get my hair cut and telling a stranger I wanted to look like a girl.  Going into the laser hair removal place and, as a male, saying I wanted to permanently remove my facial hair.  In our culture, that's practically like castration.  In our culture, such things entail a great deal of risk.  But they're also both potentially quite rewarding.  And even if I'm rejected, those rejections simply cannot be worse than when I was broken.

I am forged anew.  I have a confidence, a stoicism, hell, an optimism that I've not had before.  I have a cadre of friends (and quite the diverse bunch, too) who have supported me throughout.  I don't want to say it will get easier from here.  Changing one's gender is not exactly an easy thing to do (the state of Tennessee says it's legally impossible, bee-tee-dubs).  But I have been through daily agony for so long, have seen the myriad hidden costs of so-called-safety, have experienced the void left by keeping one's self not one's self, and I can't help but think that this time, this time I'm building something that's worth the risk.  That won't need to be broken again.

Tomorrow is my last day of teaching high school.  Likely, forever.  And although I have been counting the days, for so many reasons, it's akin to ending a losing sports season: I will be glad it's over, but it doesn't feel particularly good.  It's not a metaphor I've really thought much about, truth be told, but it's apt.  Teaching high school, I've learned a lot.  About myself, about people, about authority and institutions.  I've had some positive influence, and I've tried to make my failures negligible in terms of actual costs to my charges.  But there is little doubt that I will watch the students rush from my classroom tomorrow and know, without a doubt, that I have failed.  I have lost more than I've won.  I have wasted more than I've created.  I have hurt more than I've helped.    I have disappointed, bored, underserved, and been deficient.  And it's a wound that won't soon heal.

Where the sports metaphor fails, though, is that every year, a team renews.  Every team is undefeated in the offseason, and hopes can't help but soar.  I have my hopes, certainly.  But I can't help but think that my previous defeat is a fundamental indicator of inadequacy, evidence pointing towards an unfortunate truth I cannot shake.

What am I good at?  Writing, I suppose.  I have a fluidity with language and expression that is fulfilling and has potential.  I am fairly rational/intelligent, although this is increasingly tempered by my wariness for absolutes and a fundamental lack of confidence undermining whatever good it might do me.  I am fairly empathetic, having experienced and explored a variety of my own intense emotions while striving to understand and explore the feelings of those around me.  I am witty, although this is both a blessing and a curse as it can easily overtake any sincerity I may try to foster either in attention of message.  And, largely, that's about it.

These are all decent things to be, I suppose.  But in terms of practical applications, I so often feel... inept.  As if I am lacking in some instrumental way, in a way that others do not, and without this je ne sais quoi I am doomed to mediocrity.  And I really don't want that.  I don't want to be the best at something, as if that could be measured.  But I don't think my life could have meaning if I wasn't evidently good at something valuable.  Good in a way that people notice, that makes me someone to be looked up to, referred to, cited as a model.  And I don't say that out of ego; I'd be glad to have such accolades go to a nom de plume or anonymity.  I just want to be good at something valuable.

Teaching, undoubtedly, is not it.  That's no great loss, I guess; I'd assumed as much since the onset.  But I'm really worried about discovering this again.  I'm worried that what I see as particular tendencies and skills that specifically lend themselves to certain paths might, in fact, be inherently mundane or misinterpreted.

And I wonder.  Should I have stuck with Math?  I was so comfortable with it; it calmed me and called to me. It was beautiful in a pure and idealistic way.  Where others struggle, I would sing.

But I made a choice.  I knew that such perfection was the stuff of fantasy.  The uncomfortable and nebulous beauty of English is what I opted for.  I sought ambiguity because it was real.  I wanted to dive into uncertainty, to engage in the pursuit of "truths," no matter how unpleasant, precisely because they were made of lives, not objective theorems.  And although my life might have been simpler, less challenging, had I pursued mathematics (or even had a chance to explore physics), I think I'd still make the same choice today.

So perhaps I am not good at something valuable.  Or, more likely, I will have to work for it, just like everyone else does.  I cannot simply expect to be good; I have to build and work for it and want it.  And I don't really want to be good at teaching high school.  Or rather, if I were to choose to be good at something, it would be counseling.  Lord knows I've learned and grown more with my counselor in the past year than in so many classes with so many good teachers and professors.  Perhaps more importantly, I've never been interested in education; I've been interested in humanity.  I've been interested in life, in the "real," in the calamities and compromises of our individual experiences.  English is one outlet for that, certainly.  But I'd like to think that counseling is a better one.

Perhaps I'm rationalizing my losses away.  It will be disastrous if I get into this brave new world and find it to be Teaching II: The Undeaducationing.  Perhaps.  But whereas, in the past, I would have started this post and ended it in the same emotional tenor, I've reaffirmed myself.  I've talked myself out of my decline.  I've found something, something I didn't have before.  And I hope that's the thing that makes the difference.  But first: tomorrow.

My name (or at least the one I was born with) is Dylan.  And I have a beard.

Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

I've tried to start a few entries, but they aren't focused.  But I have one thing I simply must write.

On Wednesday, I gave a presentation of my research to the Fulton staff.  It went alright.  Most people commented about how they enjoyed the few jokes I told, a grim reminder of my fears of being a mere entertainer.  But that's as much their apathy as me not being more than wit.  I wasn't particularly good at articulating my research (I so rarely am under time constraints), but I did manage to stress the importance of relationships over academics in teaching.  That was my most significant finding, and I think it'll mean more to me than most of the other lessons I've learned (more on that later, probably).

But little did I know that Mr. Petko, my high school Algebra II teacher, the man who had inspired me to teach, to be more than an apathetic teenager, to care, was in the audience watching.  He's now moved on to supervising the county's math teachers, and lest I make him out to be the end all be all, he wasn't.  He was the man who taught me the value of enthusiasm, the infectious nature of passion, the extent to which a person can care about something and have that passion transfer to others.  He was the beginning of my queer brand of extroversion, my life as performance.  He brought something out of me that no one had before.  Of course, he was conservative, passive-aggressive, often bordering on fake in his Andy Griffith joviality.  He was a good man, though, and he gave me something invaluable.

He talked to me afterwards and told me he agreed with me.  He hadn't remembered any of his math teachers, yet he went on to teach math.  And he said that he remembers a time where his family couldn't pay the utilities and was just trying to survive, a time (during high school) when he justifiably so wouldn't have cared much for school.  But people at school cared for him, and that's what mattered.  And I told him that I didn't remember much Algebra.  I do, but it's not really helped me much.  I do, however, remember him and his enthusiasm.  What he did for me was more than almost every other teacher did.  No other teacher affected my personality so much.  Ms. Jackson taught me to write, yes, and she has her place in the pantheon.  But Mr. Petko, in an odd way, taught me to care.

Yes, it's possible that I could become that sort of teacher.  But when the academics seem notably secondary (pardon the pun), I'd much rather pursue a career where I can focus on those emotional and personal changes that do matter.  Emotional support is the cornerstone of connection and growth, and that's what I want.  I have learned that teaching, even if it's taken me awhile to reconcile that with my feelings of inadequacy.  I have learned that, though, and it is a lesson I don't want myself to forget.  Life's so much better when you care about who you are, what you do, and all of the things in between.  I think I'm getting closer to that.  So thank you, Mr. Petko.  And thank you teaching.  I'll be glad to go, but I don't regret having been there while I was.

It's been an exhausting past week.  I've been chipping away at my thesis-ish thing, resulting in ten hour + workdays since Sunday.  There's just a heavy feeling, staying at school until 10pm and then barely getting home and asleep before I turn around and go right back.

It's ok, though.  The shields are holding, despite my fatigue, and I'm persevering.  We're reading Macbeth which is one of my strong points, and the sophomores are fun when I know what to do with them.  One of them even said she wished I'd come back next year because I was a good teacher.  Of course, she's a sweet student who would like most of her teachers anyway, but sometimes I just want to hug them I love them so.  I want to take a few home with me and just... I don't know, be their friend.  Which you can't do, as a teacher or an authority figure.  All the more reason not to be an authority figure, I suppose.  Whatever made me think I could manage that is beyond me; I can't intimidate worth a damn.

And, really, I don't want to.  I've addressed this ad nauseum, but I'm eventually getting to a point where I can accept it.  I don't respect myself, and until I don't, I won't command it from others.  And even when I do, I'm not sure if I'll be able to "command" much of anything.

But there's a way to like myself, and I'm actively pursuing it.  By necessity, it has to be day by day.  But my hair's long enough that it's not "mushrooming" nearly as much as it was.  The conditioner's helping, too.  I like it.  I've never had hair this long, and it's one of the few things I'm allowing myself that externally defies norms.  Next up: the beard, on May 20th.  And clothes soon after that.  I'll start full on hormone treatment in two weeks, and even though that's an endeavor for a few years, it's exciting just to be making progress.  I'm morphing, bit by bit, and I'm excited about where I'm going.

In fact, despite my exhaustion and some of my doubts, I feel kind of alright.  There are good parts of my day, students who I love to pieces, days oozing off the calendar slowly but surely.  I've been keeping a rough mental countdown since we had ~52 days to go, and it makes 23 days of instruction seem so much better by comparison.  Even with that, I have bits of fun here and there.  I'm holding on.  And I really hope that, when I leave, I can feel like I made a positive impact.  If I can look back on this year and say that I wasn't perfect, by any means, but that I made some positive connections with students and left them better than I found them, then I think everything going forth will be so much easier.  I know I'm not meant to teach high school; I'm simply not tough enough.  But that's ok.  I just have to find somewhere where I'll fit.

They call transitioning a "second puberty," and I've thought of it comparably.  I use the metaphor of butterfly and cocoon, but I do feel like I'm building and growing.  I think of myself blooming, replacing my distant moroseness with an easy smile (and an obligatory hint of irony) as I swish and sway, and I like it.  What will it be like, to like myself?  What will it be like, to be able to feel so good about myself that I can truly devote myself to my external relations?  What will it be like to live instead of merely existing?  Oh, hope springs despite my temporal tears.

And yes, there is sadness.  I'm in a place of semi-serious celibacy; I don't want to start a relationship when I am not who I am.  Of course, it's not exactly like I have prospects beating down my doors, so the points probably moot.  But I miss so much about relationships.  The small moments that fill in the gaps of your life, the partner in one's going ons and going outs, the general expanse of life experience by virtue of another engaging, creative mind being so intimately entwined with your own.  And, of course, the physical intimacy.  Just touching another person is something I miss, stroking hair, caressing, hugging, holding without the need to "break" after an all-too-brief moment.  Of this ever returning, I have the most doubts.  But I've fortunately found that, already, these are but supplements to a hope with having, a life worth loving.  That doesn't diminish the emptiness of the absence, but it makes the echoes so much easier to bear.

I am blessed and thankful.  I can only assume that disaster is imminent.  But, for now, I growing hopeful.

"I was thinking about my tremendous social anxiety. So much of it seems to be built on the fact that I don’t have a realistic perception of mistakes and consequences. Growing up in abuse has taught me that mistakes are met with erratic, unpredictable, traumatic, unforgivable, and grossly disproportionate consequences. I’ve learned how to endure those consequences, and I’ve learned how to withdraw completely from social contact in order to avoid those consequences. I never learned a middle ground. I never learned that, 90% of the time, the worst that happens is your companion rolls their eyes at you, and you feel kind of dumb for a while. Even if I can intellectually understand that’s what happens, my brain still hasn’t created a synaptic pathway to process that. All social missteps immediately travel upon the more well-worn and familiar synaptic pathway of, “YOU FUCKED UP AND NOBODY WILL EVER LOVE YOU.”" -http://fugitivus.wordpress.com/2009/09/15/trans-stuff/

There are some people who I simply love.  Harriet, who writes the above blog, is one of them.  To add to the cocoon list:  Read HJ's full blog.