Decrying Gravity

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.

Another set of dreams last night/this morning, this time thoroughly about sex.  I mentioned my previous theory about these dreams being manifestations of emotions I'm consciously repressing in order to make existence bearable (which, perhaps, many if not most dreams are anyway), and I think these are no exceptions.

I will spare you explicit detail.  Suffice it to say, there was sex involved, but of an anxious, desperate nature.  I intensely desired it, but it kept being interrupted and was full of frustration.  The desire, in and of itself, wasn't exactly for my own sexual gratification (as if such a thing were possible), but for the simple thrill of touch and affection.  Prolonged contact with another person who cared about me and valued me.  It wasn't love, it wasn't meant to last.  But I wanted to be touched and felt without reservation.

One of the women involved had a character and identity of someone I know, but her body was Laura's.  I thought, as I dreamed, "This isn't X, this looks like Laura." As if the other person had been placed in Laura's body and a dissonance erupted.

And when I partially awoke, I half-hoped it had been a dream because it would have kept my relationship with that person in tact.  But I also wished that the dream had been real, as awkward and frustrating as the experience had been, just so I would have the connection.

I don't entirely know what to make of it.  Laura was the only person I've ever felt comfortable physically around.  Comfortable enough to touch her and approach her without hesitation.  And I miss it.  I miss a lot about relationships.  And it helps, consciously, to just accept that I will not pursue them in this body, will not entertain serious notions of romance as I am.  But I still desire, still crave, still have that empty space where once was someone else in so many aspects of my life.  I survived the break up, and it was honestly for the best.  It was a catalyst for so much trauma and change.  But I miss it.  I miss it terribly so.  Dreams indeed.

I might be crazy, but listening to "I've Got a Feeling" by the Black-Eyed Peas (particularly the "I've Got a Feeling" refrain) is a melancholy experience.  It's uplifting, to a point, but I hear in "I've got a feeling that tonight's gonna be a good night" that 1) it's far from certain that tonight will be good (the speaker just has a "feeling") and 2) that many nights probably haven't been good nights, since it demands expression.  I think that sentiment adds to the effect the song has, though, by prompting people to subconsciously pull together because we're all yearning for the same thing.  Then when the song changes to the actual actions of the party (in the present moreso than the future tense), everyone can start actually celebrating instead of just desiring.

As I mentioned in my previous post, there are some songs (particularly by The Killers) that are hard on me right now.  Mr. Brightside has been painful since it's closely connected to Laura (via Rock Band and its content).  But as evidenced by the previous post, I've also been listening to "All These Things I've Done."  It, and its American music video, is (I think) about the weight of sin and the how it continually comes back to you.  ("I've got soul but I'm not a soldier" as an indictment, an inability to fight against that which continually comes back to attack you).  But it's also a call for help "Yeah, you know you got to help me out"  and another instance of a song, sung alone, as a plea, but when together as a mutually recognized plea that changes from desperation to unification and determination ("I've got soul but I'm not a soldier" turns into a positive idea, one that focuses upon the benevolent, peaceful nature of the speaker, a reassurance because the individual may have flaws but does not intentionally harm and fight others as a soldier would).  I want to harness that sentiment.  Right now, I'm the one thinking of the things I've done and calling for help.  But I want the song to be an acknowledgement of need, a call that is ok to make and one that I am ready and able to answer.  And as the British version demonstrates, I think The Killers do too.

I seem to start out most Saturdays now writing a blog entry that I later finish sometime Sunday, so I don't know why that budding tradition should change now.

It's spring break.  Nominally, anyway.  It will mostly be filled with the compilation, construction, and production of my Action Research Project and the procrastination thereof, but I'll get to sleep late and my failure will be the things of slow drops rather than torrential cascades.  It's the small things that keep you going, you know?

I had sushi with my main homegirl KB mid-week.  KB and I have rather similar backgrounds (particularly in terms of parental profile), and we have comparable personality dispositions.  Thee are obvious and notable discrepancies, but she is one of those rare people who I feel like I can and should talk to, openly and assertively, without evading and worrying.  I think it has to do with being as evasive as I can often be, mutually recognizing it, and having nowhere else to go but into realms so often left uncharted by both of us.

At any rate, I was talking to her about hidden emotional pain and how it's something I'm truly passionate about.  The silence and shame surrounding emotional trauma/wounds/whatever you want to call the dark undercurrents that swirl around one's soul are one of the more perfidious problems of our society (or at least middle class society).  There's some visibility in the spectacle of television, but I get so much of a sense of "quiet desperation" with too little release that I can't help but want to do something about it.

It's the silent victims of rape, of abuse, of alcoholism, of alcoholic parents, of depression, of low self-esteem, of doubt, of jealousy, of paranoia, of so much more that bother me.  I want more publicity, I want more acceptance, I want to treat sincerely and authentically the issues that actually make a demonstrable difference in the lives of others.  It's almost like emotional activism.  I got so passionate talking to KB about it, I just knew that it was something I cared and believed in so much more than what I'm doing now.  And I need to find a way to channel that.

There are times when I feel singularly alone and dejected.  I'm listening to The Killers right now, but it's often hard because many of their songs have such strong senses of pain and desolation that I don't want to expose myself to the possibility of such feelings never ending unless I have the assurance of someone loving me (in the same way it's ok to rewatch a close sports game when you know you're going to win in the end).

But the world can be a beautiful, sweet place.  One of my favorite bloggers is David Rees who made a name for himself satirizing Bush's administration with his "Get Your War On" comic.  He's lower key now, but his sense of humor is really interesting.  He has these things called "Friday Face Offs" where he looks at seven or so youtube videos covering songs by popular artists.  There's a bit of mocking of some of the performances, and he does so often hilariously.  But there's also a sense of saluting the average human experience while accessing universal emotions through songs that convey them.  For instance, in the 2nd place spot, there's a video of a quite pedestrian performance.  But Rees focuses on the bass player who is really getting into the music.  Rees focuses upon the small joy of the individual, softly mocking but not unkindly.

Youtube's a democratic medium, as much about the small and shared experiences as the viral sensations.  And that's the type of life and world I envision. One that engages the universal while smiling at the small ironies and eccentricities.  There's so much sadness and darkness that I want to explore and fight, but I want to do so with a hope and faith that the world is a good place with good but all too often hurt people.  A candle in the darkness, but a light nonetheless.

I want that.  I want to live and flow through a world like that.  I want to fight for a world like that.  I want to struggle for it, cry for it, yearn for it, and build it.  I want to fight the darkness and empower others to do the same.  It's the fight I want to fight.  It's not quite an optimistic vision, but it's resilient.  I want it.  I just hope I'm working towards getting there.

And, of course, I speak too soon.  Hope's a bitch.  And a fickle one, at that.  I vacillate between thinking things will work out to thinking this is all a pipedream and I'm really just deluding myself to avoid thinking of my present state of failure.  I place a lot of stock in May, but I know this wound, this cataclysmic year will leave an ugly, ugly mark.  God, how I've failed.  How I've failed day after day.  I disappoint them and they disappoint me and I disappoint myself.  I want to help, not lead.  I never wanted to lead.  I have never, ever wanted to lead.   So why the hell did I think I could do this?  What possessed me to think that this was something I could handle?

Hope's a fickle bitch.  That was one of the best parts about dating Laura: I always had something to look forward to.  There was a sense of anticipation that she might call, there was getting to see her at least on the weekend, there were the chance meetings online, the sprinkling throughout my life that kept me excited about something all the time.

And now?  Now nothing penetrates my shell.  I feel unloved.  I feel unsuccessful.  I feel wretched and useless.  In my coping, in my protection I am devouring myself.  And when I am not confident in good things to come...

Ah well.  Eight weeks.  And then we move on to a newer, better hell.

Assessing the present is as much a function of comparing to past and future as it is correctly ascertaining the verity of one's self.  And that can pose a significant number of problems when one's past and future are not realistically rendered in one's mind.  It's a common enough practice to nostalgize the past into a myth of relative peace and simplicity, making the present seem much worse by comparison.  It also seems common, at least in my personal experience, to make the future into something that has to be better than the now for all kinds of reasons.  And when the present is bookended by these two fictions, it doesn't bode well for realism.


I suppose I should consider myself fortunate in that I'm a rather hopeful person.  I've been suicidal, yes, and I'm not all that far removed from such macabre sentiments.  But I'm continually struggling to understand, to improve, to fight towards a future better than today.  I don't have hope that I'll find it, but I haven't given up on it either.


However, I also don't have a solid history of happiness to really be able to say what I'm looking for.  With Laura, I was inoculated.  I could feel joy through her, feel loved through her, live through her and use her as my conduit to "the real" feelings I couldn't experience myself.  It was pleasant if not more; I always had something to look forward to, always had something to fall back upon, always had that safety in the back of my mind.  And when she left, it was as if my shelter had been torn away, exposing me to the gales and bitter cold of a harsh reality.  For she was just that: a shelter, a bubble, a construct to help me avoid my demons, not defeat them.


And, aside from the time I was with her, I've been fairly unhappy.  So what am I working towards?


Today, for a few brief hours, I felt it.  It was a mood swing, in some senses.  Certainly, it's a week before Spring Break and, overall, it looks to be an easy enough week.  But there were times where I felt a kind of... uplifting spirit, a verve (pardon the pun) that pushed me to get work done without being forced, to eat better by pure volition, to smile and be smiled at almost cheerfully (my mood, alone, translated into better reactions from other walkers on my weekly Greenway trek).  It was positive!  "Life is real, Life is earnest!"  I was buoyant and energetic and friendly and and and


And I felt like it was how I want to feel all the time.  It was almost amazing, as if thinking, "Is this how other people feel very often?  They have no idea how great they have it!"  Somehow I doubt it's that simple.  But it was lovely, and I dreamed of brights futures, different names, different clothes, and long flowing hair.


Hope does that to me.  Rest does that to me.  I went to church today and the sermon was on "wounded healers." It centered around the story of a Navajo tormented over being a "half-breed" who was in a POW camp in Nazi Germany.  Released weighing only 63 lbs, the elders of his tribe saw in him the potential to be a shaman.  So they trained him, tried him, and inspired him to become a healer (and eventually a UU minister).


The point of the sermon, though, was an emphasis upon how pain builds compassion and empathy.  I am not empathetic to the small joys and sorrows of life, for I live too much inside my head.  But of pain, I know my way.  Like a friend commented in an earlier entry, I have been here before and I am steadily working my way out.  I've always wanted to be a healer.  It's my preferred role in games, my preferred role in life (support), my preferred push.  Unlike in a game, of course, I cannot simply push a button and a person gets better.  I want to be a holy creature, though, one who knows of artifice and agony, desolation and despair, but who acknowledges while overcoming.  I want to be that wounded healer.


And I think I might be able to.  The surer I am of being and doing who I want to be and do, the better I feel.  It makes me think I'm on a good path.  It makes me think that joy is no errant mood swing but a foreshadowing of wonders to come.  God, a girl can hope.


But then the pressures return, the scraping in my chest of pressures here and there, and I'm back in the purgatory, the caterpillar, the wasteland between.  I have my hopes, though.  The future's terrifying and exhilarating . But right now isn't too bad either.