There's a theory of psychotherapy that operates under the assumption that all beliefs and actions serve purposes. Usually, these beliefs/actions were at one point adaptive to the environment one was in, but in other settings they prove maladaptive and ultimately cause various levels of distress to the individual and those around them. It's a particular useful approach to take when an individual holds onto a maladaptive belief/habit even when much of them knows it is harmful and wants to let it go. Under this thereotical framework, that belief/habit clearly serves some kind of purpose and the trick is to figure out what, exactly, that purpose is and then to help the client decide if they genuinely want to give up what the behavior brings them.
For me, I think I've narrowed much of my anxiety down to "I deserve to be punished." Worthlessness is a part of that, yes, but it's not that I believe no one cares for me or that I am absolutely devoid of value. Instead, it's that no one should care for me and no one should value me because I am bad and wrong and need to suffer for being bad and wrong.
I think that's why I fantasize about vicious suicides instead of just wishing I didn't exist so the pain would stop. Suicide is a way of telling myself "No matter how bad I am or how much I fail, I can always kill myself so people will know how sorry I really am." It's one of the reasons I think I get a masochistic thrill about being so open about my pain: you can see I'm unhappy and know how bad I feel about how wrong I am.
So what does having people know I feel bad accomplish? Some theories:
1. It minimizes the pain I cause because I feel bad about it. [In the way that when people acknowledge they're wrong things tend to hurt less than when they never apologize or admit fault <--- aka trying not to be my father]
2. It minimizes the need of others to punish me for my failures because I'm punishing myself. [<--- trying to avoid my father's wrath by preemptively assuming guilt so he won't feel any of it, causing him to have a violent meltdown]
3. Part of me believes that being so abusive to myself will help me not make similar mistakes in the future. [<--- common reason for anxiety/worry, part of perfectionism]
4. Minimizes disappointment in me by reducing expectations
5. Makes criticisms less painful because they're not as likely to surprise me/you can't pop a deflated balloon. [guess]
And, to a certain extent, much of this is true. It's harder/"not as needed" to hit a dog that's cowering with its tail between its legs acting ashamed than it is to hit a dog that's snarling or unaware of its behavior. In sports, the NCAA will reduce punishments for programs that punish themselves first. We relish seeing the arrogant/successful fall, but not those who have already fallen/are already suffering. Internal pain mitigates external pain, and, as a child, mitigating external pain was a significant priority.
But now, it's harming my performance. The pressure I put on myself, I put on my clients which reduces my ability to be patient and empathize. The anxiety I cause myself promotes procrastination and causes stress to my entire body, making sickness and fatigue much more likely. My need to distance myself from others make intimacy significantly difficult. And, interestingly, as my self-esteem rises, I direct more of my internal criticisms towards others (i.e. if I'm doing this and I'm terrible, surely you can do it too so stop failing).
I am tense, I am distant, I am unhappy, and my professional growth is being impeded if not undermined. And, truly, it's that last part that's fostering my desire for change: my own unhappiness is, obviously, necessary and appropriate [eyeroll at self] but when my behaviors hurt others then they obviously need to be changed.
I dunno. Self-hate is a difficult thing to give up. But I might be on the verge of convincing myself that I genuinely need to change. Here's hoping.
Showing posts with label self-esteem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self-esteem. Show all posts
Friday, November 23, 2012
Thursday, August 16, 2012
All Us Pretty Things
"Very pretty. You look natural." the woman said as I was leaving. It wasn't the only time someone complimented my appearance while in the outpatient facility in Montreal. But it certainly stood out. "Natural." To borrow a phrase, "Born this Way." One may as well have said "real." (The "pretty," of course, is attendant upon the "real.") And to hear it from another trans woman haunted me.
"You are so young and so pretty! I cannot believe no one would come with you!" my cis hostess enthusiastically exclaimed at the bed and breakfast (where I stayed the night before moving to the hospital). She was an exuberantly open and affectionate woman who really seemed to be capable of making anyone feel welcome and appreciated. But those first words lingered with me too. As if me being "pretty" ("real") meant that of course I would merit company and support.
The sentiment alone was said effusively, but it was meant in implicit (and, naturally, "well meaning") contrast to some of the other patients, particularly those who had transitioned fairly recently at older ages. And whereas some women who had transitioned a significant number of years ago but were in their 40s would be read as female easily, there were a few women who were in their 50s who had likely not done much HRT or who had transitioned later who I imagine have significantly more difficulties.
Physical appearance as a metric of "realness" is a common tension for trans people. For instance, most of my experiences with trans women have been with a scant few locally and then online. And online, ages skew significantly young. I've written here before about struggling with resentment towards younger transitioners (which I know is a product of my own self-loathing and absolutely nothing to do with any fault or flaw on their parts), and it's a not insignificant chip I carry on my shoulder: how much different, how much better would things be if I had transition at 20? 18? 16? Whenever I run my fingers along my cheeks, whenever I catch my voice skewing masculine, whenever I get rejected because I'm trans, it flares up in spouts of self-hatred. When I see myself in the mirror, when I look at most pictures or videos of myself, I think "Every person I know must be politely refraining from pointing out how foolish it is that I think I'm anything but a man in women's clothing." And I start to desperately wish I was cis, to desperately wish I really was "pretty," to desperately wish I had transitioned before my face masculinized beyond repair. Because I am under no illusions that, regardless of what others say, if I am "pretty" it's only in relation to those who are not read as female as easily as I tend to be.
And when some of these other trans women said "pretty" to me, I wondered: did those women feel similarly to how I feel? Was "pretty" an innocuous compliment, a way of trying to soothe an insecurity I presumably have, or a way of hurting themselves? Did they see me with envy, the way I looked at the young woman who came in the last two days who looked and sounded so cis I wasn't sure whether she or her boyfriend was getting the surgery? Did they think to themselves "I can never be as real, as beautiful, as desirable as her?" Because we know, oh how we know that really, on a fundamental level we are fake. We are hideous. We are undesirable. And, worst of all, we deserve to be unwanted and unloved. Because who could possibly commit such an act of immense charity as to fool themselves enough to join us in the delusion that we are something we are decidedly not?
And the worst part is that this is not a uniquely trans issue. There's a hierarchy, certainly. But if we set "realness" aside, much of that paragraph could apply to most any cis woman comparing herself to the "ideal." A fat woman to a thin woman, an older woman to a younger woman, a woman of color to a white woman, a disabled woman to an able-bodied woman, a fat, older, disabled pre-op trans woman of color to a thin, young, able-bodied, cis white woman. And there's a significant chance that that thin, young, able-bodied, cis white woman can *still* have an eating disorder that causes her to utterly loathe her body, seeing something hideous whenever she looks in a mirror and firmly believing no one could ever find her beautiful.
I know part of me, on some essential level, views being cisgendered as "the goal." If you're read as cis, indistiguishable from cis if no one who "knows" says otherwise, you've "made it." You are "pretty." You are real. You are ideal.
But of course that's ridiculous. Certainly, so very very many things are so much easier/safer at that point. But there's still a never-ending litany of reasons for women to hate their bodies/appearances/selves, whether it's weight, breasts, butt, curves, height, voice, facial structure, skin color, hair, etc etc. Trans women, particularly trans women of color, get the brunt of the intersections of racism/homophobia/misogyny/transphobia, but their oppression is an aggravated manifestation and combination of forces that still affect everyone who is at a higher place up that ladder but not on top (if there is one). Being "cis" wouldn't cure all their problems, it would just reduce the intensity.
And just so, being "cis" wouldn't make me "pretty." I know cis women (who certainly had plenty of viable alternatives, if they wanted to exercise them) have been attracted to me as Juliet. I know that there are people in my life for whom I've always been female without an asterisk. I know the way I see my reflection is tempered by a wicked combination of cultural narratives of platonic ideals and historical narratives of my own lack of worth. "Pretty" is a subjective term applied as if it's an objective pronouncement of worth. And I know that that feigned objectivity is the voice of oppression (or kyriarchy), equating a woman's worth with appearance, with cisness, with whiteness, with thinness, with straightness, with femmeness, with an impossible ideal. (Men's worth is judged too, of course, but on different scales)
But, and this is the key, simply because there are established hierarchies of legitimacy, of worth, of "pretty" does not make them true. When we buy into those hierarchies, we may pretend that we're on a spectrum of worth but really it's a binary: you are valuable or you're not. You are you, or you are perfect.
Knowing this is different than internalizing it. I don't feel I'm "pretty," meaning I don't feel I'm valuable or attractive or desirable or real or human in the way everyone else. But I do realize that I am the only one who can make that determination. Now, it's just a matter of sucking out the poison and letting myself be the beautiful of an authentic self. "Pretty" be damned.
"You are so young and so pretty! I cannot believe no one would come with you!" my cis hostess enthusiastically exclaimed at the bed and breakfast (where I stayed the night before moving to the hospital). She was an exuberantly open and affectionate woman who really seemed to be capable of making anyone feel welcome and appreciated. But those first words lingered with me too. As if me being "pretty" ("real") meant that of course I would merit company and support.
The sentiment alone was said effusively, but it was meant in implicit (and, naturally, "well meaning") contrast to some of the other patients, particularly those who had transitioned fairly recently at older ages. And whereas some women who had transitioned a significant number of years ago but were in their 40s would be read as female easily, there were a few women who were in their 50s who had likely not done much HRT or who had transitioned later who I imagine have significantly more difficulties.
Physical appearance as a metric of "realness" is a common tension for trans people. For instance, most of my experiences with trans women have been with a scant few locally and then online. And online, ages skew significantly young. I've written here before about struggling with resentment towards younger transitioners (which I know is a product of my own self-loathing and absolutely nothing to do with any fault or flaw on their parts), and it's a not insignificant chip I carry on my shoulder: how much different, how much better would things be if I had transition at 20? 18? 16? Whenever I run my fingers along my cheeks, whenever I catch my voice skewing masculine, whenever I get rejected because I'm trans, it flares up in spouts of self-hatred. When I see myself in the mirror, when I look at most pictures or videos of myself, I think "Every person I know must be politely refraining from pointing out how foolish it is that I think I'm anything but a man in women's clothing." And I start to desperately wish I was cis, to desperately wish I really was "pretty," to desperately wish I had transitioned before my face masculinized beyond repair. Because I am under no illusions that, regardless of what others say, if I am "pretty" it's only in relation to those who are not read as female as easily as I tend to be.
And when some of these other trans women said "pretty" to me, I wondered: did those women feel similarly to how I feel? Was "pretty" an innocuous compliment, a way of trying to soothe an insecurity I presumably have, or a way of hurting themselves? Did they see me with envy, the way I looked at the young woman who came in the last two days who looked and sounded so cis I wasn't sure whether she or her boyfriend was getting the surgery? Did they think to themselves "I can never be as real, as beautiful, as desirable as her?" Because we know, oh how we know that really, on a fundamental level we are fake. We are hideous. We are undesirable. And, worst of all, we deserve to be unwanted and unloved. Because who could possibly commit such an act of immense charity as to fool themselves enough to join us in the delusion that we are something we are decidedly not?
And the worst part is that this is not a uniquely trans issue. There's a hierarchy, certainly. But if we set "realness" aside, much of that paragraph could apply to most any cis woman comparing herself to the "ideal." A fat woman to a thin woman, an older woman to a younger woman, a woman of color to a white woman, a disabled woman to an able-bodied woman, a fat, older, disabled pre-op trans woman of color to a thin, young, able-bodied, cis white woman. And there's a significant chance that that thin, young, able-bodied, cis white woman can *still* have an eating disorder that causes her to utterly loathe her body, seeing something hideous whenever she looks in a mirror and firmly believing no one could ever find her beautiful.
I know part of me, on some essential level, views being cisgendered as "the goal." If you're read as cis, indistiguishable from cis if no one who "knows" says otherwise, you've "made it." You are "pretty." You are real. You are ideal.
But of course that's ridiculous. Certainly, so very very many things are so much easier/safer at that point. But there's still a never-ending litany of reasons for women to hate their bodies/appearances/selves, whether it's weight, breasts, butt, curves, height, voice, facial structure, skin color, hair, etc etc. Trans women, particularly trans women of color, get the brunt of the intersections of racism/homophobia/misogyny/transphobia, but their oppression is an aggravated manifestation and combination of forces that still affect everyone who is at a higher place up that ladder but not on top (if there is one). Being "cis" wouldn't cure all their problems, it would just reduce the intensity.
And just so, being "cis" wouldn't make me "pretty." I know cis women (who certainly had plenty of viable alternatives, if they wanted to exercise them) have been attracted to me as Juliet. I know that there are people in my life for whom I've always been female without an asterisk. I know the way I see my reflection is tempered by a wicked combination of cultural narratives of platonic ideals and historical narratives of my own lack of worth. "Pretty" is a subjective term applied as if it's an objective pronouncement of worth. And I know that that feigned objectivity is the voice of oppression (or kyriarchy), equating a woman's worth with appearance, with cisness, with whiteness, with thinness, with straightness, with femmeness, with an impossible ideal. (Men's worth is judged too, of course, but on different scales)
But, and this is the key, simply because there are established hierarchies of legitimacy, of worth, of "pretty" does not make them true. When we buy into those hierarchies, we may pretend that we're on a spectrum of worth but really it's a binary: you are valuable or you're not. You are you, or you are perfect.
Knowing this is different than internalizing it. I don't feel I'm "pretty," meaning I don't feel I'm valuable or attractive or desirable or real or human in the way everyone else. But I do realize that I am the only one who can make that determination. Now, it's just a matter of sucking out the poison and letting myself be the beautiful of an authentic self. "Pretty" be damned.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Questioning Self Worth
I've been working on establishing self-worth for myself for quite sometime. Much of that's been figuring out why it's so low (abusive alcoholic father, being trans, not finding fulfillment in work) and taking steps to try to change (distancing self and appropriately categorizing relationship with father, transitioning, getting admitted to program on path to ideal career). And, compared to even a year ago (much less four or five), I'm doing markedly better.
However, what I find myself struggling with now is maintaining that sense of self-worth consistently. While there may be intermittent moments where I feel that I'm a person who can be loved, can be desired, and should be respected, it's difficult for me to consistently foster those feelings for very long. At this point, I honestly think I have a pretty good understanding of why and how I feel. What I need is a way to internalize that understanding, to believe it instead of just being able to abstractly explain it.
So my question(s): Do you feel like you have a healthy sense of your own self-worth? Have you always had it? If you haven't, what did you do to gain it and maintain it? If you're still working on it, what's been particularly helpful for you thus far?
As always, your contributions are incredibly appreciated.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Perfection and Procrastination
Procrastination's always been a problem for me. It's a problem for many, if not most, people. On a fundamental level, it makes sense: the act of work, itself, is harder than not working, or else it wouldn't be "work." Why wouldn't we put it off if we could?
But it's often more than a simple aversion to effort. For me, it's also hard to do work when you feel like you're failing as you do it, when you feel that no amount of work will take what you've made and make it satisfactory. It's partially an aversion to effort, certainly. But it's also an aversion to imperfection.
It took me awhile to get the perfectionist connection to procrastination and to myself; I assumed that a perfectionist would be the sort of person who labored intensively for hours trying to get every last thing right. And, for some, that's the case.
But then I had a conversation with my therapist
Me: "I often notice my clients repeating patterns or behaviors, and I think 'if you could just stop doing that, you'd be so much happier and healthier.' Do you have that experience with me?"
Her: "I sometimes wish that you could stop being so much of a perfectionist and just give yourself a break."
Me: "But how could I be a perfectionist? Pretty much everything I do is miles from perfect."
<two second pause>
Me: "Oh, right. I see your point."
The fear if imperfection fuels my procrastination. I put things off because one cannot worry about creating inferior material when you literally have to work at that moment or not get the damn thing done. Procrastinating until the last minute is what saves me from having to experience doubt, fear, and failure.
So what can I do? A friend posted a link about forgiving yourself for procrastination being the key, but I think that addresses a symptom not a cause. The really hard, and more important, thing, is to forgive yourself for being human: to accept that you will inevitably make mistakes and to instead find virtue in the attempt.
I've been learning that, slowly but surely. I delayed reading my adviser's response and making changes to my IRB application for eight days. I could have put it off longer, but I pushed myself to just sit down and do it. It took me maybe 45 minutes. After having it weigh on me for eight days. And you know what? It felt good to get it done. It felt good to do the work.
It felt good in the same way that Physics 101 and AP Calculus II did, because I had to actually work to get the concepts. And, when I did, I felt like I'd really accomplished something. It's what I loved about (pre-abstract) math: you do the work, you can eventually get the right answer. And it's what I hated about Chemistry/science: you do the work, and real world variables can still screw it up.
But that's also why I left Math: Partially because it was so time-consuming and hard. But, more importantly, because it didn't feel real (at the levels I was at). There are not perfect answers in life. You can check an answer in Math, but it's much harder to find anything approaching that certainty in the questions of who we are, what we want, and how we get it.
Tackling procrastination is just as much about tackling my inherent feelings of worthlessness. I need to learn how to see value in work, even if the results aren't perfect. It's appreciating the challenge of a paper. It's being present with clients, not fixing them. It's caring about someone, about myself, even if, someday, everything ends. It's getting hurt, and accepting that that's the cost of a life lived.
But that's me (for the moment). What's your relationship to procrastination? If you do it, why? If you don't, why the hell not?
But it's often more than a simple aversion to effort. For me, it's also hard to do work when you feel like you're failing as you do it, when you feel that no amount of work will take what you've made and make it satisfactory. It's partially an aversion to effort, certainly. But it's also an aversion to imperfection.
It took me awhile to get the perfectionist connection to procrastination and to myself; I assumed that a perfectionist would be the sort of person who labored intensively for hours trying to get every last thing right. And, for some, that's the case.
But then I had a conversation with my therapist
Me: "I often notice my clients repeating patterns or behaviors, and I think 'if you could just stop doing that, you'd be so much happier and healthier.' Do you have that experience with me?"
Her: "I sometimes wish that you could stop being so much of a perfectionist and just give yourself a break."
Me: "But how could I be a perfectionist? Pretty much everything I do is miles from perfect."
<two second pause>
Me: "Oh, right. I see your point."
The fear if imperfection fuels my procrastination. I put things off because one cannot worry about creating inferior material when you literally have to work at that moment or not get the damn thing done. Procrastinating until the last minute is what saves me from having to experience doubt, fear, and failure.
So what can I do? A friend posted a link about forgiving yourself for procrastination being the key, but I think that addresses a symptom not a cause. The really hard, and more important, thing, is to forgive yourself for being human: to accept that you will inevitably make mistakes and to instead find virtue in the attempt.
I've been learning that, slowly but surely. I delayed reading my adviser's response and making changes to my IRB application for eight days. I could have put it off longer, but I pushed myself to just sit down and do it. It took me maybe 45 minutes. After having it weigh on me for eight days. And you know what? It felt good to get it done. It felt good to do the work.
It felt good in the same way that Physics 101 and AP Calculus II did, because I had to actually work to get the concepts. And, when I did, I felt like I'd really accomplished something. It's what I loved about (pre-abstract) math: you do the work, you can eventually get the right answer. And it's what I hated about Chemistry/science: you do the work, and real world variables can still screw it up.
But that's also why I left Math: Partially because it was so time-consuming and hard. But, more importantly, because it didn't feel real (at the levels I was at). There are not perfect answers in life. You can check an answer in Math, but it's much harder to find anything approaching that certainty in the questions of who we are, what we want, and how we get it.
Tackling procrastination is just as much about tackling my inherent feelings of worthlessness. I need to learn how to see value in work, even if the results aren't perfect. It's appreciating the challenge of a paper. It's being present with clients, not fixing them. It's caring about someone, about myself, even if, someday, everything ends. It's getting hurt, and accepting that that's the cost of a life lived.
But that's me (for the moment). What's your relationship to procrastination? If you do it, why? If you don't, why the hell not?
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
For My Self
Sometime in early April, something weird happened: I scratched an itch. For years before, I had desperately wanted deep, intense conversations because their realness was the only time I felt genuinely connected to someone else. I wanted them all the time, any time. So when I started seeing clients, at first, it was positively joyful. I was finally getting what I'd been craving.
But after awhile, at some point, the craving seemed to shrink. It's not that I stopped enjoying the work; I still did/do. It's just that omnipresent desire was no longer... omnipresent. And I've found myself at a place, now, where I don't really want much of anything (aside from, you know, a girlfriend). I'm not working towards anything, not building anything, not growing. I'm just waiting for something to happen. Waiting for surgery, waiting for the fall, waiting to start practicing psychotherapy again, waiting to leave Knoxville, waiting for "The One" (or, rather, "A One"), waiting waiting waiting.
In many ways, it's like I'm waiting to feel alive. Much of that, certainly, has to do with not being in a romantic relationship. But there's not much I can do about that here and now that I'm not already doing. And besides, I want someone to complement me, not complete me. And having someone else "help me feel alive" seems to dip decidedly into the "completion" category.
But what else is there to life, aside from work and relationships? What else is there of value besides, well, what and who you are for others?
The only answer seems to be "who you are for yourself."
It's an answer I don't like. And don't want. But I'm increasingly finding that living for others, that basing so much of my self in others makes me angry and anxious and self-conscious. When others so strongly inform my sense of self, I have to control them if I'm to control me [e.g. their failures become my failures, so I have to stop them from failing or I fail]. And that's not right or healthy.
So I need to work on myself. More specifically, I need to use the next few weeks well. I'm going to write more often, and I'm going to identify concrete aspects of my self I want to work upon and then plans to do that. And, if you don't mind, I need your help.
Part of the magic of therapy is how just having someone listen to you makes a difference. Just so, if I know people are paying attention, I'm more likely to follow through with this. But to make this less of a "respond to me" kind of thing, I'd like to ask salient questions instead.
So, first question:
What are some aspects of yourself that you've wanted to change and how have you done it?
But after awhile, at some point, the craving seemed to shrink. It's not that I stopped enjoying the work; I still did/do. It's just that omnipresent desire was no longer... omnipresent. And I've found myself at a place, now, where I don't really want much of anything (aside from, you know, a girlfriend). I'm not working towards anything, not building anything, not growing. I'm just waiting for something to happen. Waiting for surgery, waiting for the fall, waiting to start practicing psychotherapy again, waiting to leave Knoxville, waiting for "The One" (or, rather, "A One"), waiting waiting waiting.
In many ways, it's like I'm waiting to feel alive. Much of that, certainly, has to do with not being in a romantic relationship. But there's not much I can do about that here and now that I'm not already doing. And besides, I want someone to complement me, not complete me. And having someone else "help me feel alive" seems to dip decidedly into the "completion" category.
But what else is there to life, aside from work and relationships? What else is there of value besides, well, what and who you are for others?
The only answer seems to be "who you are for yourself."
It's an answer I don't like. And don't want. But I'm increasingly finding that living for others, that basing so much of my self in others makes me angry and anxious and self-conscious. When others so strongly inform my sense of self, I have to control them if I'm to control me [e.g. their failures become my failures, so I have to stop them from failing or I fail]. And that's not right or healthy.
So I need to work on myself. More specifically, I need to use the next few weeks well. I'm going to write more often, and I'm going to identify concrete aspects of my self I want to work upon and then plans to do that. And, if you don't mind, I need your help.
Part of the magic of therapy is how just having someone listen to you makes a difference. Just so, if I know people are paying attention, I'm more likely to follow through with this. But to make this less of a "respond to me" kind of thing, I'd like to ask salient questions instead.
So, first question:
What are some aspects of yourself that you've wanted to change and how have you done it?
Saturday, May 5, 2012
A Question Wanting
It hurts to want. It hurts, and when the want seems this sound, the only way to stop it is to stop the imperfect
self. “I cannot have, so I cannot be” goes the refrain.
I want a love worth living, but all I have is a life wanting
love.
“all I have.”
As if a life is small change, scrounged from a blue jeans
pocket and carelessly left as gratuity for someone who might give a fuck. As if
lives come and go, but loves last forever.
I have been asking the wrong questions. I have been wanting
her to come and be the person I want to be instead of being her myself.
Who am I? Who do I want to be?
If I met me, would I love me?
I do not know the answer.
I do not know the answer.
But I do know:
it needs to be yes, it needs to be yes, it needs to be yes.
it needs to be yes, it needs to be yes, it needs to be yes.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Too Significant Other
For as long as I can remember, I have needed others to complete me. I chanted "boredom" as a child, always wanting someone to play with, a refrain my mother would counter with "entertain yourself." I found solace, as a teen, in the nascent internet, fighting orcs and kobolds alongside strangers for hours, away from the gripping isolation of the real.
As a young adult, I obsessed of romance. I wrote manic poems to an unknown "you," as gripped in need as I was in futility. I dreamed and dreamed of arms and lips and knew I was too wretched for either. I was wrong, I was never enough, and I always wanted more.
And then I started to find them. For a month or two. For a few years. Intermittently and all ending the same way: progress progress progress and surprise abandonment. Leaving me with a broken heart and the vacuum roaring anew.
I'm still grappling with the paradoxical products of abandonment and abuse: unquenchable need and unyielding mistrust. But things are changing.
My therapist made a good point last week. I was describing my father (who else?) and she noted that it sounded as if he always wanted more and more from us, wanting us to need and want him so fiercely that he could find some relief from his self-hatred. He was a blackhole, always wanting more, never realizing that nothing could ever be enough.
And she said I'm not too different. And I agreed; the description did fit. Certainly, I recognized the damage my father's need caused, and I set forth to try to protect others from my self. But, fundamentally, my life was and is not enough without others in it. It's the primary source of my distress, and the lingering concern of my life. And, if left unchecked, it could change into something as monstrous as his.
So I'm left evaluating where I want to be. On the one hand, I don't want my happiness to be contingent upon another's valuation of myself. But I also don't think it's unhealthy to need people. People make me laugh, people make me feel loved, people make me think, people are soft and warm and wet and smooth in so many fun places. And the more I read of dystopia and existentialism, the more it seems that horror comes from loss and isolation and meaning comes from connection. A life alone, for most, is no life worth living.
The key, though, is remembering that we are not alone. And, what's more, when we feel we are alone way, we should remind ourselves that this is not forever.
To wit:
That's me, posting somewhere else. And certainly, I was rejected. But something happened! Attraction came from simply seeing each other, and it gave me hope. If, in the course of simply being and doing myself, I come across people who see me and say "I would like to rock her bones," then there is little reason to believe the right time and place and person will not conspire in my favor eventually. Because, even as I cringe writing this, I am a pretty decent person: loving, kind, witty, creative, empathic, intellectual, strong-willed, etc. I am certainly no better or worse than anyone else, but I do believe that the right someone could be very glad to have me. And just as I'm looking for my someone, she probably is or will be too.
I think this is key. I still want and need someone, an aforementioned fact my pillows know intimately. But I am not so insecure, not so desperate as to believe that it cannot happen, should not happen, or is too unlikely to happen. I may have to wait for quite some time. And it will hurt and be lonely and will not be what I want.
But unlike the entirety of my life before, I am beginning to think I am worthwhile outside of romance. I hunger for more, always more, but I use that to fuel my growth, not to consume others. And, ultimately, if the next relationship should falter, although it shall hurt, I hope I will remain confident in my ability, if I so choose, to find another. And another. And another.
Being alive doesn't really rock yet. But it's beginning to. And, suffice it to say, that is a life-altering, ever-so-significant change from all the others I have known.
As a young adult, I obsessed of romance. I wrote manic poems to an unknown "you," as gripped in need as I was in futility. I dreamed and dreamed of arms and lips and knew I was too wretched for either. I was wrong, I was never enough, and I always wanted more.
And then I started to find them. For a month or two. For a few years. Intermittently and all ending the same way: progress progress progress and surprise abandonment. Leaving me with a broken heart and the vacuum roaring anew.
I'm still grappling with the paradoxical products of abandonment and abuse: unquenchable need and unyielding mistrust. But things are changing.
My therapist made a good point last week. I was describing my father (who else?) and she noted that it sounded as if he always wanted more and more from us, wanting us to need and want him so fiercely that he could find some relief from his self-hatred. He was a blackhole, always wanting more, never realizing that nothing could ever be enough.
And she said I'm not too different. And I agreed; the description did fit. Certainly, I recognized the damage my father's need caused, and I set forth to try to protect others from my self. But, fundamentally, my life was and is not enough without others in it. It's the primary source of my distress, and the lingering concern of my life. And, if left unchecked, it could change into something as monstrous as his.
So I'm left evaluating where I want to be. On the one hand, I don't want my happiness to be contingent upon another's valuation of myself. But I also don't think it's unhealthy to need people. People make me laugh, people make me feel loved, people make me think, people are soft and warm and wet and smooth in so many fun places. And the more I read of dystopia and existentialism, the more it seems that horror comes from loss and isolation and meaning comes from connection. A life alone, for most, is no life worth living.
The key, though, is remembering that we are not alone. And, what's more, when we feel we are alone way, we should remind ourselves that this is not forever.
To wit:
So, fun story! On Saturday, I flirted with my first girl!
I was at a seminar thing and she was at a booth for a local social justice thing. And she pretty much didn't say anything about her booth but complimented my hair and I was all "ohmygodsheissocute" and then I was all *tonguestopsworking* and "stupidwords" and she was all "what" and I was all "I'll-let-you-get-back-to-work-bye."
And as I walked away I was all "I HAVE SEEN THIS MOVIE BEFORE OHMIGOD."
So I went back and asked her if she was coming to my presentation and she said "I'd love to but my partner's parents are in town." And I was all "say-words-to-mask-embarrassment."
I mainly note this because it's yet another example of how detached I was from "typical human experiences." I didn't believe two people could just look at each other and feel mutual attraction; it seemed like some kind of romantic media myth. But apparently, when you start to like yourself and believe others can like you too, it starts to happen! Who knew?
Being alive is beginning to rock, you guys.
That's me, posting somewhere else. And certainly, I was rejected. But something happened! Attraction came from simply seeing each other, and it gave me hope. If, in the course of simply being and doing myself, I come across people who see me and say "I would like to rock her bones," then there is little reason to believe the right time and place and person will not conspire in my favor eventually. Because, even as I cringe writing this, I am a pretty decent person: loving, kind, witty, creative, empathic, intellectual, strong-willed, etc. I am certainly no better or worse than anyone else, but I do believe that the right someone could be very glad to have me. And just as I'm looking for my someone, she probably is or will be too.
I think this is key. I still want and need someone, an aforementioned fact my pillows know intimately. But I am not so insecure, not so desperate as to believe that it cannot happen, should not happen, or is too unlikely to happen. I may have to wait for quite some time. And it will hurt and be lonely and will not be what I want.
But unlike the entirety of my life before, I am beginning to think I am worthwhile outside of romance. I hunger for more, always more, but I use that to fuel my growth, not to consume others. And, ultimately, if the next relationship should falter, although it shall hurt, I hope I will remain confident in my ability, if I so choose, to find another. And another. And another.
Being alive doesn't really rock yet. But it's beginning to. And, suffice it to say, that is a life-altering, ever-so-significant change from all the others I have known.
Monday, October 17, 2011
"Normal" & Abuse
I've been watching The United States of Tara, a show about a woman who has dissociative identity disorder (which causes what is sometimes referred to as "multiple personalities") and the effect it has upon her family. It's an interesting dynamic because, on a certain level, there's a great deal of dysfunction. Tara's alternate selves ["alters"] appear with no warning and inhabit spaces within her life that create a great deal of unpredictability and destructiveness. But on another level, despite these difficulties, the father is loving, the children squabble but mostly get along, the gay child is well-integrated, and Tara and her alters are not particularly threatening to the family. There is chaos and unpredictability, yes. But there are safe spaces, love, support and togetherness too.
Much is made about how "crazy" the mom is, although moreso in a "this is trying" way than a pejorative way. Yet I cannot help but watch and think "I wish I had a family like that." It doesn't seem particularly unreasonable, nor does it seem unrealistic. There are difficulties and hurt, but they are counterbalanced and cared about in compassionate ways. Tara's mental illness is a trial, but there is still a sense of closeness and a palpable sense of love that makes everything manageable. Hard, but manageable.
And it makes me wonder: How much of this is situational dramedy/cultural myth and how much of this accurately reflects contemporary American family structures? Many of the characters in the show focus upon how "abnormal" their family is. But their "abnormal" looks wonderful to me. Does "normal" exist? I don't think so. But perhaps more appropriately, are even the majority of family units close and loving? Do most people actually trust their parents? I honestly don't know.
I remember going over to my friends' homes when I was young and being somewhat shocked to learn that their parents slept in the same bed. My mother slept on the couch for my entire childhood, storing her clothes in the closet in my room and essentially having no space of her own. Not that my sister and I had those either, mind you. We were fortunate enough to have individual rooms, certainly. But if my father wanted in, he'd come in. Perhaps he would knock, but that gave you five seconds before he'd start to yell. "No" and "Please leave" or "Not right now" were not options.
Nothing was optional, where my father was concerned. Everything he wanted to do was mandatory. He'd even make us come out of our rooms to watch as he berated my mother (I don't consider such one-sided affairs "fights") and blamed us. As my sister says, " He would also blame everything on us. So, as we would watch them fight he would point to that as an example of what our misbehavior (or lack there of in many cases) would cause."
When he did this, he would yell. Constantly. Bellow, roar. And you simply couldn't argue or speak. If he asked you a question, you answered, but his truth was the only one that mattered. My sister, again, "He would not let anyone else talk. He would just sort of berate you. I also found that he would not so much lie as stretch the truth during these yelling sessions. He would take something said in one context and completely misconstrue it or the events surrounding it." You could not win an argument or ever be right because he would use just enough 'truth' to lend himself credibility but inflect the rest so he was always the sole victim.
He would threaten to throw things we loved away or take them from us, and once he even threw my sister's cherished blanky in the trash to punish her (our mother fished it out).
Leaving him meant we didn't love him. Telling him "I love you" was met with "No you don't."
And my mother, as a result of him or her depression, more or less shut down. She wouldn't respond unless we yelled at her (we so often did). She would do pretty much anything you wanted her to do, with no sense of her self worth. I almost think of her as a ghost, with the image of her tapping on the door futilely as my father cornered us and berated us locked in our rooms, telling us she was insane and couldn't love us, telling us how wrong we were for hours and her milquetoast protests of "Families don't keep secrets" so painfully inadequate, exacerbating everything.
And I still don't know how frequent this sort of thing is. How many people primarily associate childhood with terror? When people say they don't get along with their parents, what does that mean? I know "normality" doesn't matter, exactly. But I would like to know how many people, in general, relate to this. Because I know being trans is different than the norm. Being lesbian is different than the norm. But is being abused different too? Is Tara's family the ideal or the plurality? And what does the answer to that question mean?
I know "normality" doesn't matter. But it would be nice to have more validation. I might make another post about this, but it was immensely validating to have my sister share her experiences [we're just now getting to the point of trust where we can do that with each other]. You really start to think you've made most of it up until someone else "No, this happened." And I almost want to make a television show that says "No, this happens. All around us. And it doesn't stop once you leave." But I suppose being a psychotherapist will just have to do.
Much is made about how "crazy" the mom is, although moreso in a "this is trying" way than a pejorative way. Yet I cannot help but watch and think "I wish I had a family like that." It doesn't seem particularly unreasonable, nor does it seem unrealistic. There are difficulties and hurt, but they are counterbalanced and cared about in compassionate ways. Tara's mental illness is a trial, but there is still a sense of closeness and a palpable sense of love that makes everything manageable. Hard, but manageable.
And it makes me wonder: How much of this is situational dramedy/cultural myth and how much of this accurately reflects contemporary American family structures? Many of the characters in the show focus upon how "abnormal" their family is. But their "abnormal" looks wonderful to me. Does "normal" exist? I don't think so. But perhaps more appropriately, are even the majority of family units close and loving? Do most people actually trust their parents? I honestly don't know.
I remember going over to my friends' homes when I was young and being somewhat shocked to learn that their parents slept in the same bed. My mother slept on the couch for my entire childhood, storing her clothes in the closet in my room and essentially having no space of her own. Not that my sister and I had those either, mind you. We were fortunate enough to have individual rooms, certainly. But if my father wanted in, he'd come in. Perhaps he would knock, but that gave you five seconds before he'd start to yell. "No" and "Please leave" or "Not right now" were not options.
Nothing was optional, where my father was concerned. Everything he wanted to do was mandatory. He'd even make us come out of our rooms to watch as he berated my mother (I don't consider such one-sided affairs "fights") and blamed us. As my sister says, " He would also blame everything on us. So, as we would watch them fight he would point to that as an example of what our misbehavior (or lack there of in many cases) would cause."
When he did this, he would yell. Constantly. Bellow, roar. And you simply couldn't argue or speak. If he asked you a question, you answered, but his truth was the only one that mattered. My sister, again, "He would not let anyone else talk. He would just sort of berate you. I also found that he would not so much lie as stretch the truth during these yelling sessions. He would take something said in one context and completely misconstrue it or the events surrounding it." You could not win an argument or ever be right because he would use just enough 'truth' to lend himself credibility but inflect the rest so he was always the sole victim.
He would threaten to throw things we loved away or take them from us, and once he even threw my sister's cherished blanky in the trash to punish her (our mother fished it out).
Leaving him meant we didn't love him. Telling him "I love you" was met with "No you don't."
And my mother, as a result of him or her depression, more or less shut down. She wouldn't respond unless we yelled at her (we so often did). She would do pretty much anything you wanted her to do, with no sense of her self worth. I almost think of her as a ghost, with the image of her tapping on the door futilely as my father cornered us and berated us locked in our rooms, telling us she was insane and couldn't love us, telling us how wrong we were for hours and her milquetoast protests of "Families don't keep secrets" so painfully inadequate, exacerbating everything.
And I still don't know how frequent this sort of thing is. How many people primarily associate childhood with terror? When people say they don't get along with their parents, what does that mean? I know "normality" doesn't matter, exactly. But I would like to know how many people, in general, relate to this. Because I know being trans is different than the norm. Being lesbian is different than the norm. But is being abused different too? Is Tara's family the ideal or the plurality? And what does the answer to that question mean?
I know "normality" doesn't matter. But it would be nice to have more validation. I might make another post about this, but it was immensely validating to have my sister share her experiences [we're just now getting to the point of trust where we can do that with each other]. You really start to think you've made most of it up until someone else "No, this happened." And I almost want to make a television show that says "No, this happens. All around us. And it doesn't stop once you leave." But I suppose being a psychotherapist will just have to do.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Epistolscarcity
9/14/11
Yesterday, I asked my therapist to help with one of the required letters I need to get Sexual Reassignment Surgery (SRS) sometime next year. Well, I guess I don't remember asking the question specifically, because I just assumed that she would. It's a bullshit practice, requiring someone to have two letters from "licensed professionals" evaluating what they should do with their own body. I figured it'd just be more i's to dot and t's to cross; I mean, who could even take this shit seriously when I'd have been on Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT) for two years and full time at least a year and a half by the time I actually had the procedure.
But as soon as I gave her the document the surgeon's office had sent me, she got defensive. She didn't "feel comfortable in the evaluative role" saying she had a "dual relationship" that meant her "objective judgment" would be impaired. I said that was fine, she didn't have to do the evaluative component, she could just write the shorter second letter. But she kept on protesting. She didn't have "training." She was worried about what would happen if something went wrong and someone started calling her office to see who approved the procedure in the first place. She expressed a lot of doubt about people's satisfaction afterwards.
And then she kept going. She said, even if she was trained and felt component, she didn't know if she'd write it for me. I might want to have kids. I haven't had sex in two years and certainly not as Juliet. I'd been acutely suicidal a few months ago, she wouldn't recommend me for "any surgery."
And it was telling people I was transitioning all over again. Because every fucking familial adult I came out to did the exact same thing: "I just don't think you've exhausted your options." "I mean, there are maybe two places in the entire world you can live once you've done this." "There are so many steps and hurdles you're going to have to go through." "In college I dated another woman for like three weeks and we fooled around but it didn't work out and now I've been married to your uncle for ten years." "I was young once, too, and I had some crazy ideas about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. But you get older and things change and we're just worried that you're rushing into this." Ad fucking nauseum.
And you know, I can get ignorance. I can get fear and concern. Transsexuality is completely new to you, you've just heard about it on Dateline, you never thought it'd happen to one of your family members, etc. Whatever. The part that really hurts, though, every single fucking time is that they don't ask questions. My therapist did not ask me "What are your feelings about having children?" My father did not ask me "Have you talked to any trans women locally?" My mother did not ask me "Do you think this decision is impacted by any of the other stressors in your life?" My uncle did not ask me "How much research have you done about the process and steps involved?"
None of them asked and let my own answers about my own self satisfy them. A year ago, I had a "conversation" with my father. And he said that he didn't trust me or my judgment because of my "life decisions." And I asked him what life decisions he meant. And he said "I mean exactly what I said: your life decisions." And I said that didn't make any sense, to make an accusation about something and not even be able to explain your argument or label your terms. And he said "You're always going to have an answer for everything." And it's been "I can't say why, but you're simply not good enough" for my entire life.
[Cut for length. Suffice it to say, imagine reading about some hard things survived and a few relative metrics of success.]
And I did it these things with intentional humility and, despite some acerbity at times, continued compassion for others. I've tried to understand and forgive everyone around me. I never missed a day of class. Even in college, I voluntarily missed maybe two classes. I always got up in the morning. I've never taken a sick day anywhere. And I don't think I've really asked much of anyone.
I'm not fucking proud of any of this. I'd never mention it, outside of sharing the emotional component for the sake of you understanding me better or perhaps comparing experiences for a knowledge base. I don't consider myself particularly strong, I don't judge anyone for any differences in their own personal trajectories, I certainly do not in any way consider myself superior or special. I did what I did with what I had for whatever my reasons were.
But I mention it here, now, because overall? I think I make pretty good decisions. I think I act pretty respectfully and conscientiously towards others. I'm not particularly kind to myself, but I'm getting there. I think I'm doing fairly well, all told. And it fucking tears me apart to look at all the above and think that my therapist, my family, my whomever would just assume I don't have good reasons for what I'm doing. That they don't trust me or respect me.
Because, I mean, yeah, transphobia. They're projecting their own fears and insecurities onto me. But if they respected me, at least? They'd ask. They'd think "Damn, this seems crazy. But Juliet usually makes pretty decent decisions. Let me see what she has to say first." And then, after I explained, they would say "It's obvious you've given this a lot of thought and know a lot more than we do. We really just want you to be happy. So how can we help you make this work?"
That doesn't seem too hard. Nor does it seem like it's asking too much.
So why the hell does it feel that way?
Yesterday, I asked my therapist to help with one of the required letters I need to get Sexual Reassignment Surgery (SRS) sometime next year. Well, I guess I don't remember asking the question specifically, because I just assumed that she would. It's a bullshit practice, requiring someone to have two letters from "licensed professionals" evaluating what they should do with their own body. I figured it'd just be more i's to dot and t's to cross; I mean, who could even take this shit seriously when I'd have been on Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT) for two years and full time at least a year and a half by the time I actually had the procedure.
But as soon as I gave her the document the surgeon's office had sent me, she got defensive. She didn't "feel comfortable in the evaluative role" saying she had a "dual relationship" that meant her "objective judgment" would be impaired. I said that was fine, she didn't have to do the evaluative component, she could just write the shorter second letter. But she kept on protesting. She didn't have "training." She was worried about what would happen if something went wrong and someone started calling her office to see who approved the procedure in the first place. She expressed a lot of doubt about people's satisfaction afterwards.
And then she kept going. She said, even if she was trained and felt component, she didn't know if she'd write it for me. I might want to have kids. I haven't had sex in two years and certainly not as Juliet. I'd been acutely suicidal a few months ago, she wouldn't recommend me for "any surgery."
And it was telling people I was transitioning all over again. Because every fucking familial adult I came out to did the exact same thing: "I just don't think you've exhausted your options." "I mean, there are maybe two places in the entire world you can live once you've done this." "There are so many steps and hurdles you're going to have to go through." "In college I dated another woman for like three weeks and we fooled around but it didn't work out and now I've been married to your uncle for ten years." "I was young once, too, and I had some crazy ideas about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. But you get older and things change and we're just worried that you're rushing into this." Ad fucking nauseum.
And you know, I can get ignorance. I can get fear and concern. Transsexuality is completely new to you, you've just heard about it on Dateline, you never thought it'd happen to one of your family members, etc. Whatever. The part that really hurts, though, every single fucking time is that they don't ask questions. My therapist did not ask me "What are your feelings about having children?" My father did not ask me "Have you talked to any trans women locally?" My mother did not ask me "Do you think this decision is impacted by any of the other stressors in your life?" My uncle did not ask me "How much research have you done about the process and steps involved?"
None of them asked and let my own answers about my own self satisfy them. A year ago, I had a "conversation" with my father. And he said that he didn't trust me or my judgment because of my "life decisions." And I asked him what life decisions he meant. And he said "I mean exactly what I said: your life decisions." And I said that didn't make any sense, to make an accusation about something and not even be able to explain your argument or label your terms. And he said "You're always going to have an answer for everything." And it's been "I can't say why, but you're simply not good enough" for my entire life.
[Cut for length. Suffice it to say, imagine reading about some hard things survived and a few relative metrics of success.]
And I did it these things with intentional humility and, despite some acerbity at times, continued compassion for others. I've tried to understand and forgive everyone around me. I never missed a day of class. Even in college, I voluntarily missed maybe two classes. I always got up in the morning. I've never taken a sick day anywhere. And I don't think I've really asked much of anyone.
I'm not fucking proud of any of this. I'd never mention it, outside of sharing the emotional component for the sake of you understanding me better or perhaps comparing experiences for a knowledge base. I don't consider myself particularly strong, I don't judge anyone for any differences in their own personal trajectories, I certainly do not in any way consider myself superior or special. I did what I did with what I had for whatever my reasons were.
But I mention it here, now, because overall? I think I make pretty good decisions. I think I act pretty respectfully and conscientiously towards others. I'm not particularly kind to myself, but I'm getting there. I think I'm doing fairly well, all told. And it fucking tears me apart to look at all the above and think that my therapist, my family, my whomever would just assume I don't have good reasons for what I'm doing. That they don't trust me or respect me.
Because, I mean, yeah, transphobia. They're projecting their own fears and insecurities onto me. But if they respected me, at least? They'd ask. They'd think "Damn, this seems crazy. But Juliet usually makes pretty decent decisions. Let me see what she has to say first." And then, after I explained, they would say "It's obvious you've given this a lot of thought and know a lot more than we do. We really just want you to be happy. So how can we help you make this work?"
That doesn't seem too hard. Nor does it seem like it's asking too much.
So why the hell does it feel that way?
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