Post-Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is over. The left-overs are almost finished. The weekend is at an end. And now I have to leave DC and E. and home and return to NYC.

Damn.

I love E.

Families of Choice

I receive so much love, I have to acknowledge it. Familes of Choice are something talked about in the LGBT community, where so often we are tossed out on our keesters by our blood relatives. But it's not just LGBT people, it's all of us who try to be ourselves, who try to follow our inner voice that says:

"be an actor... share those stories with people"
"be a free-spirit... let people see you live with joy"
"follow god... love with everything you have"
"hug a tree... feel the earth move below you"
"fight for the earth... even if it pays nothing"
"love her even if she never loves you back..."
"fight for justice, even if it means you'll never have a 401K or a sports car..."
"laugh, laugh, laugh..."
"make love to people, share their energy and their spirit, and their godliness"

I know there are parents out there who don't love their children, but of those that do, so often they forget how far encouragement, support, faith, a hug can go.

But Families of Choice are not necessarily a substitute. I have friends who love me, but we have not necessarily shared 30 years of experiences, and would they drop everything if I needed them to? That't not to criticize, just to notice. My family would drop everything to come to my aid if I got hit by a car. But if I felt despair that ripped at my heart, if I felt a depression and deep sense of self-loathing so strong I wanted to kill myself, they would find me irritating, a burden.

What am I saying? I don't really know. I guess Families of Choice are wonderful, and I am grateful for them. But I know they are not the same as those relationships that form us. However, of those formative relationships, I have two parents and one brother and a sister-in-law and a two-year-old niece and an aunt: That's five and a half people.

But of those who love me, I cannot cannot begin to count them: I have Sara, Michele, Sari, Elizabeth, E., Renee, Shiv, Kate, Artie, Laura, Steve, Vince, Chris, Christina, Julie, Elaine, Robin, Sara, Mark, Marylin, German, Sumathi, Sujani, Alana, Kelley, Bohman, Chris, Trese, Toisha, Susan, Leslie, Elizabeth, Rachael, the list goes on and on. So much love and it wraps around me like a cloak of strength.

I have lately been thinking about something Jesus supposedly said: 'Leave your families and follow me.' I think there is much to be learned by working at a relationship for years, and growing and changing and learning how to work through the hard times. But at some point, I have to realize that I can't change people. I can only be the best person I can be, and at some point I have to walk away from a hurtful situation. I have to value myself that much. No one else will if I don't. And as E. helped me to understand, it's not that I'm walking away from something (my parents, my brother, whoever), but instead, I'm walking towards something: Towards my future, towards the love in my life, towards the truth, towards god. And they can come with me, or they can remain where they are; the choice is always theirs.

And by 'god' I don't mean Jesus or the bible or any dogmatic religion. When I say god I mean the Truth; and when I say Truth I mean Love.

I love my Family of Choice. My Family of Blood is welcome to be a part of it, it's up to them.

(Please do not think that the names I mentioned are in any order, or are conclusive. There are many more I hold near and dear to my heart.)

On Being Grateful (a Letter to My Brother)

In light of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, the importance of family, and my brother’s recent accusation that I’m never grateful for what my family gives me, I thought a letter might be in order. And this is what it would say:

Dear F.,

On Tuesday, I came over to your place already wary. We haven’t had the closest relationship in years – since 1994 and that difficult night at the diner. We never talk about our feelings. We are vastly different people, and we live our lives according to different codes. I can accept that, but still, without some sharing of what’s inside, joys and fears, loves and worries, I don’t know how to be close to you. And though I tried on Tuesday to tell you what I was feeling, here in this letter I will try again. And this time I will add a dash of what I left out – how angry I am.

I have a preconceived notion of what brothers could be. I think of siblings as people who stick together: When their parents are unfair, they stick up for each other; when the world is unfair, they look out for each other, and in the face of Life and its ordeals, they are a safe haven for each other.

I don’t think that’s what we are. You never stick up for me with mom and dad, even when they hold family events and tell me not to come. I was un-invited to the family dinner you gave after you got married; I was un-invited to your wife’s baby-shower; and I am now un-invited to this year’s Thanksgiving dinner. And all because of the way I look. But you say you don’t want to get involved.

You’ve done a good job at that, not being involved. You said on Tuesday that it seems like I’ve been going through crisis after crisis for almost twelve years, and you’re tired of it. You’re tired?! I was the one who was diagnosed with depression, who had to spend a year in a hospital getting better, trying to beat the constant urge to kill myself. I’m the one who found work, an apartment, and got back on my feet again. I’m the one who was raped in another country and came back and survived and continued on. I’m the one who got myself back into college, graduated, found a job at a newspaper, worked some more, then applied and got into graduate school. I’m the one who graduated, who spent a summer in France working and writing, and then came back to help my partner settle into her own graduate school, then came back to NYC without a place to stay or barely any money. I’m the one who found a room in Upper Harlem, who is under so much stress that I’ve started smoking again and sometimes I can barely get out of bed. I’m the one who’s busting my ass to do everything I can to prevent a relapse into depression, which includes looking for a therapist (because I know when I need to ask for help). And you’re the one’s who’s tired?

Life’s full of ups and downs. If it’s not, then it’s static and dead. You’ve been depressed for four years, and you won’t even get help. You won’t even do couples therapy with your own wife. You have a child. You’re kidding yourself if you think your depression won’t affect her. You’re kidding yourself if you think you can handle this on your own. You can’t even talk about your feelings – you barely know how. Get help, brother. If you don’t, you’ll lose everything and everyone you love. I know; I’ve been there. Do you even let yourself feel love…

…real love, the kind that’s vulnerable and giving and never expects anything back. Do you feel that for yourself? I don’t think you do.

You kept saying that I’m so demanding, I just ask for more and more and more. If I get one thing, then I ask for another, and then another, and where will it end? I’m asking you to use the name I prefer to be called, to use male pronouns. What else have I asked you for? All this time that I’ve been couch surfing, have I ever asked you for a place to crash? Have I asked you for money? What else have I asked you for? Nothing. It’s been years since I asked you to stick up for me with mom and dad, because I know you won’t do it. This all I’m asking: Respect me.

But now I’m going to ask you for more: I want you to love me for who I am. That might be the straw that collapses the camel, I realize that, but I’m asking anyway. And on top of that, here’s another thing: Care about me. ME. Not just this body that happens to have been born to the same parents, but me, the inside of me – it’s the best part and you barely know that part.

Actually, never mind. I don’t want to ask too much. Just work on the name and the pronoun. That’s enough.

And you say you are trying (to not use any pronouns – that’s your compromise), but I haven’t heard you try. I’ve never heard you say “she…oops, I mean he (or you),” not once. And so I have to say, it doesn’t feel like you’re trying. And I tell you, it hurts me when you say she, you take away my right to exist, you invalidate me. And then you get so angry with me, I’m ungrateful for the efforts people make. (Wow, you sound just like Sam, have y’all been talking?) Well, here’s what I have to say about being grateful:

First, I can feel grateful that you invite me over once in a while, and still be hurt and angry that you keep calling me she; I am capable of having two feelings at the same time. And second, why should I be so frickin’ grateful anyway? Do I walk around thanking people for not saying the word faggot or nigger? Do I bow down and gush over people because they’ve managed to not be quite as bigoted today as they were yesterday? You’re transphobic, you and your belief that a person can’t change their sex and so therefore you won’t use the pronoun a person asks you to. I can appreciate your effort, when I see it, and understand that it’s hard for you and be proud of you for trying to do something difficult. But I will not be grateful that you’re doing the right thing. I’m giving you the opportunity, and a lot of time (almost two years now) to be a better person. I give you an opportunity to know what it’s like to be a transperson in this world. I don’t need to be grateful to anybody if I receive a basic human right. That’s why it’s a basic human right. I am grateful to the people who fight for those rights. And you’re not one of those people.

And then you have gall to insinuate that our family gives me so much more than E.’s family. And I answered you even though the question was insulting. But I left out the most important details, so here they are: Besides financial help with school, rent, food, my in-laws give us support, encouragement, love, faith, respect and courage to continue on even though it can be hard and daunting.

But as thin as our relationship is at times, I still remember what it was like before. I remember mom yelling at you and wishing I was big enough to make her stop. I still try and stand up for you when I feel like they’re being unfair to you, or to your depression – I tell them they should be more supportive and encourage you to get help. I defend you, though you always tell me, you’ve never asked me to do that. I still want to work towards having a better relationship with you. I want to do family therapy with you, I want to work out our issues and move on to being closer siblings. You say you want an easy relationship, one where we can just hang out and have fun. I want that too, but I think we’ll probably have to muddle through some hard feelings first before we can break clear and be at ease with each other.

But then you said you just want to focus on yourself right now. You don’t think you’re up to family therapy right now, and if you did it, it would just be for me, not because you want to do it.

Well then, brother, don’t do it. Don’t do anything you don’t want to do. But don’t expect me to stick around forever. I’m not your little sister anymore, and I haven’t been for over a decade, since that that awful night at that diner. I put myself through repeating patterns of pain trying to be close to a family that refuses to love and accept me for who I am. At some point I’m going to learn that this isn’t healthy for me, and I’m going to extricate myself. At some point I am going to realize that I’m bending over backwards in the hopes that with enough time, people will change. But people don’t change because you ask them to. They only ever change because they choose to on their own.

Family is important. But it’s not about blood. Sure, there’re things to experience, opportunities to learn and grow when you’re in a relationship with another person over years and years. But when that relationship becomes and remains unhealthy, you have to decide if you’re going to stay in it. I don’t think I’m helping you anymore by staying in this relationship. I’m enabling you to keep treating me poorly, hurtfully, disrespectfully. I’ll never cut you off forever, I’m not like that. But until you are willing to work on this relationship in therapy with me, you will have to have me in your memories only.

I have this fantasy that that’s where you all want me anyway, safely in your memories, where I’ll never change or grow or disagree with you or become my own person. If I died, I think I could make that possible for you, and there are definitely times when I think about how much my family hates me, and I think I would hurt less if I were dead. But I have too much to live for, so you’ll have to do those mental acrobatics on your own.

So with Thanksgiving around the corner, what am I grateful for? I am grateful for people in my life who see me, who love me, and who are willing to accept my love. I am grateful for E. I am grateful for god, who’s my best friend in the whole world. I’m grateful that though I feel so much pain, I also feel strong and open and loving. I am grateful for the truth. I grateful to be living my Truth.

And Truth is Love.

I wish you well, my brother. May you find the ability to love yourself, to open yourself, to let in the love of others. Whether we ever have a close relationship or not, I will always wish these things for you.

With love,
D.

A Few Days Ago

It’s amazing, you can watch Law & Order non-stop, with only the occasional breaks, and then it’s SVU, Judging Amy, Missing and Cold Case. The hours pass by and I can not think about myself at all. I can worry about Amy (her best friend died, so heartbreaking), and that guy who lost his job and became a drunk, I wonder if he’ll get into rehab? But do I think he killed his wife and family? Nah, he’s too drunk to do that. I wonder what’s on next?

I couldn’t drag myself out of bed until almost one in the afternoon. Yesterday, it was noon. The day before wasn’t much better. I’ve been down this road before. It’s not a road I want to walk down again. I got up this afternoon, finally, hoping Rafael was out. I don’t like witnesses, or anyone to see my bed-head. I went outside for a cigarette, watched the construction workers, puffed away, and I looked up – at what, I have no idea, the tops of the building, the overcast sky – and I thought, please help me.

I walked back into my room, and the phone rang. It was Nina at my temp agency, whom I had neglected to call for the past two business days. She said she might have a job for me at a publishing company, beginning in early December, and it would last a few months, was I interested? Yeah. Oh my god, yeah. Thank you.

Here I am in the city, within ten miles of both my brother and my aunt. I’m becoming symptomatic again: I’m smoking, I’m sleeping longer hours, my self-esteem is shaky. I’m scraping by, having to convince myself that it’s worth the extra money to eat a salad once in a while. And I get nothing from them. No support, either monetary or emotional. And I’m thinking, why would that be? I can think of two reasons. Either they don’t care, or they don’t know. I have to take responsibility for that. I don’t make myself vulnerable to people who don’t respect me, who can’t be bothered to use the right pronouns, the right name. I never said to them, help me. I don’t know if I can. I want my brother to do family therapy with me. I want my aunt to do family therapy with me. Anyone in my family! Anyone.

I know my parents won’t.

But maybe I should ask? Maybe I should make myself vulnerable and maybe I should ask for what I want, because at least then I can be mad because they let me down, not just because they couldn’t read my mind.

But what will that feel like, to have them say, No, I don’t want to engage in family therapy with you. And what they won’t say, You’re not worth it.

Ashtray

I feel like an ashtray. Like a chimney. If only I smelt like a campfire, that would be an improvement. My acne is painful on my face. My body feels tight, wound, kinked. I treat my body like shit. I don’t want to do that anymore.

But it’s not that easy. I mean it is, I just start buying salads, quit it with the dollar slices of pizza, pick up a salad a day, how hard is that? But stuff gets in the way.

I guess I don’t think I’m worth it. I need to change that. I need to remember that I am worth healthy food, worth taking the time to meditate and exercise.

If I treat myself this way, who will treat me better? I do love myself. I do.

Much to Write, But No Time

I had such an upsetting, unbelievable and yet fairly calm (on my end, anyway) conversation with my brother that I really need to write about. I don't have time now, but I have to say, families dynamics can cause so much pain. It's amazing I fucking survived my family. I feel like I've been fighting for my life, for my right to breathe, to exist, to live my truth. And they think I'm annoying, a pain the ass, selfish. Fucking incredible.

Take a Walk on the Wild Side

That's the song that's playing right now in this free-internet-organic-vegan coffee shop which is sometimes my office. Oh wait, no, it's a remake that's sampled the beat. That's a bit of a letdown. Today is a bit of a letdown. My attitude is not quite for shit, but close.

The winters in rural Connecticut have become too much for my parents, or so they've been saying for a few years now, and they've decided to move. Where my parents are going to move to, I have no idea, and I can only imagine that they are running away from me as fast and far as they can. (Whatever, it's my fantasy.) They have ripped up carpets, polished wood floors, and this all seem to make the move very imminent. They are throwing away photos by the bag-full, photos of us, thousands of photos. I suppose they have hundreds more, but still. My childhood home, where I threw tantrums, had spin-the-bottle parties, and punched in the closet door. It's weird. So my mom calls and wants to know if she can throw out the books, the stuff in my closet, the crates downstairs.

-I'd rather you didn't.
-Why not, what will you do with it?
-I don't know, but I want to go through it first.
-Oh, okay. Well, I guess we could put it in storage here or something and you could come get it.
-Why, when are you moving?
-We don't know yet. A few months.

And I can't help it, it feels like they're throwing me out. Not in my rational mind, but in that part of me that feels despair that I've been told not to come to Thanksgiving, the part that feels betrayed that my brother doesn't stick up for me, the part of me that felt they'd be better off without me when I was a teenager. It's not rational. I know better. But those things are woven into the fabric of my insecurities. No, more than that, all those ways in which my parents let me know that I wasn't good enough just as I was, that I needed to be something else, someone else, someone better, those are the very threads that make up that Insecurity Blanket.

Do I know better? Yes. Do I know that god loves me unconditionally? Yes. Do I know that E. loves me more than I've ever been loved before? Yes. Do I know that my friends are amazing and supportive and love me? Yes. But it's a travesty of childhood development that nothing affects the way I feel about myself as much as the way my parents feel about me. Someone should do something about that. Freud's dead, Jung's dead, someone step up to the plate.

Most days I think about parenthood with trepidation. I don't want the responsibility of being the reason some poor kid is all fucked up. But somedays, like when I'm with my friend M., and I'm watching her parent her kids, I think maybe I could do this. Maybe I could give my kids something special. Maybe I wouldn't be anything like my parents were to me (except in the good ways -- I'm not saying my parents were monsters, they just didn't ever teach me how to love myself). Sometimes I think I'd like to adopt kids, there are so many without enough love, and I have a lot to give. I mean, good Lord, my parents keep rejecting the love I give them, so I have extra love to give! But maybe I'd like to take in foster kids. It seems unfair that there are kids in the world who need love and attention and stability and most of the time we are so centered on procreating in our own image. I mean, what would I have done at thirteen if someone said to me,

-Don't hate yourself. Here, come live with me, I'll show you how much I can love you. I'll show you that you're good enough just the way you are.

What would that have meant to me? And my parents loved me, even if it was in a backhanded sort of way. We fuck up our children, and we fuck up the world, and they watch us and learn from us and then they do it with more style and spectacle than we could ever have dreamed. Man, everyone should have to take a class before they become a parent.

I'm not saying being a parent is easy, but I'll wager it's easier than growing up. Nothing has wounded me more than my adolescence.

Okay, okay, I'll get off the high horse. What do I know? I'm not a parent.

I'll tell you what I know: I know what it's like to have my mom not even be able to look at me because she's so disgusted by what she sees; I know what it's like to be hidden away from friends and family so no one sees what a freak I am; I know what it's like to be told that I must be the child of the devil; I know what it's like to be told not to cry, and then to be told that I'm heartless because I don't cry; I know what it's like to see my mom become depressed for days or weeks because she doesn't know what she did wrong with me; I know what it's like to have my mom pray for me over and over again, year after year; I know what it's like to have my dad be mad at me because I'm jobless when I barely have enough money to eat, I don't have a place to stay, and he's told me I'm not allowed to ask my brother or aunt for help...

...and the worst is I know what it's like to know that they do all of this because they love me, they're miserable because they love me, that I cause them pain and tears.

No kid should ever have to feel that. Ever.

Yes, absolutely, my parents love me. Without a doubt they love me. God help me if I ever love my kids like that.

From Wednesday

It’s Wednesday and slept away the morning wrapped in dreams. I went to bed after two, having watched the election and then trudged home in the rain. Falling asleep was strange: I felt such a weight on me, as if I could feel people yelling at me, too loud and too close to my head, so that the yelling felt heavy against my body. I couldn’t make out what the yelling was about, and I was too tired to be frightened.

I woke up around noon, and jumbles of images floated back to me, but the plot line has been lost. I think I was at an amusement park maybe? I was very depressed. My therapist was a woman, and she wouldn’t give me what I wanted. My dad was there, too, though I didn’t want to talk to him because he wouldn’t understand; I wanted her to talk to him. E. was there towards the end. My therapist came back and whatever she said made me angry, and I ran off into the woods, which weren’t real exactly, jumping over bushes and dodging trees until I was in a basement filled with old furniture and junk. E. followed me. I was still angry, but glad she had followed me. She was making it a game, and it was hard to stay angry because I wanted to laugh.

Rafael was cooking this morning, and I woke to the smells of a Dominican rice stew. He offered me some, we ate, I tried to speak what Spanish I could muster up from my dusty memory files as we watched Spanish TV. I should study up on some verbs if I’m ever going to be able to have a real conversation with him. So far, he’s been a really nice guy.

I just ate my last piece of guilt-free chocolate candy. Damn.

And I’m a smoker again, I can’t deny it. But that’s okay for now.

It’s still raining hard outside. I feel damp, even though I’m inside.

My posture is terrible.

Important T update: My hair seems to be thinning on top (sigh), and porn is having less of an effect on me – perhaps it is the lower dose.

From a Few Days Ago

I think I need to write an update on how the digs are working out, but words fail me. Or I fail them. I’m not sure how that works.

Wait, I do know. There is no failure. Just a lack of connection. I think that’s true of Life, too.

The new digs grow on me. I am trying not to resist the turn my life has taken and instead to find a way to embrace it. How do I embrace something that repels me? I don’t know, but as the days wear on, I am not as repelled. Tomorrow I am going to Swiffer the floor and spray more Raid. Today I did laundry.

Maybe the day after tomorrow I will try to cook something. Maybe.

E. visited me over the weekend. She left a little of herself here. It makes it easier.

I'm Probably Not Supposed to Do This At Work

Indeed, here I am at work, blogging. And this is because:

1. I can't check my email though I much prefer to procrastinate that way;
2. I can't even check the BBC site;
3. reading about the impending midterm elections is overwhelming, and also makes me feel guilty since I'm registered to vote in VA and didn't get an absetee ballot;
4. this site has not yet been blocked, but I feel sure it will be by the next time I try to log in.

But yes, you heard me right, I'm at w-o-r-k. Don't get too excited, it's a temp job. I worked here Thursday of last week, and got the call again this morning from my agency. It's not steady work by any means, but it's easy work, answering phones and smiling at people as they come and go. I probably have lots of time to revise my script, but then here I am blogging instead.

Two things are fascinating. First, yesterday evening, as I was walking home from my writing group, headed uptown towards the 96th street station on Broadway, I thought about getting something to eat. What I thought was, in this order:

What, I can't afford food!

Okay, fine, but something under a dollar, maybe a bagel or pizza?

Come on, I have raman noodles at home, all I have to do is boil water.

$2.25 for a slice of pizza! You gotta be kidding.

Sara said I should a vegetable; she's right, I should...

...which lead me to the following feeling, namely, that I could afford to buy a salad, even a $6 salad, because tomorrow I would be getting work. If I believe that I'm too poor to eat, then I will remain poor; I will be sending the message that this is who I am, a poor person who can't afford to eat, and that's how my Life will continue to reveal itself. However, if I truly believe that I will be working tomorrow -- and if not tomorrow, then tomorrow's tomorrow -- then I would get the salad; and in getting the salad I am sending the message that I have complete confidence that work will come. And I got the salad. And today I got called for work.

I'm exploring the concept that if you want something, you'll never get it. But if you believe you already have it, then you do.

The second thing which is fascinating about working in fashion here is that I thought for sure I'd be surrounded by gay men all day. Instead, I'm surrounded by men in yarmulkas. Who would have thought? I have nothing against Jewish people -- my last girlfriend was Chosen -- but the environment is a little more sedate than had I been surrounded by queens.

What can I say? I like royalty.

Upon Reflection...

... I can't tell if I'm full of shit or not.

Long Post About Nothing and Everything

Halloween, 2006, 9:00pm

I live in Harlem. To be exact, I live in Upper Harlem, though I had never known that to be a specific Manhattan neighborhood. It’s been three days and here I am on the third night writing these words, trying to write myself out of this room, out of this neighborhood, out of this moment of my life and into the next one. Before this becomes the last moment of my life.

I should warn you at this point that I have a flair for the dramatic as well as the poetic, but also for the truth, and so to the best of my ability, and as colorfully as I can, I will try to show you where I am, when I am, and how I came to be here. I don’t flatter myself to think that you’re actually interested in the details, but then that’s why I write, namely so I don’t have to see the expression on your face. If you never read a word past this one, I’ll never know, and don’t flatter yourself thinking that I’m writing this just for you.

My room is decently sized by New York City standards. I’ve got a big closet, a bundle of hangers upon which hang my paltry two pairs of work pants, one pair of grubby pants, and two button down shirts. On the shelf above that, the rest of my clothes: five tees, five boybeaters, three ties, two dress shirts still in their packaging, five pairs of socks (two with holes in them), ten pairs of underwear, two long-sleeve tees, one pair of dress shoes (purchased at the salvation army for $7 a decade ago), one Bounce dryer sheet, and a spare king-size pillowcase. In the corner on the floor is a small, red suitcase with wheels, the kind that should never be allowed to be a carry-on, but always is.

The bed is a full-size squeaky thing, with king size sheets that are anything but fitted. I went out today and bought a comforter ($11.90 plus tax) because the ratty one that my brother gave me has random hairs poking out of it, which is just too depressing. I’ve got two large windows which open to street level – 149th street, between Fredrick Douglass and Adam Clayton – bars on one, a locked gate on the other. A wobbly table has my backpack on it, files with unfinished scripts, a notebook of job possibilities, a table fan still in the box, and a can of Raid. There’s a small fridge in the room, but the floor buckles so it’s hard to get open without leaning it backwards first. There’s a giant bureau, and my bathroom stuff is in the top drawer. I haven’t looked in the other drawers. I’m kind of scared to. There’s also a Swiffer leaning up against the wall. I think I’m supposed to return it to my “landlord” but I haven’t yet. The room, to look at, is clean. I’ve Raided it, and that’s the first thing you smell when you walk in. My cell phone, my only contact with the outside world, only works if I perch off the end of the bed with my elbows on the window ledge, and even then, it cuts out sometimes.

During the daytime, this humble abode is adequate. Enough light comes through the closed screens that you can tell life exists outside of this room. At night, I wonder if people peek through the gap at the bottom and watch me sitting on my bed and staring straight ahead. I do that sometimes. I also have a water bottle on the table. There are about two swallows left so I have to make that last until tomorrow. Oh, and there’s a TV on top of the bureau. All in all, just like a little motel room.

I have access to the bathroom. I can use the kitchen if I clean everything afterwards. The rest of the place is off-limits. My landlord’s name is Rafael. This is his apartment and I rent out a room for $125 per week, payable in cash on Saturdays. He doesn’t speak much English; I don’t speak much Spanish. And this is where I live now.

I have this fear that this where I will die.

At night it’s a bit like a cell. I sit on my bed, listless. I can’t bring myself to re-write my scripts. I can’t bring myself to do much of anything except wonder if the three cigarettes I’ve had in the last five days means that after a year and a half, I have failed at quitting smoking again. I feel that I am failing at Life in general, though, and the little failures kind of pale in comparison. I think about who I could call, and the obvious choice is E., my Life Love, who now lives five hours away. Don’t get me wrong, we haven’t split up or anything. She has grad school in DC and I have a career in theater here in NYC. If I give up my dreams, my prospects, my momentum, to live with her in DC, I might resent her later and so here I am. And if I give up my Life because I’m alone and scared and want to die, she would resent me… and so here I am. I could call her, but then what would that accomplish? She’d feel helpless and that’s a burdensome feeling. And I am losing my ability to fake it.

I have no access to internet here. If I did, I could while away the hours watching porn online and masturbating. It’s a bit of an addiction, but it passes the time. I have a clock radio, and TV, and the feeling that I am somehow repeating a pattern and if I don’t make it through to the other side, then I will return again to this awful place. “What you resist, persists,” or so I’ve read. So instead of secretly hoping that somehow I will be rescued from this place, I have decided to embrace this place, and so that’s what these words are. Me trying to embrace this moment in my life. Maybe if I hug the life out of it, it will slink away to be replaced by happiness, success and E. in my bed again.

And this is what I think precipitated this moment in Upper Harlem: My parents hate me again (admittedly a hate that hides their warped and conditional love for me), and because they hate me, I think maybe I should hate me as well. And my brother, the other family member in NYC, doesn’t hate me, but I don’t think he loves me. And if he does love me, what he considers love and what I consider love are not the same things. I have an aunt, too, who lives in Hoboken. My parents are livid that I don’t have a job yet, though five months have passed since I graduated with my MFA. And if I don’t get a job soon, they will cut off my health insurance and I’ll be on my own. It’s true, I asked them to pay for my health insurance until I got a job, because, well, without my medication I’ll probably die. What’s more ironic is that my parents are both retired doctors.

Now I’ve had a lot of therapy in my life and I can say that they’re threat to cut off my health insurance is an aggressive act. One might even say violent since it could result in my death. But then again, the fact that I’ve picked up a cigarette three times in five days is also pretty violent. I am stabbing myself in the lungs. This may seem a dramatic rendition of events, but only if you haven’t experienced intensive psychotherapy with a trained professional.

So here I am. Today. Now. And if it’s true that what you resist does indeed persist, then I would like to stop resisting this moment. I declare that as of this moment, I cease the desire to be rescued from this room. I am not just biding my time until the helicopters appear over head and drop down a harness for me to strap myself into; I expect no airlifts to safety. This is where I live for this moment, and for however long this moment lasts. Work will come tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then the next tomorrow. People are lining up to call me in for interviews because they know that I am valuable and talented and they want to hire me to do something good in this world.

And this feeling of wanting to run home to god this minute, to curl up in her lap, and never again having to doubt his love because I doubt my own… this is no longer my reality. By the sheer force of my will, tomorrow will be different.

Please, Universe, conspire to make this true.

And P.S., dear Universe, please do something about this acne, too; it makes my face hurt.

"Why did you drop your dose?"

For a few reasons:
1. I always want to be on the lowest possible dose of any medication that will get the job done;
2. My addiction to pornography was disturbing me, as I don't like the controlling nature of addictions (which is ironic, since I am quickly getting re-addicted to cigarettes...);
3. I wasn't sure whether I would be able to afford the T without health insurance, and I don't know how long I have health insurance, so I'm trying to make my T last longer.

How it's working:
1. So far, so good;
2. I still want to watch porn, but haven't ventured into a viewing booth in a while (they kind of creep me out, and it's depressing to see all these guys lined up, and then to realize that you're one of them);
3. My acne is bad, though (this could be stress-related).

I can always increase my dose back to 1 mL if I need to.