Archive for the ‘Fear’ category

Community When We’re Safe; Alienation When We’re Fearful

December 22, 2011

 

 

Each must for himself alone decide what is right and what is wrong, and which course is patriotic and which isn’t. You cannot shirk this and be a man. To decide against your convictions is to be an unqualified and inexcusable traitor, both to yourself and to your country, let man label you as they may.
                               — Mark Twain

 

I became involved with a rather interesting conversation yesterday on the web. The conversation was among TLBG folk or at least folks who didn’t mind being on a bulletin board with TLBG folk.

I noticed as I read that what might have been a wide open discussion sort of turned into a very closed discussion that obeyed the rules of limits with an almost enforced quality.

As usual, I tossed a few Molotov cocktails, having my own difficulties (as some of you know and others of you know quite well) in coloring within the prescribed lines when it comes to USA, USA society and whatever passes here for culture. We have a kind of casserole culture in USA, USA and it seems to be ruled to a great extent by fear of the imperial storm troopers we refuse to acknowledge exist.

Such lack of acknowledgement in words but strict acknowledgement in actions and speech seems to be a part, most especially, among minority groups in the Empire. The smaller the minority the more acutely aware it seems to be as a group of being able to “Tawk thuh raiht whay, Jeb.”

The topic that was both so very heated and at the same time so very demure was this: “Hey peeps. Any thoughts on the Bradley Manning case’s trans element?”

Seems simple enough, eh? Apparently, it wasn’t, but more on that later. For now let me provide a small background for those of you who are unaware. Pfc, Bradley Manning was a USA USA soldier stationed in Kuwait and stateside during her term of service and prior to being brigged at Quantico, Ft. Leavenworth and, now, Ft. Meade, Md., for her trial.

The takes on the so-called “trans-defense” appear to revolve around a rather common tactic generally called something like “gay panic” “trans panic” or the “twinkie” defense, Basically the defense will argue that some outside force “made” the defendant perform the act under prosecution.

Aside: Warning!! Just to reveal my inclinations at start: I think Pfc. Manning is a heroine and should be released, feted and allowed surgery if that’s what she wants as a reward for possibly single-handedly ending the farce known as Iraqi Liberation this month. USA, USA lost thousands of military and civilian persons, and Iraq lost tens of thousands of its citizenry in this disgraceful imperial escapade. All in a bid to reap the wealthiest and easiest to reach oil field left in the world for Halliburton, Exxon-Mobil and other USA, USA corporate interests. (Among those would be the investment interests of former Veep, Dick Cheney and other administration officials of Bush II who profited, or felt that they would profit, from said invasion and occupation.

That conversation gave me some causes for concern.  For, when I involved myself in it I read things such as these.

“Finally, it should be pointed out that past history shows that traitors come in all varieties of races, religions, sexes, ethnicities, educational and socio-economic levels.” “I also think this is going to hurt us.” “I have to admit that I’m somewhat skeptical about the legitimacy of Manning’s claim of GID.” “I still think he’s a traitor and people have died because of his actions. I’d rather he wasn’t associated.” “Bradley Manning’s gender identity or sexual orientation has nothing to do with the case. They’re using it in as a form of trans panic.” And “Manning’s deplorable defense strategy of exploiting false stereotypes of trans and especially transsexual people brings a teachable moment and an opportunity to point out that gender identities and expressions that differ from birth sex are not mental pathologies.”

 Now, I was born and raised in the American South. I’m pretty well aware of the unthinking patriotism (see Dr. Johnson on patriotism and scoundrels) and gung-ho homer-ism of vast tracts of USA, USA populace. So most of the comments didn’t really singe my bangs. But, those last two came from 1) a friend who surprised me with hir decision that GID had nothing to do with the case and 2) from an activist, who, as you may be able to tell from the quote has done grand work trying to de-pathologize trans lives in terms of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Illnesses, V, to be released in future by the American (perhaps USA, USA as they have a number of members in the pay of the government and large corporations that own the government) Psychiatric Association (APA.)

Personally I’d have expected a more wait and see response to both of these folks. Alas, that was not to be, although the second has written me since in a personal letter to correct her notion that she already knew what the defense strategy was going to be, having read it. I continue to admire her, now I shall add her ability to admit she was wrong to the list of her positive qualities.

She was gracious enough to admit both publicly and privately that she had, indeed, jumped to a conclusion.

Which, of course, was my argument all along.

What I thought I was seeing in the thread was the reaction of members in a small and embattled minority strive gallantly to distance themselves from what they expect to be yet another waxing from the professional bigots at American Family Association (AFA,) Americans For Truth About Homosexuality (AFTAH,) Focus On The Family (FOTF) and other right-wing, evangelical, pogram-propagating organizations around USA, USA.

It’s not like there’s no substance to the fears. All of the above and lo, many others as well, have again and again heaped abuse and worse on women and men who have transsexual or transgender conditions in their immediate lives or in their past lives. Even purported allies in TLBG circles like Barney Frank and Cathy Brennan have at best been hateful and dismissive. 

For those other, non-TLBG, folk we are abominations and some of the evilest of the evil. When you’re less than 1% of the population there may be some cause for fear at hatred directed at the group.

 But, back to the intrusion of other transsexual and transgender folk into the defense and life of Pfc. Breanna Manning. (I use that name because of the following excerpt from the chat logs of  Manning and Adrian Lamo.) “ I wouldn’t mind going to prison for the rest of my life, or being executed so much, if it wasn’t for the possibility of having pictures of me… plastered all over the world press… as boy…” 

Breanna, on this blog you will be referred to as who you are. Be aware commenters.  

Thus, seems to me that the defense may well be trying to run a defense that revolves around the fact that Pfc. Manning was under a good deal of stress and that her reactions to that stress were of the sort that may well have caused a reasonable person to believe that she was perhaps medically and psychologically unfit for duty at the top secret codeword shop in which she was employed.

No “twinkies” there at all. Instead a rather usual practice that the military has used for decades if not centuries in persecuting and prosecuting soldiers under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. To wit, when we need your expertise and/or your body because we are desperate for them, we will hardly deign to prosecute you or relieve you of your duties. On the other hand, when it’s convenient, we will use this against you when we realize we no longer require your services and that we need to cover our on asses.

Breanna Manning will not reap the accolades I suggest that she should gather from all of us for hastening the departure of the Imperial Army from Iraq. I find it too bad, in fact, that someone else doesn’t have her fortitude when it comes to stopping this insane Israeli-led Iran bashing and threatening that almost is surely leading to bombs in Iran shortly.

What she does deserve is better from her peers, those of us who have or will transsex because we can no longer manage successfully the noise in our brains and the pain of living our lives as someone not our self.

That is where I was much disappointed in my peers on that thread. They sounded so very much like the very people they fear. We cannot overcome prejudice, overcome the denigration of our selves by becoming the carbon copies of our oppressors. We must appeal to the better angels of their, and our, natures and most especially to a sister or brother.

As I said on the thread, following that first evangelical, Martin Luther, “Here I stand, I can do no other.” 

Loss of A Child: Another Perspective

December 15, 2008

I received the following by email on Friday. I thought it was an excellent follow-up from a different perspective about women losing our children. My friend will go unnamed and unidentified. She has granted me permission to publish her essay here. 

I found her letter poignant and very much worth sharing with others. 

Her perspective is not yet my own and I count my great fortune for that. Losing children through antipathy to how one must make her way through the world is, perhaps, as devastating in it fashion that losing a child through death. Certainly the losses are terrible to experience. Yet, many women and men of transsexing histories have these experiences. My tendency is to agree with my friend that the experiences are allowed and even encouraged by a transphobic social norm that gives innate “unfit parent” status to anyone who transsexes in all too many jurisdictions. 

The pain and heartache seem to be endlessly countable. One after the other I have heard and read such stories as the one below over the past ten years. They are by no means unusual. 

The State of New Jersey two years ago changed its anti-discrimination law to cover those who transsex. At least in theory such things as occurred with my friend cannot happen there. Isn’t it time that other states followed? Isn’t it time that the biological reality of such matters as “brain-sex” and a biological basis for transsexuality come into acceptance by our legal systems. 

The evidence for biological etiologies grows larger and more broad every week or two as new studies are released and drawn up. Mothers and fathers do not lose their children legally due to Multiple Sclerosis or other conditions like skin-color or physical abnormalities. Isn’t it also time that parents who transsex shoudl be included in the legal protections that maintain their contact and relationships with their children as well? 

________________________________

I read your contemplating the loss of a child entry. I don’t have to contemplate that event I lost both of my children when I transitioned. My son, 22, lives about a half mile from me. He would rather drink acid and swallow broken glass than speak with me. Ok, maybe a little overstated but same effect. We haven’t spoken for, well more than a year, and I would estimate more like a few years. Probably since he turned 18 and he told me he would be very uncomfortable if I were to be around when his friends showed up for the party I worked so hard to make sure came together for him. Poor me.Just a fact.

My daughter and I got close to some kind of reconcilliation this past summer but it failed miserably. I think, retrospection, that it was really a cynical attempt by her, doomed to failure. A bit of stage drama to support her position of disconnect. She is 17.

Since the time I was asked to leave the home I built from the inside out, the house they stil live in today, the house we struggled together for, the house that had the blood guts sweat equity, the love in it in every stud, plate and rafter, since I was told to go, my children have acted as though I died.

THey have their Mom. I am just the girl that used to be there Dad. I am never sure how they have it in their heads. I am sure they have it confused. I have the pictures. I have the experiences, I was the one that had them in my arms when they took their first breaths, no, no even before that. I went to every Ob-Gyn visit. I did miss a couple because I traveled for a living. But we started to make sure I could make them and scheduled for them. I was a partner in the process in every way at every stage.

I was the one that held them as they were lifted from their Mom before the docs dumped her uterus onto her belly and then replaced it and closed her up. I held them to her before they sent her unconscious to the recovery room. I walked down the hall with them to the room where they do all the wonderful processing, stick their foot for a blood test, prints, and so on. I held them into the early morning hours while their Mom recovered close by. I would not trade places with her. I saw enough to know it is not for me.

The parenting, yes. That was for me. The carrying and the pregnancy? There was a point in her term that I felt a longing and loss but then the final trimester seemed to tell me that I should not hold onto that longing for too long. It was just another thing in my life , like so many others, that was not for me. But parenting?

Yeah, I bought into it big time and it still haunts me. I have a parenting module that is part of my life but has little to do. I have children but I am a dead person to them. I often think it is not that I have lost my children. They have given me up. And there is at least, tacit approval for that in their Mom’s home. It is maddening because she says she would not want anything more than for reconcilliation for our children and me. But how many ways could she work against it and still try to look, neutral , at least?

Oh poor me. I try not to let myself explore that too much. It is not a good place for me to live in. i know it is a significant blow, and the subject of too many hours of therapy but it is inescapable, ultimately. Many say give it time, time heals all wounds, they are too young, and on and on.

But time cannot recover the nights spent in tears and the overwhelming sense of grief with virtually nothing to do about it, no good play, no move available. These are the kids I stayedup with until they fell asleep night after night, the same kids I awoke and fed, changed, drove all over to get them to schools, events and all that kids do, and all that a parent might do.

Whadja think was gonna happen? I guess I had a different idea. I am led to consider Deidre McCloskey’s experience with her kids. I read her book when it first came out. I thought, whoa, that would never be my experience. I love my kids and they love me. They depend on me. They could never treat me so callously. Then reading again a few years later I thought about how her wife and her children resembled mine so much. More my children than their Mom. WHat had changed in those few years? How could this have happened?

It could only occur with significant support from a trans-phobic society. One that does not support the idea that gender is an experience humans find in all different colors and shapes and sizes and that love is the far more powerful thread that holds things together, more powerful than pressure to conform, or peer approval pressures. No, I didn’t win on that one. Therapist awarded me big points for the argument but in the end it didn’t fly. A part of me died there in those home therapy sessions. I salvaged what I could and let the rest go. A tricky bit of triage but the grief never really leaves. There is some solace in the thought that it is no harder today than yesterday, tomorrow will be about like today, as far as the pain. Pain comes with the territory, suffering is optional.

I believe no one should offer me condolences. I am in pretty good shape despite the dents and marks on my finish. I have had a lot of blessings and they don’t seem to have run out yet. I live in a state of thanksgiving. I just have one thing that causes me real trouble. So many others have a log of things that plague them, some can’t ever put their finger on it but there are lots of its to cause them fits. I know what it is like to lose my children. Those years can never come back to me.
——————–

Hiding In Plain Sight …

December 10, 2008

… is, to be honest, perhaps a good thing for Purloined Letters, but perhaps on the order of Emperors and new clothes for human beings. People can be taught to lie or to at the very least obfuscate and divert or remain very, very quiet by circumstances, life-preservation, teaching, inclination, fear, a desire for “a greater good,” actually, for any number of reasons. After awhile telling a lie or learning to keep one’s mouth closed can become an art-form.

So, Radha, more “internalized transphobia?” I don’t really think so, simply because I intend to chat today about myself. Once again, the previous dictum holds true: if you think you see yourself here, (unless you happen to be one of the folks I mention by name later on down the page) you are mistaken. This is simply about my observations of my own life. If it applies to others as well … well, sometimes that’s just the nature of things and isn’t meant as an indictment of you should you read this. Let alone does it mean to be an indictment of transsexed or transsexing people. My basic thought about us as a group is that we usually lie more to ourselves than to others.

By the time others hear us speak of our lives or our thoughts, the lying to ourselves has become so deeply ingrained that we believe it to be true. Therefore, if you hear it from us in that regard, you are probably hearing exactly what we believe. Press us and we are likely to give you that … the truth as we know it. Trouble is that the knowing has often been ingrained by our circumstances, by our consistently negative reactions from those we love most growing up. One learns to hide, at some point, what is quite literally unspeakable.

Thus, as time wanders us through our lives most former and current transsexuals I’ve had occasion to hear and read have learned not to give much away about ourselves. When coupled with the historic admonitions of therapists and surgeons and others we have sought for relief and treatment, then the act itself has become ingrained within us that something bad is gonna happen if I tell you that I transsexed. Yes, a rather circular causation perpetuated, likely enough, by the very people we have learned to trust as we reached adulthood after having a rather large dose of that same “never speak of this” attitude ingrained in us by those we loved as children.

We grow up with very decided notions about how much of ourselves we should give others and usually there are people in our adult lives who manage by their reactions to us to press home that very childhood ingraining. The trip through learning to break-down such fortifications to our souls and hearts certainly provides spouses, significant others, even other transsexed or transsexing people we learn to know with many hours of very maddening experience of how tough it can be to love someone whose very attitude to love and relationship may have been based on the fact that love hurts and the beloved requires one to lie about her or himself for others to be able to show her their love. 

Knowing that might be true seems cold comfort at best for those who make attempts to support, encourage, provide guidance and care for their adult transsexing  loved  ones. The ingrained notion that most people of transsexing histories that I know has been “whatever you do don’t let them know.” That way be dragons: fearsome, roaring and terrible dragons. 

The problem of those of us who make lives in the “opposite gender” is often visited on our spouses, children, best friends and relatives. I don’t think the problem is intentional, at least not all the time. But I do believe that the problem is habitual and widespread. The truly hopeful thing about more and more children being heard these days by their parents is that perhaps those confining and mad-making walls are beginning, just a bit, to crumble. 

More and more often the “researches” of practitioners like Dr. Kenneth Zucker are being recognized as not only delaying the inevitable for about 20% of children with gender-dysphoric conditions, but as being possibly unethical or even legal breaches. The following excerpt from a paper published in the Journal of Sexual Medicine, (2008) Vol. 5, pp. 1892-1897 (midway through page 1896 during their summary of ethical and legal implications Drs. (PhD) Cohen-Kettenis, Delemarre-van de Waal and Gooren) opines about treatment of dysphoric youth under currently prevailing policies that emanate from places like CAMH (Centre for Addictions and Mental Health) and are publicized by non-professional religious-based organizations such as Focus On The Family. 

… in judging the desirability of hormonal pubertal suppression as a first but reversible phase in the sex reassignment procedure, one should not only take consequences of the intervention into account. Rather, one should also consider the consequences of nontreatment. Nonintervention is not a neutral option, but has clear negative lifelong consequences for the quality of life of those individuals who had to wait for treatment until after puberty. It may lead to irresponsible and risky, unhealthy actions of the patient in order to get access to the desired medication, distrust against professionals, with negative consequences for other aspects of their health care. It may lead to developmental arrest, and a psychological functioning forever hampered by shame about one’s appearance. This implies that “in dubio abstine” may actually be harmful. Not different from other endeavors in medicine, the care for gender dysphoric juveniles must be open to peer review and scientific scrutiny, which has always featured high on the agenda of the Dutch health care for transgendered subjects.

Realizing the potential harmfulness of nonintervention, one may wonder whether not providing treatment may not only be doubtful on ethical grounds, but also have legal implications. … 

Although many parents, as highlighted in the now-famous NPR piece last May that featured Zucker, still remand their children to the care of Dr. Zucker and other “reparative therapists” to quash dysphoria in children, they often do so with the best of intentions. I imagine they do so as well without Dr. Zucker owning his obvious Neo-Conservative politics and the fact that other research gives the lie to his program. This is in spite of the fact that Dr. Zucker himself and, in other research, Dr. Cohen-Kettenis both affirm that GID persists into adulthood in about 20% of the patients examined.

In view of the fact that Dr. Zucker claims adult homosexuality is the primary “positive outcome” of such “reparative” therapies one might ask what, exactly, is the point of pursuing such courses if statistically-speaking the result is nil?  Dr. Cohen-Kettenis’ paper reports that in the children whose dysphoria remitted the general outcome (within 10.5 years on average) was that the adult children became either homosexual or bisexual. (If Dr. Zucker follows the lead of Dr. Ray Blanchard, his mentor at CAMH he would disbelieve that bisexuals actually exist at all, but are another form of homosexual orientation.)

In looking back on my own life I can see where a treatment protocol like that recommended in the Cohen-Kettenis, Delemarre-van de Waal, Gooren paper might have meant a lot less angst and pain for me. It might have meant as well that loved ones would have viewed me with a better sense of “who she really is.” Research today shows more and more signs, hopeful signs, that what we call transsexuality is on the verge of total acceptance within the scientific and clinical community as a biological fact. It also tends to show that current methods of transsexing are efficacious and even more efficacious for transsexual youth.

It seems to me a possibility in about four years that the American Psychiatric Association “bible,” the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders might well de-list Gender Dysphoria. Perhaps the APA will in fact recommend that clinicians treat the depressions and personality disorders associated more with the results of the “reparative” therapies employed by parents, teachers, ministers and doctors when we were maturing. Such reparative therapies tend, in my own experience, to undermine the self-esteem and confidence of the transsexing child. Such tactics are I believe the bases of much of the shame, deception, holding and silence we learned as coping mechanisms for childhood to young adult negative and traumatic experiences in the reactions of figures of love and authority in our lives to our very being. 

In the vast majority of current people who transsex one discovers again and again the heightened value of “keeping quiet,” of lying or in other ways deceiving (some of that no doubt caused by experiences such as those of children who pass through CAMH currently for “repair”) others about the reality of our existences. The major results that I read and hear about have been extreme anger and shame, guilt, loss of self-esteem, withdrawal from healthy relationship and intense secrecy. 

To be quite honest about the matter we see the results or have seen the results of programs designed to suppress, change or otherwise de-couple minorities from their heritage, their open and thriving lives in all sorts of places in the world, from the Ainu in Japan, to blacks in USA, Maoris in New Zealand, Aborigines in Australia, Amerinds in USA, Central America, South America and Canada, Aleuts, Inuit and other indigenous peoples in Canada and Russia.

The true actual results of such experimentations have shown again and again the severe depression, loss of relationship, lack of self-esteem and out-right demeaning of other humans to their lowest possible state. Why would we find it somehow unusual that in enacting such regimes of disparagement and “repair” among transsexuals, intersexuals, transgenders, lesbians and homosexuals those results would somehow become positive outcomes for social accomodation within our own children? Those “reparative therapies” are neither therapeutic nor do they repair anything at all that doesn’t heal itself or can be healed with hormonal and surgical interventions in current daily practice. The resultant pain both of individuals so conditioned and their adult loved ones due to “reparative therapies” should come as no surprise to anyone at all. 

Repression has been shown again and again to lend itself not to health, but to abject misery and ingrained subterfuge and self-hate. 

Thus, do we think it an oddity when transsexing people “lie” to us? Is there some nefarious principle at work that makes our own children and their responses to us somehow different than the responses of other suppressed and rejected peoples around the world? Is it odd, for instance, that transsexuals, many battered and demeaned young women or men  and Indian hijras often make their livings in the sex-trade or other negatively-viewed employments? Is it somehow against the grain that transsexing people will “hide ourselves” as we grow up or that in many cases we “wait” to transsex until we are older and have developed careers in lines of endeavor that are “more honorable” and much more monetarily lucrative?

Yet, the J. Michael Baileys, Alice Dregers and other neo-Conservative “thinkers” and “researchers” make grand and vacuous etiologies that basically say something on the order of “younger MTF transsexing people often have jobs in hair-salons, massage parlors, as wait-staff in restaurants or in the sex-trade and tend to be better-looking and more desireable as sexual partners than do older MTF transsexuals who almost always are uglier, have married at some point and have jobs in more lucrative, male-oriented fields.” 

The very indictment itself is an indictment of the socio-political bent of its proponents and would be true if tested in Amerinds, Maoris, Aborgines, Bushmen, Americans of African descent and any other ruthlessly repressed minority you might find across the world. Yet, such “thinkers” then propose that a normal human reaction to unrelenting repression and degradation somehow negates the validity of what the repressed and traumatized person says about herself. (I’ve used MTFs and female pronouns because the above-mentioned “researchers” seldom if ever bother to “research”FTM-spectrum trangender people. Why? Because they immediately ignore and make-believe such folk do not exist because the basis of their “theories” exclude women of any kind from any consideration in their alleged etiologies. (For instance, “women are not sexual” and other jejune Neo-Freudian clap-trap.)

The repression and the degradation become self-fulfilling examples of degraded and repressed individuals. Surprise!

The claims and so-called researches of people like Drs. Zucker, Blamchard, Dreger, Anne Lawrence, J. Michael Bailey and their adherents are based on self-fulfilling researches that make a “law” of the obvious. For instance, do you suppose that if a female-spectrum transsexual began anti-androgens and hormone therapy at age 16 that she would probably better fit the socio-cultural idea of beauty and sexual attractiveness than would a similar female-spectrum transsexual who began anti-androgens and hormone therapy at fifty-five? 

The “evidence” and the surmises of such “researchers” require absolutely no “scientific” refutation for two reasons: their arguments are not based on science to begin with, they are based on cultural and social prejudices that ignore “facts.” Their hypotheses are set-up in such a way that any results showing some divergence from the original thesis of the “researcher” is the result of lying, tampering or some other contaminant. In other words, their “research” is not subject to one of the major premises of the Scientific Method: that the hypothesis can be falsified. The dicta of these gentlemen and ladies cannot be falsified, they have rigged the hypotheses to be that way. Ironically such rigging removes them from any claim to being scientific at all. 

There is no excuse being made in these paragraphs for why you may have experienced having a transsexing person hidden in full view of you. Rather there is the claim: how could it be otherwise? For it to have been in some way otherwise would have been to have any transsexing persons not yet teenagers to have experienced a radically different general way of growing up and being conditioned in their social milieus. 

That only seldom occurred. For proof in similar populations look first to so-called “passing-as-white” persons of color in the United States in the 1910s, 20s, 30s, and 40s. How many of those people who had at least one parent of color, yet were viewed as being only products of caucasian unions stepped forth and demanded that they be stricken of the privileges they had accrued by being seen as white? How many chose instead to live under the yoke of national segregation and degradation? Of course, you’re allowed to find people in other cultures than the USA who managed to do the same while their people-of-origin were degraded and shamed in other lands as well. Try Australia, New Zealand, Canada and Japan. Now that research might be worth doing. But I’d suggest that what you will find is a vanishingly small percentage of such folks who did “the right thing” and owned their subservient birth-rights. 

There are, indeed, transsexed and transsexing people who will lie to you. They have lived lives where they have been conditioned to lie even to themselves about their own knowledges of themselves, their own feelings, hopes and dreams for themselves. They’ve become, sadly, inured to such lives through the conditioning they’ve received from their caregivers, ministers and teachers. They’ve been repeatedly marginalized and held to be as fantastic as gryffons, mermaids and dragons. Is it wondrous in some way that what they, we, have learned at our great cost is not easily done away with, even in the interests of our own health and well-being?

There are your questions for the month, the year. Isn’t it time that we found a new answer and made a new way? Isn’t it time that we stop requiring our children, our relatives, our friends to go into hiding in plain sight? 

 

 

Real Girls, Part I: Reality and Delusion

October 23, 2008

Last night we stayed at home. There were no computers on. No one had a practice, no one was rushing to get to an appointment. Everyone was home by six and we enjoyed one another’s company. There’s something that quite wonderfully sets up when we are with family. It’s an atmosphere that partakes of coziness and laughter, shared ideas and it allows us to relax our cares, unwind the small sorrows or huge elations of a day.  

We had a marvelous baked chicken dinner with broccoli and cheese and we sat and talked, all three of us. Then we cleaned the kitchen and retired to the living-room to watch a dvd Catherine had rented a day or two before. 

In itself that was odd as we seldom rent dvds, mostly choosing to purchase them at Target or Wal-Mart. But Ian has been harrassing us for a couple of weeks, every time we pass the local Blockbuster, to rent “The Love Guru.” Over the weekend we broke down and stopped at Blockbuster and allowed him to check out a copy for the week. At the same time Catherine rented “Lars and the Real Girl.” We had liked the previews we’d seen of that in one of the cinemas where we had seen a movie. 

After three days of Ian getting his fill of Mike Meyers last night was the designated evening for “Lars and the Real Girl.” So we settled in on the couch and the loveseat and Jetta, the beagle/dobbie, after trying to snatch a place on both loveseat and couch, finally settled on the rug and we turned on the movie.

For those of you who haven’t watched the movie revolves around the life of Lars, a rather withdrawn young man who resides in a garage while his brother and (pregnant) sister-in-law reside in the family home. The sister-in-law has made it a mission to involve Lars in the “family.” But Lars does whatever’s necessary to maintain his solitude, hurrying home from work and going to church on Sundays all the while attempting to avoid the attention of his sister-in-law who’s concern is Lars lack of socialization.  

One day at work Lars talks, rather listens, with a co-worker talk about a Web offer to purchase a “real-life, true-to-life” girlfriend ( the blow-up variety.) Lars orders the doll and eventually she arrives at the garage. At this point Lars begins to dress-up and take a bit better care of himself. His brother and sister-in-law invite both Lars and his girlfriend, Bianca, to dinner, where they discover the reality of Lars’ situation. The brother is horrified and the sister-in-law amazed as Lars talks with Bianca, and continuously informs his family what she is saying.

The upshot of the event is that brother and sister-in-law make an appointment for Lars with the town doctor who also has a degree in psychology. A degree both justifiable and necessary, the doctor says, when one works that far north. With the instruction of the doctor and occasional interventions by her, Lars’ family and friends, most of the town-folk begin to involve Bianca in their lives. She became the glue that brought the town, and eventually Lars, into that very important social interaction and care we all long for. 

I’ll not render the entire movie as I think it’s well worth the two hours or so that it will take you to watch it yourself. I have to admit that I laughed (a lot) and cried (a lot) due to the film. I found it a deeply nuanced and tender story that presses the viewer toward answering the question, or at least pondering the question, what is real and how does it become so?

I found the film a perfect combination of “chick-flick” and psychological meditation, a thing not foreign to the viewing preferences of two therapists and their precocious son. I found myself deepely engaged almost immediately as I watched the drama unfold and the film has continued to engage me overnight and this morning as it’s brought me to think very deeply about “delusion” and “reality” and how we parse the spaces between the two. 

Not unusual, I suspect, for people caught in the borderlands of human being: transsexuals and transgendered folk, people diagnosed with mental illness and simply plain ole folks who go about their daily routines slicing this or that experience as representational of “illusion” or “realism.” The film exhibited a deft touch of both the director and the producer. The cinemantography was excellent, capturing so well the edges and the blurs of life in small-town, great northern American life.

Where do we draw our lines of “reality” and where do we draw, both as people and as psychologists and therapists, the borders of delusion? What allows us to make this or that person “delusional” and what makes another person “realistic?” Are the borders between the two states, the two definitions, permeable to the movement of one or another from one label to the other? And if so, what mechanism, what nunaces, what willing suspension of disbelief, requires that we re-think what are often felt by the majority of us to be firm and distinguishable boundaries?

The movie appears to lead in the direction of acceptance and love as the mechanisms by which unreality and reality blur. If one speaks long enough, interacts long enough, in the case of Lars’ brother with a plastic doll, plays along so to speak, the playing shades into a solid reality that becomes everyday and acceptable, so much so that when there arises the occasion for a funeral that one goes and even weeps for the loss that the bereaved feels, even feels his own loss at “the way things have become.”

Thus, does the entire population somehow become “delusional?” Or is reality simply based on our willingness or unwillingness to involve ourselves in the life of another, or many others? I find/have found that one’s involvement can make a difference.

For instance, in a fashion when I was an undergraduate Syrians were in many ways unreal to me. Their culture, their religious lives as foreign and unexamined by myself as would be the lives of denizens of a planet revolving around the star Sirius. One might have speculated and read the news of such people as their country played itself out on the evening news or in the papers, but as far as being real people, Syrians didn’t “really” exist for me. Until I met and eventually became close friends with Abdullah, an exchange student.

The to sit and exchange conversation, to learn that his family had many of the same ways as did my own; to learn that he had goals and desires, hopes and fears just as did I, I found the reality of Syria and Syrians became normalized for me. Suddenly it seemd to me that people who inhabited a small country on the other side of the planet attained a reality for me that I would have never thought possible six months before I met Abdullah.

I felt a loss when his sister was killed in an Israeli bombing raid. Yes, I know, I am sure the Israeli air force had very good reasons to bomb the house she lived in, or that the hit was a mistake as is often the case in modern warfare. But his loss, his sorrow to be so far from home when his sister was buried, his outrage that such a tremendously horrible event was perpetrated by another government became meaningful and outrageous to me as well. How dare they kill my friend’s sister?

I suspect that the same varieties of foreignness as I held about Syrians before I met and befriended Abdullah operate in all of our lives. Why else does it become so easy for us to dismiss those we hate as being somehow unworthy of our concern and compassion. How else explain our insistence on “principle” or “natural law” to the exclusion of compassion and empathy for another’s pain and plight? How easy it can become to imagine that this or that person embodies unworthiness of unreality.

On the other hand, as we get to know and relate ourselves to the lives of those who are foreign in some way to our own lives: union-organizers, hard-hats, stay-at-home-moms, drivers of SUVs (one of my favorite whipping posts) or postal workers, transsexuals, trangender people, Democrats or Texans; we somehow wish to disengage our acqauintance from “that group.” We become more and more willing to exclude our friend or acquaintance from fear and loathing. We reach that point that many white folk reached, or seemed to me to reach, in the sixties, in their dealings with African-Americans, “well there’s good uns and bad uns, just like everyone else.” 

I suppose that “good uns and bad uns” might be a useful way-station on the road to acceptance and understanding, although I doubt that its a very wholesome and embracing place to be. People come to acceptance of the foreign in stages. What’s ineffably “bad” slowly becomes what’s “acceptable” and “right.” It seems a bit much to expect that one wholly drops one’s opposition to another in one abrupt sea-change of acceptance and Bonhommie. Rather there’s a slow inching that may be quite difficult for the one inching their opinion, their ways of looking at the world, toward a willingness to embrace an accept. 

I suspect that knowledge is rather widespread among the leaders and movers of our various political and social parties. To take a position that in fact demonizes and makes another less-than me becomes a matter of simply divocing myself irrevocably from the “other.” That way, with no intimate knowledge, no interaction of any sort, with them I allow myself to believe and embrace the most most horribly reasons for them to be the way they are. The fact that they weep and laugh, blled and tear same as I doesn’t involve me with the difficulty of having to empathize in any way with their lives.

As a woman with a history of transsexing I find this pattern of much importance in my own life. It’s one of the reasons I generally don’t mention the fact that at one time I was designated “male.” There’s too much drama, too much delicacy required in the presence of those who do not know. I would rather simply be seen nd judged on the basis of being “Radha, my therapist” (another designation fraught with all sorts of fear and loathing,) or as “that woman next-door, what’s her name? She’s really nice and friendly.”

The “reality” then somehow turns and becomes normalized when one isn’t faced immediately with a knowledge that they will find it, perhaps, difficult to incorporate into their current views. That aspect of my life should wait, I think, until it becomes necessary to tell. It waits until they can realize me as one of them, another person attempting to live her life and make a living just as they do.

 

It’s this way that works for me as well. I have found it easy to conglomerate human beings into a precisely drawn area that I can label them and be done with any nuance that might be imposed on me by seeing something more than that they are members of a group I know nothing about. My friend Zythyra certainly encompasses that reality for me.

When I first started corresponding with her I felt she was someone whose life was distant from my own, whose experience couldn’t possibly have connection with my own. Yet, now, after a long while in corresponding and interacting I perceive a flesh-and-blood human whose borders range well within my own borders. She’s my friend, not some foreign admixture of experience and reality who I can never be like.

There came a point in “Lars and the Real Girl” that I was expectant of Bianca actually beginning to speak. I waited on her arms to move, for the plastic of her face to settle imperceptibly into flesh and blood, her chest to rise and fall with breath, just as my own does. Yet, the makers declined to make this movie that easy. Instead I had to become aware of Bianca’s breath. I had to form within myself and attachment to her life and that of Lars in such a way that the fact of her place among the other humanity of the small town became “real” to me. Then I could and did weep at her “death.” Then I could find within my own heart the devastation of Lars at the loss of one he held dear for the healing she had brought to him and I could laugh empathetically at the prospect of his acceptance into the realm of love building between himself and a “real girl.”

Reality is what we make it. That’s the reason, I suspect, that we, at least unconciously, attempt to hold the “other” at more than arm’s-length. For at more than arm’s length the other can be seen readily as a demon, as a foreigner not privileged to hold a place in our reality as another human being whose life breathes the same air and whose body takes the same food as does our own.

In distance there is safety for all of the fever-dreams of danger and evil we allow ourselves. In closeness and relationship the “other” transforms herself into a friend, a normal human being who has AIDS or breast-cancer, who works hard to maintain her life, the lives of her children. We begin, so very imperceptibly to allow her into our lives where she’s no longer feared or degraded. She’s no longer a plastic doll dressed and made to speak by another’s volition. Instead she becomes sister, friend, perhaps, even lover.

 

All blog photos by Catherine Wetzell, (c) 2007-2008

Yesterday I linked to another blog as a way of getting to a point I was trying to make. The blog owner felt I had mis-read what was written and that I had held them up to ridicule. That was certainly not my intention. 

I have removed all links and the blog owner’s comment I had approved and my comment back to them lest anyone find the blog and relate what they do to my making fun or in any way finding that blog objectionable or “unreal.”

I am making a public apology to Sara for offending her. I truly meant no disrespect to her and her struggles to see her own way through her life with what I am certain are the same pains and struggles that I have had to find ways through in my own life.

I very much respect her points of view and find them in no way outlandish or worthy in any way of disrespect or laughter.

I made a mistake and have done the best I know to do to correct it. I hope this public apology removes the sting at least somewhat to her feelings and her efficacy as a writer, and as another person with a difficulty that involves transgender issues.

I wish for her the very best results in her life, her work and I wish for her great happiness and satisfaction in all areas of her life. — Radha Smith

Rape And Knowing One Can Kill: Survivor

September 25, 2008
I wasn’t able, yet again, to write the spot I have had in mind. So I have taken an earlier writing and re-written it. Some of you will have substantially read what is here in another place. But, the essay is one that’s important for me. I was a rape-victim. It was long ago now. I am no longer a victim. 

Two men I’d met in a bar, a naive me just being given a ride home. The ride turned into a five-hour nightmare. It turned into beating and rape and left me ragged, bleeding and more afraid to live my life than I would ever have imagined. I was 19 and had begun to take first steps toward being the person I had always known myself to be: Radha.

In the aftermath I spent the best part of three decades hiding that me, feeling unsafe to live in the world. But there came a day when all of that changed. I realized that fear had kept me from life, made a wasteland of myself and in that respect in the lives of those I loved and who loved me. It was in walking toward that fear I found release. I found the life I thought, feared, had forever disappeared.

I find my life in this respect a cautionary tale. A tale about the limits of fear and the responsibility of each of us to turn toward fear and embrace it, in order that life without fear can be possible. It can, be possible, that is. But in the gaining of life, sometimes the price one pays is the vow to take a terrible vengeance on anyone who would attempt to deprive another of her value, her self, by committing that act on her, or him.   
Me: I’ve experienced it, once. If there was ever a next proposed time: I’d rather die resisting. I’d rather die trying to keep someone I loved from experiencing that sort of outrage as well.
She: I’m so sorry Radha.  I do understand where your coming from because its such a horrific thing.  And when I said that I wouldn’t rather die resisting, I’m definitely not saying that being a victim of sexual assault or rape is a particularly better option.
I’ve also experienced it 3 years ago, but the force was emotional not physical, so I don’t honestly know how I’d react in such a situation where there was physical force.

I think the force is quite both, physical and emotional. 

After the physical force came the self-loathing, the ever-present thoughts of, “What did I do wrong? How did I make this happen to me?” (My mother wanted to know that as well when I told her what had happened. My father was dead some months before.) The two weeks of refusing to come out of my apartment, except for a three hour visit to the ER when the friend who picked me up in the aftermath and took me home finally overwhelmed me two days later with his insistence that I needed medical treatment. 

“My god, what happened, sir?” I was jumped after leaving a bar downtown. True as far as it went. I just didn’t tell the whole thing. Refused to remove my underwear for the exam, said I was too nervous to do that. Too embarrassed. You will NOT see that! 

A hairline fracture of my jaw and another on my cheekbone. A concussion, severe. A chip in my right brow-bone that floated until it was removed twenty years later after it pierced my skin inside out. A tooth gone and all of them, I think, loose. My face a swollen mask and large finger welts around my throat. Bruises literally from head to foot. Treatment and a script for an opiate for pain. Those never stopped the pain. 

Back to apartment to hide again. Didn’t answer the door. Danny had driven home and bought me food. Stayed hidden another 10-12 days. Hiding … from whom? I have never been quite sure, the two of them or the one of me? 

The slow yellowing of bruises and the overwhelming fear that they would find me again. The increasing paranoia that some man would take me again to prove to me I wanted to be a man, in that case, a gay one. Memories of that huge muscular arm around my shoulders and neck, heaving me over the seat into the back while the driver laughed and sneered and laughed some more. The snatches of memory. Goddess kept the rest blank and clean. It would only come in dreams and when I woke the memory of the dream was simply fear and trembling, no pictures, few words. Just fear. 

An end to what was a beginning transition. A decision that I was safer being male, so I damned well would be male. And I would be alone as much as possible. Through two marriages, a stint in military intelligence with the NSA. Drunken nights, high nights and sometimes days. A host of sexual encounters that were frightening and helped me realize just how absolutely filthy I really was. Finally it was buried deeply enough that it would only visit in nightmares and the tears those brought in their wake. In all of that, I was always well and truly alone.

After years came the sense that I could not take it anymore. I had to come up out of Underworld, leave Hades’ throne-room and walk in my Mother’s world again, in the light. Thus, falteringly and afraid, Radha returned. I smelled the narcissuses I had knelt and smelt just before he took me under earth’s lid. The odor coming from the flowers was a sweet and good odor. I laughed and have laughed ever since.

Wonderful people arrived in my life and for the first time since I was 19 I lived again. And I will kill and die myself before I return to Underworld. I will find a way, with my last breath to kill any asshole who I can who may be doing it to someone I love or care for. Or I will die making the attempt. 

No longer angry. No longer afraid. I can walk in the night because I have loved the stars too well to be afraid of the dark, anymore. 

Now there’s simply a cold fury that covers me when I think of sisters, or brothers, particularly of lovers, my children or heart-sisters having the experience. Cold and very much directed toward the destruction of the predator. 

No longer afraid. No more nightmares. I have written this, and others like it without crying uncontrollably. Without dissociating in the midst of it. I don’t drift off anymore into waking dreams of horror. I am strong again. So are you. But, I know beyond anything else I will find a way, Goddess forfend the need ever arises, to kill viciously and without mercy. 

How does a pacifist come to such a pass? How can one love and yet know within her that the truth is that she will kill or die? It simply arose one day when I walked toward the fear and it ran from me. The further we ran the smaller it got, the slower it scurried, until I stepped on it and ground it beneath my foot. 

Fear can die. I would never have thought that. For years fear was the warden of my life. It was the lover in my bed and the decorator of my home. Fear dominated my thoughts and feelings. Fear managed me more ruthlessly than any 10%-er ever managed an ignorant and naive entertainer. 

But then one day I heard this story.

There were children playing near a wood. From the wood walked a gigantic beast with long, sharp teeth and a fierce expression. The children ran as fast as they could and the great beast followed swiftly.

One of the children, the smallest and youngest, a little girl, finally fell exhausted. She huddled on the ground expecting the beast to eat her immediately. She waited, hearing the beast snuffling nearby. She screamed out for the beast to eat her. But although she screamed to be eaten over and over again she remained alive.

Finally she rose to her feet and faced the great beast, screaming to be eaten and that she was tired of this game and far too tired to run any further. 

Her anger increased and she stomped toward the beast. As she moved toward the beast it moved away from her. She moved again and the beast stepped back, away from her. 

Hearing her ranting the other children also stopped running, although they were yards and yards further away from the beast than was the little girl. They watched in fascination as their friend’s anger grew until finally the littlest girl ran toward the beast shaking her fist and screaming, “I said kill me and be done with this game.”

As she approached the beast turned and began to flee from her. As it fled the children noticed it was getting smaller. With this knowledge they also ran after the littlest girl who was chasing the beast. 

The beast ran as hard as it could for the woods; but in shrinking with every stride the great beast had become a much smaller beast that couldn’t cover the ground in such great strides as he had. 

All of the children ran faster and faster. As they ran toward the beast it shrank more and more until, finally, at the edge of the wood the beast was the size of a thimble. It was no longer fierce or fearful. Now the beast seemed merely very afraid and desperate, but unable to cover the ground to its sheltering woods. 

A few feet from the tree-line the littlest girl finally caught the beast and stamped her foot onto it, pushing it dead into the dusty earth. 

And so is the truth of fear. The closer one comes to it, the smaller and less fierce it becomes. Until at the woodland edge one can slay the slayer. Fear causes us to run, until there comes a time when we can no longer maintain the effort of escape. We can then only await fear to consume us.

Yet, the irony we discover is that fear, when faced, when one attempts to embrace the fear, shrinks to practically nothingness. It is then we kill our fear; it dies when we embrace it and see it for what it truly is: a wisp, ephermal and meaningless. 

I want no sympathy. I have no need for it. What was, was. It lives no more and has no power over me, ever again. I write this so others can know that they can be safe. But that it can occur and that there are ways to heal from it. Fear no longer paralyzes my life.  

Today I can laugh joyously, like a girl again, when I see the hummingbird hover around a flower in my garden. I can dance with my son, my partner. I can sit in a room with another and listen while she talks and cries. O, I tear. Sometimes, when she has left, I cry huge sobs for her pain and fear, for the story she has to tell. 

Like me, she will be better. But she will, I think as well, be cold with fury some day. 

I bow to Mother within you, within you all. Even to Her within those who did that thing to me, if they are still alive. 

No one knows what she, or he, would do until the event occurs. That is everso true. But it will NOT ever happen again to me, or to those I love, without vengeance being taken, somehow. Believe it.


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