31

For much of this past year, I've reflected a lot on my life. I think stories are important; particularly the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves. And, when I think of the story of my adult life, I keep going back to one specific period where I faced a turning point. At the time, it was a challenge that resulted in some really significant changes, probably the biggest I've ever made. But it was also an opportunity that I think I missed. And, in many ways, I feel like I'm being given that opportunity again now. And this time, I want to get it right.

***

In 2009-2010, I was working on my Masters. I was 23 and, until that year, things had been pretty stable. I had only ever really been a student, and I had done pretty well at most of the things I tried. I'd made almost straight A's, been pretty active throughout college (writing for the paper, working on a speaker's committee, doing some side jobs), and I had a really kind girlfriend. I had, of course, had a lot of mental health issues, especially in the teen years prior. Yet for a few years, things were manageable. And it was kind of nice.

But, of course, I got older and approached graduation. And it came time to leave the safe embrace of school, my comfort zone, where I'd always pretty securely been near the top. And I knew. I knew things were going to change. And I knew it was going to suck. And I felt like I had no power to stop it.

In retrospect, it wasn't really a surprise. I had wanted to be a teacher, certainly. But my people skills were pretty limited. I think I liked the “idea” of teaching more than the reality, and even then I mostly chose it because I (inexplicably) hoped it was something I couldn't fail too badly at. Not great reasons. But then, I wasn't really in a great place. I knew I had pretty bad social anxiety and was bad at speaking in front of people. I knew I had a rocky history with depression. I knew a lot of things. But at the time, I didn't feel like I had a choice. I was terrified to start teaching, but I was equally terrified of most of the world. Everything in my life seemed like an invitation towards failure. I had found some peace inside a pretty loving relationship, but I was (unknowingly) codependent and pretty suicidal on my own. Most days of my life, I found it almost impossible to get out of bed unless I absolutely had to. I felt isolated, self-hating. And it was all pretty much just normal. I didn't really have “depressive episodes;” I had a depressive life. Up til that point, I'd managed to somehow hold it together. But it was tenuous. Just waiting for something to change.

And then it did. I graduated undergrad. I started my master's program. I began to teach. And then I fell apart. I was terrified. Terrified to teach, terrified because I felt I had no other choice. I started panicking, I started being almost catatonic. It got so bad my girlfriend broke up with me. And when she left, I kind of just... shattered. Work was hell. My personal life was hell. I felt like the entire world was falling apart. It's probably the worst I've ever felt in my life, and I hope I never, ever have to feel that way again.

So I made some changes. The lesson I learned from that year was this: up til that point, I'd done what I was 'supposed to do.' Not necessarily what I wanted to do. But what it felt like I was 'supposed' to do.' So I changed that. I quit teaching. I decided to transition genders. And I decided to apply to Counseling grad programs (I'd always really wanted to be a therapist, I just felt I was too fucked up to be able to help anyone).

And then I hoped for the best.

The thing is, it wasn't really a bad call. People talk all the time about different things that can change your life. Doing things because you want to instead of because you're “supposed” to is a pretty big step away from depression. Counseling, at first, felt like a great fit. I was very familiar with and comfortable with pain; working in that field seemed natural to me. So too, transition was a huge moment of self-actualization, both because I felt more congruent with my self but also because it required me to take a lot of risks of disappointing people and to see that I could actually survive it. I made some big, well-intentioned changes.

Good decisions, with the right idea. Just limited ones.

The thing of it is, I did made some progress and change. But ultimately, I kicked the can down the road. I covered up the core. Because what I *didn't* do was this:

I didn't explore my depression. I didn't try to understand it, what made it work, what activated it, figure out what I could do about it.

I didn't explore my social anxiety. Or my intense neediness in and for relationships.

I didn't try to understand how my past affected my present.

I didn't try to connect with others experiencing similar things.

I didn't learn how so much of what I was experiencing was about feelings, large hidden disproportionate feelings that were laying havoc upon my internal and external life.

And, most importantly, I didn't take time off to figure things out. Almost immediately, I started researching and applying to graduate schools (without having a clue what I was doing). I had crashed. But instead of looking at the crash and why, I kept running. And running. And running. Hoping that this time, things would be different. That this time, somehow, someway, they might actually work out.

In short, they did not.

In some ways, that's not fair. Grad school forced me to grow and mature in many ways. I made some wonderful friends, had some fantastic mentors, grew into myself much more. I am thankful to have had as positive an experience as I did, all told.

But all that stuff I listed above? Yeah. That didn't go away.

Instead, I buried it. In fantasy, in hope. I buried it and told myself that if I just “got through,” if I just survived and reached some promise land things Would.Get.Better. And, well, they didn't.

Enter 30.

I moved across the country. I was finally done with grad school. I had a pretty good (albeit temporary) job. And I was miserable.

Every week felt like one more crushing realization after another. I was alone. I was scared. Hopeless. I got down to 110lbs in December. I could barely function at work. I felt like I was dying and out of control, every day. And that I had no way to stop it.

It sucked. So bad.

I felt exactly like I had before grad school. I felt like I was 23 again. Miserable, alone, with no prospect for the future. I felt like I hadn't made any progress at all.

It was very bad.

But, somehow, amidst my very familiar flailing and pain, I started doing somethings I hadn't done before, too. I started focusing on myself. I started talking about my actual problems in therapy. I started confronting my hopeless and continuing to try anyway. I started trying to really, truly change.

Continuing from the previous year, I kept going to Al-Anon meetings. I found another great group in Tacoma, Adult Children of Alcoholics, and I went there too. I read their 'Big Red Book.' I read 'The Body Keeps the Score.' I read 'Trauma and Recovery.' I started slowly putting together the pieces of my story. Once, a giant ball of horror. Increasingly, an understandable narrative. Given who I was, where I was, who I was with, could it have turned out any other way? It made sense. Awful sense. Unfair, painful, tragic sense. But it made sense.

And I started owning my part. So you've been single for 7 years? Well, there are some easy answers (you're trans, you're ugly, you're horrible). And there are some hard ones. You're tortured, and that often scares people. You have a lot of pain and a lot of hate, and no matter how much you try to hide or disown it, it's written on every ounce of you. You give up easily. You are not genuine with your feelings, making emotional connection difficult. Your strategy of clamping down and toughing through your emotions works for survival but is terrible for the ambiguous, playful, relaxed nature of a successful date.

You are responsible for your life. You only get 1 of them. You won't live forever. And you lose more of it every single day.

These things are terrifying. But, as I sat with them and started to work through them ("having tea with my demons" as a friend called it), I found something else: they were liberating too.

For the first time, I had to ask myself some very hard questions:

What's important to you?

What kind of life do you want to lead?

What kind of person do you want to be?

How are you doing this or not doing this?

What can you do to change it?

At first, as I've asked myself these questions, I've hated the answers. Hated my dishonesty, hated my withdrawal, hated my control (or lack thereof).

But, increasingly, as I've started to understand where it comes from, I've started coming up with different answers. I've started saying, 'Hey, I want to be a genuinely honest, kind person. I don't want to live my life afraid. I don't want old sadness to hold me back. I want to be open. I want to be connected. I want to look people in the eye. I don't care if I'm not special. I just want to feel good and free.'

I wish I'd done this when I was 23. When I really truly crashed the first time and had a chance to take stock and be more intentional about everything. I wish I'd let my life unfold, reprioritized, and really tried to make some changes not just to the life I lived me but to the ways I was living it. But I am fortunate enough to still be alive. Fortunate enough to have found some programs, found some philosophies, found some healing that is helping me move in the right direction. Fortunate enough to think there's still time. That change really can happen. If I can let it.

So that's 31. 30 was crash. 30 was autopsy. Painful, needed breaking. Burning down the house. 31 is building a better foundation. It's envisioning a better life, and devoting myself to living it. I don't expect it to be fast or easy. If anything, it'll be a lifelong struggle. I have doubts. I see so many people with families and careers, and it deeply saddens me that I don't really have either. I so often envy those people their joy, their life.

But as one of the wise people in my Al-Anon program says, “Happiness is an inside job.” You can have the world and hate life. But you can also have very little, and feel so grateful for every bit. So, here's to 31 and finally trying to figure out how to live a life worth living.