To Put It Bluntly I Don't Know What The Fuck I Am (But that's okay)

Dear Andrew,

It occurs to me that I never thanked you
for all that you endured on my behalf.
When the tempest threatened to drown me,
you cradled me, safe and dry.
When the glass shards of my life
came raining down from the whirlwind,
you enveloped me.

The first time I delved back into our old stomping grounds
after I left you,
I was overwhelmed with scrambled puzzle pieces of emotion
that I couldn't fit together.
It felt like an eviction,
like I'd lost the only home I'd ever known.
Now, a freak among misfits,
I belong nowhere.

Dear Andrew,

You transplanted me beautiful.
You took me by the hand and showed a grab-bag world
of people I never know existed.
You taught me the measure
of my own strength.
You taught me not to live in fear of mirrors.

Andrew,
Tears of fire scar this page.
I just want you to hold me one more time.
I want to feel your stubble on my cheek.

Andrew,
I'm afraid.
I don't know if I can walk alone.

Andrew,
I miss you.
I'm confused.
Some nights
I just want to come home.

I want to feel that needle.
I want to hold a woman.
I want to throw a football.

It's just not the same on my own.

Dear Andrew,

My knees are all skinned up
from falling off the end of the sidewalk.
I don't know where I'm going,
but I wouldn't have made it this far
without you.

Love always,
Your Other Half

So now we run into this issue of me missing my male self and the effect has my throwing my hands in the air in utter confusion. To put it bluntly,  don't know what the fuck I am. But that's okay.

When am I going to stop doing the same thing that so infuriates me from others: boxing myself in... I had a huge revelation as I was walking up the stairs to type this. I have been wearing my hijab (the Islamic headscarf) 24/7, but today, I didn't want to. So I took it off. I don't feel like a bad person or a sinner. I feel like a person not wearing a hijab. That's all. I realized that the reason I like wearing the hijab so much is that I like to wear my identity on my sleeve.

Ever heard someone say "He protests too much." Yeah, it's something like that. I blatantly show off my identity to overcompensate for not knowing who I am. It's some sort of reverse psychology, security blanket, coping mechanism bullshit. No more. If I want to wear my hijab, I'll wear my hijab. If not, fuck it.  If I want to bind and pack, so be it. If I want to wear a skirt and make up, I will. If I want to do it all at once, I'll do that.

Eventually, hopefully, when my mind starts settling down as I get more stable, a pattern will emerge. That pattern will be me. I've decided to be okay with whatever and whoever that is. Why not? Fuck it. No, really. There's a badass person inside of me, full of love and passion being mucked up by all this mess, all these masks and defenses and I'm not doing it anymore.

You all are just going to deal with being confused.  I love ya, but I won't apologize anymore. Names? Messing up pronouns? Don't know what to call me? I really couldn't care less one way or the other. Here some options: she, he, ze, it, hey you, Anna, Andi/y, Andrew, Hillary, Drew, tranny, fag, dyke, freak, confused, Satan, interesting, strong, crazy. Pick something. Hell, write 'em all on slips of paper and pull a few out at random. Not my problem anymore. I'm taking me back.

So that's what it is, y'all.

A sneak peak at my memior: "Closing Pandor's Box: Letters to my father"

 

Closing Pandora’s Box: Letters to my father
By Hillary Ann Schneider

Dear Father, 

I’m sitting here Indian style in my overstuffed arm chair trying to decide where to start. I spun around in the swivel chair for about 20 minutes shooting ideas to the cobwebs. I paced back and forth from the study to the living room to the kitchen and back again. I made myself sit down and smoke one of Amie’s odd vanilla menthol roll-ups. And here I am now, just writing whatever comes to me…

You know, I always imagined you to be a country music fan, but with all that eyeliner and the Morrissey-esque hair-do, I doubt it now. There’s a song by one of those cookie cutter male country singers that always makes me feel like my stomach is being ripped out. I switched the pronouns in my heart and sang myself to sleep with it. “What [he]’s doing now/ Is tearing me a apart/ Filling up my head/ And emptying my heart/ I can hear [him] call/ Each time the cold wind blows/ And I wonder if [he] knows/ What [he]’s doing now.” If there’s one thing country music can do right, it’s capture emptiness. I start here because this is how I felt you for so long. 

I never forgot you, at least conceptually. I woke up crying at seven just wanting my daddy. I still hold a grudge against my mother from making me send back the troll doll you may or may not have sent me for Christmas the one year. I changed my last name out of guilt when I was adopted. Most people fear the unknown but I clung to you because I imagined the unknown had to be better than the miserable experience I was living. Like so many kids, I dreamed of daddy swooping in on his white horse, in his shiny armor, and saving me from the abuse and depression. Retrospectively, you were just one more person that didn’t care enough to put a stop to it. Why then, do I still cling to you?

Every New Year, I would resolve to write to you. A couple years ago, I did. The letter came back. “Address Does Not Exist.” I was devastated.

I’m struggling with so many emotions as I type this. There’s sort of a desperate rage that forms a lump in my throat, choking me. You have no idea who I am and don’t seem to care. How can one forsake their own child in such a way? You weren’t there when the neighborhood kids bullied me, when mom threw me across the room for spilling my milk, when I was raped. You missed every success, too. You missed me graduating, giving birth to your granddaughter, competing nationally with the Cleveland poetry slam team. You missed the release of all three of my books. Fuck you.

But then, how can I judge? How could I possibly imagine your reasons? I know just as little about you as you do me and no one seemed very willing to talk about you until just recently.

Mom found some letters you wrote to her and made copies for me. I still haven’t seen them. She dropped them off at my therapist’s office for me, and my therapist has determined that I need to be in a more stable place before I read them. She said that the resemblance between us was so strong that she could have sworn I wrote it had she not known better. The letters made her shake so bad she had to sit down. She said they are not bad, just intense. She said there is a disconnect from reality evident, similar to myself. She said if she had to guess, that you probably have Schizoaffective Disorder. Is she right? What magickal words could possibly grace those papers? I crave them harder than any drink or drug I’ve ever taken.

I miss you. Come home.

Hillary

Dear Father,

I really like this boy, but I’m afraid I’m too much crazy to be able to maintain anything like a healthy relationship. Hm. It’s a little ironic that I’m writing to you about healthy relationships of all things, but we’ll let that slide for now.

I wonder what you would think of him if you were around for those sorts of things. My step dad, Rob was pretty noncommittal about the introductions after mom invited him over for Easter dinner. Mom is reserved, says she wants to get to know him better on account of my track record. (Hint: It’s not good.) 

He’s a nice guy. He’s got his own baggage, of course, but he treats me well. He takes time with me and it always right by my side whenever I have an episode. I know he worries about me, and I worry about him, too. He’s got that “I-was-too-nerdy-and-awkward-to-be-popular-in-school” goofiness about him. And oh gosh, when he smiles… I know it’s trite, but my stomach gets all flippy floppy. We bonded close and quick even before we started dating. I keep thinking of the scene from the movie “Rent” in which Mimi tells Rodger “Life’s too short, baby; time is flying. I’m looking for baggage that goes with mine.” 

Imperfection is a beautiful thing. Maybe that’s where I get into trouble.

I learned mom’s domineering nature and the last thing I want to be to Mike is another woman trying to run his life. Another thing I learned from mom is how to cover things up with smiles. I can charm the fucking shit out of almost anyone. Really, though, I’m all shattered inside. Pieces parts end up in the weirdest places, sometimes. I’m bitter, and selfish, and even downright mean. I don’t want to be that person, though. Since I joined Narcotics Anonymous about eight months ago, I’ve been chiseling away at my inner sickness and character defects. I finally feel like I’m starting to get somewhere, now. 

As much as I’m the sort of person that wants to rush in and help the butterfly out of its cocoon, I’ve gotta quit that. Not only does is potentially do harm to the person I’m “rescuing,” but I have to learn to live with life on life’s own terms if I’m ever going to stop being so miserable all the time. If I have decided to love Mike, I have to love Mike where he is, not where I want him to be. If I just love him when he meets my outrageous expectations, well, that’s not love at all, is it? That’s manipulation and using and I’m pretty well done with all that.

Sometimes I slip back into the sick part of my brain. I can be pretty pushy sometimes without even realizing it. I just hope he sees and accepts that I’m doing my best with what I have.

I do love him. I can see this going somewhere. Wish you could meet him. 

Maybe someday.

Hillary

Dear Father,

I was told you used to drink and do drugs, though I don’t know what drugs, or with what frequency, or for how long. They say addiction can be passed from parent to child. I wonder if that’s what happened. Maybe I’m just looking for someone to blame. You are an easy target.

I became a member of Narcotics Anonymous in August of 2011. It is now April of 2012. It has been a rocky ride. Today I have 10 days clean and sober. 

They say you can’t get clean for anyone but yourself and you have to want it. They say you have to believe that you are worth enough to stay clean for, otherwise it won’t work. Last night I flushed a handful of my favourite pills down the toilet because I’m tired of fucking around. On the days when I don’t believe I’m worth it, I just believe that Allah (swt) believes I am worth it. I believe that the people in the rooms believe I’m worth it and that’s enough to get me through. I feel like the father in Mark 9:24. “…‘Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!’”

Yesterday I went to the women’s AA meeting at 6 o’ clock. I left with a couple recovering alcoholics who took me to get my antibiotics from Giant Eagle. Pharmacies are not good for me. My pill of choice (DXM) sits brazenly on the shelves. I knew this. I didn’t say anything. We dropped off my prescription and I was barely unable to get the DXM. When we came back to pick them up, they said “You run in and get them. It’s too cold outside for us.” Did I open my mouth then and say that I shouldn’t be alone in there? No. Of course not. Did I call another addict and ask them to stay on the phone with me while I picked up my antibiotics? No. Of course not. What did I do? I stole a box of DXM.

I know it sounds trite, but there was a war inside of me. Deep down, I knew I didn’t want to take the pills, but I had allowed the voice of my disease to overpower me thus far, and I couldn’t get back in control. I told the ladies I was with that I need to go to the evening meeting. At 8:30 I walked back into the Alliance Arid Club. The meeting was half over, but I knew I had to out myself if I was going to make it through the night clean. So I did. I said exactly what I was thinking. It says in the NA Basic Text that “When we were using, reality became so painful that oblivion was preferable.” That is where I was coming from. I was so wrapped up in the disease of addiction that I couldn’t even tell that half of what I was saying was bullshit… until someone pointed it out.

This guy is 70 years old. I don’t know how long he has sober, but one of his sponsees has 30 years. This is a guy that I listen to whenever he opens his mouth, no matter what the topic is. After giving me the what-for that I desperately needed, he said “This program works. You don’t have to have faith. Use mine.” I’ll never forget that. 

I went straight upstairs to the bathroom after the meeting. I prayed hard as I opened each bubble packet and dropped all 24 pills into the toilet. I said over and over “I have 10 days clean. I’ll make it to 11 if it kills me.” I’m done fucking around. I am done getting high. I’m ready and willing to quit.

And speaking of things I never want to forget, I went to the Sunday night AA lead meeting. Now, I don’t usually care for lead meetings honestly, because, for one thing, I get bored. For another thing, after hear all so-and-so’s drunken escapades, I want to get drunk. Fucked up right? I know. But anyway, the guy that led that night is someone I like and respect so I made sure to pay attention.  It wasn’t hard. As soon as he started talking, I was hooked. He didn’t just talk about hiding empty beer cans under the couch and stuff like that. He talked about the pain, the desperation, the loneliness. With 11 days clean, that’s something I can relate to. But, he didn’t stay there. He talked about how God protected him while he was still using, how he should’ve been dead or in the pen or anything but standing here in front of us. He said God had a reason for him being here.

I started to cry as I realized that was my story, too. I’ve never been arrested, I have no liver damage, I haven’t killed myself, and I haven’t killed anyone else. There’s got to be a reason for that. 

In the NA basic text, it talks about not letting the things you haven’t done become excuses to go back out. In my sick, twisted brain, I felt like I wasn’t bad enough to deserve a seat in the rooms of NA and AA. I was bound and determined to continue going out and fucking things up until I had dug out a rock bottom I could be proud of. But, as I was told in August, “Your rock bottom is when you put your fucking shovel down.” 

I’ve never talked about this before, for what reason I’m not sure, but I remember the exact moment I was ready to quit. It was a moment of such intense agony in my heart and mind culminated with utter brokenness and complete surrender. I was in my old apartment and I remember falling to my knees and literally crying out to Allah (swt), “La ilha ill Allah (There is no god but Allah [swt])!” This is the Arabic phrase that one says when converting to Islam and means that you put everything aside (money, fame, drugs, popularity, etcetera) and focus solely on Allah (swt). I told Him to take me, that I would do anything. The Sufi poet Rumi says “Remember: prayer gets accepted no matter how impure.” How could I have forgotten this?

I wonder what your story is. I wonder if you’re an addict, too, and if so, where are you in your journey? Are you clean and sober or are you still out there being eaten alive?

I’ll be praying for you.

Hillary

PS “The Ground’s Generosity” by Rumi:

Remember: prayer gets accepted no matter how
impure: like that of

a women in excessive menstruation, her asking dense
with blood, so your praise

is full of blood ties, full of how attached you are.
That tangle of limited

surrender is the human mire. We’re sodden in bodiness,
where the clearest sign of

grace is that from dung comes flowers, from the bulbous
sludge, buds and then sweet

pears. The ground’s generosity takes in our compost
and grows beauty! Try to

be more like the ground. Give back better, as a rough
clod returns an ear of

corn, a tassel, a barely awn, this sleek handful of oats.

Detransition: Stories from a drug-free and confused queer

So. No one's seen me lately because I've been isolated-ish in a shelter in Alliance, but I'm all girlified as of late. Yeah, I know. I just heard at least 10 brains explode. See what had happened was I ended up homeless (whole other story) again and went to the Refuge of Hope men's shelter in Canton. Well, There was an ex-boyfriend of mine there who blabbed about me being trans and the short version is, they told me I couldn't stay because I haven't had Sexual Reassignment Surgery.  Balls. Sooooo... the only place I could go was to a family shelter in Alliance were it was very bluntly made clear to me that I had to live as a woman and keep my mouth shut. Double balls.

The first week in there was hellacious. I felt uncomfortable in my new wardrobe, I didn't know anyone, I didn't know the city. I seriously thought I'd rather claw my eyes than stay in Alliance. Then I happened to acquire some make up... Then a cute shirt. Oh, how it snowballed. Pink hair, feather earrings, showing off my tits... And it felt good.

Now, I'm going to back up, because this started before the shelter. You may not know my friend Skylark, but her wardrobe is half hippie, half bank teller. It's lurvly and I help myself to it quite often. Skirts, lacy shirts and all the bangles and dangly earrings one could possibly hope for. It was exciting and expressive, and yes, felt good. Gooooooo figure.

I think I said something in a blog before about wearing hijab and how much it appealed to me after I converted to Islam. I know for sure I posted a few pictures of me wearing a headscarf months ago. I swipe Sky's scarves and layer them and wrap them and I. Feel. Pretty. Are you confused? 'Cause I sure am. WTF?

My therapist made a comment when I first started transitioning that really bugged me. It was shortly after the last time I had been raped. She said "Are you sure you're not just hiding behind all of this?" I immediately got defensive and flung the question off. "Psh! As if! Me? Hide? Neveeeeeer." *rolls eyes* I included this bit in a poem about the sexual abuse called "Retribution." It says "Maybe my therapist is right./Maybe I do hide behind men's clothing/and "him" and "he" pronouns/'cause Goddamnit, I never want to be beautiful again!"

Let's talk about being uncomfortable in my skin. I was sexually abused and raped from age 14 to 19. I was taught going up that I was never good enough. I drowned these things and all the other shit in drugs and alcohol (and shopping and charisma and etcetera). I didn't feel. I couldn't feel.

More so, I didn't want to. I hated me. I went to a meeting last night and they were talking about honesty and getting to know yourself again after you get clean. I came out with it. I had to. I felt like I was going to explode. I asked Allah to give me the words I needed to speak and the words that needed to be heard and then just spewed it. I told them that I was born female and have spent the last three years living as male and now, I'm confused. I don't know who I am because the real me is so buried under layers and layers of masks. I'm tired of shoving myself into boxes that I don't belong in because of... well, whatever bullshit reason I concoct this time around.

So what's going on? Who knows? I've been off T since Feb 8. My hair is bright pink, I'm wearing lip gloss, huge feather earrings ($3 at Gabe's ;] ), a gaudy 80's style pink sweater that I loooove, girl pants. I haven't bound my chest in over a week. I looked in the mirror today and liked it. Maybe tomorrow I'll wear my football jersey. I have no clue at this point. And I'm okay with that. Whatev.

I'm a little afraid of where I'm going, though (even though I don't know where that is). This transition has been hard for those around me and I don't want to go back to everyone and say "Woops! My bad!" Also, detransitioning in the Muslim community?! *shivers* No one knows. I mean they might know something, but I'm not out at the mosque or to any of my Muslim friends.

So just breathe, I guess, is what I do. Wear whatever I want, whenever I want, and just flow with it. See what happens. Pray. Talk to friends who are supportive. Ignore the ignorance that's bound to come out. One day at a time like everyone else. I feel good. Not particularly happy or sad or scared or anything else. Just calm.

My Story - A long journey to forgiveness

Ahhh where to begin? I am tired today, but I accept where I am and oddly that calms me. So much has happened. It's been non-stop, but I don't want to write about all that. Not now, anyway.

I want to talk about an assignment my NA sponsor is having me do. I'm writing my life story. Yeah. It's a bit daunting. But that's not so much an issue as how it feels to write everything out. For a lot of these things that I'm going over, this is the first time I've ever considered them, much less really thought them out, since I got clean. It feels flat and smooth, as if my mind was a pile of huge shining puzzle pieces fallen wherever, sticking up every which way, and now I'm picking out the edge pieces and laying them flat and face up (the first step with every puzzle I work). I'm seeing patterns I didn't know existed and there's a lot of "Oh! No wonder.." going on in my head. As I work through the few details I can remember of my first five years or so (which is as far as I've gotten as of yet), I have a new understanding of myself. I see the mold that was cast in the begining that made me who I am. I have compassion for the dimpled little blonde girl in my memory.

This amazing painting, "Purgatory," is the work of Nick De Sena. His art can be found at NickDeSena.com.

It is said that understanding leads to compassion and once you gain compassion for someone, you are able to forgive them. Maybe that's how it works with yourself, too. I made a lot of mistakes, but there was a lot of hurt and conditioning at a very young age that wasn't my fault. I have always been a fighter, a survivor and I have always tried to do the best I could with what I had. I never felt like I was enough, though. It was my fault I got beat up on and tormented, I thought. If I could just be a little more obedient, be a little nicer, cleaner, prettier, more polite, more Christian, these things wouldn't happen to me. What else was I supposed to think? How was I supposed to develop a healthy veiw of myself in such an unstable environment? All things considered, I did a damn good job.

I'm proud of myself. I'm proud to be here today, alive, drug free and in touch with my God. I'm proud that I held onto love and didn't turn cold. I'm proud that I have not given up. I deserve a chance to heal. I am good enough to stay clean for and if things are this amazing now, I can hardly wait to see what life holds as I move forward.

Narcotics Anonymous - The Spirit is Willing But the Flesh is Weak

My alarm went off this morning at 6:23 for pre-dawn prayer (called Farj), but I did not get out of bed. I did not want to make Ghusl (full ablution). I did not want to pray. I've got a million and one excuses (because I'm good at that), but really, I just did not want to get up. I shut my alarm off and went back to sleep.

I don't know why Salat (the mandatory five prayers a day) is so hard for me. It's not just the pre-dawn prayers. Sometimes it's hard to make myself take 10/15 minutes in the middle of the day to worship and thank the Creator (Subhanu wa t'Allah) who made me and brought me to this wonderful place in my life. You put it like that and it seems pretty simple, right? Then why do I have to fight myself so hard?

When I began to seriously consider converting to Islam, I knew that if I'm going to do this, I have to do it right - I can't cherry pick parts of the religion I love and leave the rest. I am thinking of the verse in the Bible where Jesus (Peace be upon him) said "For the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak." That seems to be the story of my life right now.

For NA, I am creating a "Boundaries List." The Boundaries List is a list of people places and things that an addict needs to cut out of their life. There is a certain person who I really struggled to put on my boundaries list and I have been talking to addicts about it for days now. I finally made the decision that this person cannot be in my life at this point and wrote their name down. I haven't heard from them in a few days, but this morning they called me. I ignored the first call, but they called right back a second time and I answered. I haven't officially cut ties with this person; yes, I've been dragging my feet. Yet, I knew I shouldn't have answered that phone call. That's why I ignored the first one. Yes, Allah (Suhanu wa t'Allh), my spirit is willing, but my flesh is weak.

Lately I've been falling short of responsibilities. I've been battling lack of motivation and have shut almost everything out of my world except NA, mental health services, Islam and church, and a few close friends and family. I'm told that that's the way it has to be at first for some. One addict said "If you have to get rid of every negativity in your life and you're left with nothing, what do you have? You've got us." But I feel a little claustrophobic right now. I'm used to doing, doing, doing and not so much of the letting go and just being. I have work assignments three months overdue, emails I'm avoiding, friends I'm avoiding, things to come clean about. It feels like tight coils of failure wrapped around my body.

I'm a black and white/all or nothing thinker. That is, I see things as incredible or terrible; my actions are either perfect or complete failures. It's hard for me to see anything in between or  recognize that, hey, sometimes life happens. Some things just are. And forget acceptance of short comings.

 I guess it all comes down to surrender again, doesn't it? And living life on life's terms. The person in question is on my boundaries list. I need to write the email telling them goodbye. I need to level with my boss and my friend. In fact, I did lay a trap for myself to level with the friend. I let out the ominous "we need to talk," when we see each other today. Can't get out of that.

They talk about "white-knuckling it" in NA until you are at a place where you are ready to surrender. That's what I'm doing. I'll have 30 days clean and sober on Chritmas, insha Allah, and right now, earning that key tag means the whole fucking world to me. I am not kidding. My hands are sore, though. My grip is not as strong. I know I need to let go and fall into my safety net, but shit! Do you see how far down it is?

I fuck up sometimes. Shocker, I know. I'm human. I'm learning that this is okay. We've all been there. We all have the same story, more or less. I want to face the music, let go and let God (Subhanu wa T'Allah). Maybe then I can breathe again and start working on living life on life's terms, which, I'm sure is key to surrender.

Strength, Lord (Subhanu wa t'Allah); strength and wisdom.

Living in Shades of Monochrome Intensity

I had to Google the word to know what this feeling is. Melancholy - "Noun: A deep, pensive, and long-lasting sadness." "Adjective: Sad, gloomy, or depressed."

Photo by Andrew Line

An addict told me that is a strange experience when you have been clean long enough that you start feeling things again and for a while the only words you have are good and bad. I have a new word this evening. It's only one word and I had to Google the SOB, but damnit, this word is mine! I'm really tired of living my life in shades of monochrome intensity. This word is mine and right now I feel like I'm drowning in it, but I earned this word and so I'm going to sit with it and ride it out into the next word instead of running into drugs, sex, money or whatever else like I usually do when I'm uncomfortable. As my MaybePossibleSponserToBe is fond of quoting, one of our opening readings says "If you want what we have and are willing to make the effort to get it, you are ready to take certain steps." He usually says somewhere in that same breath "If anyone told you this shit was going to be easy, they were lying to you."

I am standing and standing strong right here. It's funny. I'd never have guess that I could find hope in melancholy. Hey. There's another word.

This is the song I am listening to right now. I'm not sure what the correlation may be, but thank Allah (Subhanu wa T'Allah) for Idena.

 

Masha'Allah - One queer transman's conversion to Islam

As many of you are aware, I recently made the decision to convert to Islam. I'm sort of feeling like a patient in an ER room; you know, every time someone new comes in the room, you have to explain all over again why you are there. And then I thought to myself, "Oh, duh! I have a blog!" So, here's the story from the beginning:

I was raised in one of those lovely Charismatic/Evangelical/Word of Faith mega churches you see on the Trinity Broadcasting Network. I had a lot of issues with the church. My friends and I were harassed in the youth group for being different. I was goth. I smoked. I was Pagan. I identified as bisexual. God's (Subhana wa T'Allah) love. pft

I used to look around during praise and worship and crave what I saw on others' faces: the religious bliss, the strength in God (Suhana wa T'Allah) to make it through anything that life would through at you, peace of mind. I tried to be a good Christian. It seemed that the more I gave of my soul, the further I felt from God (Subhana wa T'Allah).

Shortly after I went into foster care at the age of 15, I left my parents' church. My friend Justin and I went from church to church trying different ones, but nothing satiated me. I have always had a desperate thirst for an intimate connection with the Divine, but I didn't know how to achieve that.
When I was 16, I started reading all the religious and spiritual texts I could get my hands on. My thirst was stirred up by my sophomore English teacher, Mr. Bowe, a Lutheran, who spoke of the Taoist concept of Wu Wei. He had us read the book "My Ishmael" by Daniel Quinn in class, and spoke to me about the concept of doing vs. being (something that still greatly eludes me). I drank it all up and wanted more.

One of the texts I got a hold on was The Glorious Qur'an. didn't pay too much attention to it. I had very little knowledge of Islam. In fact, the only other contact I'd had with Islam was in 7th grade. I was enrolled in an online charter school and one of my school friends was a Muslimah (female Muslim). She sent me some information on Islam and I cried thinking that my friend was going to hell. In my tiny post-9/11 world, Islam still conjured images of oppressed women in burkas and sand. I'm not even sure I read it at all.

Again in Toledo, at age 18, I picked up the Qur'an from the library. I don't recall the reason. I remember being high one day and finally opening it (Astugh-fer-Allah Allahu Akber) and, even in my clouded state of mind being struck by it. One more time that year, I got the Qur'an from the library. This copy I never returned. (Astugh-fer-Allah Allahu Akber)

I put Islam out of my mind for years. My copy of the Qur'an was lost in the move from Toledo to Canton, but this year around August or so, while chasing down some Yusuf Islam (formerly Cat Stevens) songs on Youtube, I stumbled across "Give Thanks To Allah" by Zain Bhikha, a well-known Muslim singer from South Africa. The song really grabbed me and I listened to it over and over. It was so soothing to me. Eventually, I looked up more of his music and the more I found, the more I liked it: songs such as "Allah Knows" - "Every sparkling tear/On every eyelash/He knows/Every thought I have/And every word I share/He knows/Allah knows"

This sounded like the God (Suhana wa T'Allah) I was looking for.

I continued seeking out more and more Islamic "nasheeds," as that type of music is called, and began studying Islam in depth. What I found, was the answer to my thirst. I couldn't get enough. I learned about he five pillars of Islam, learned to pray Salat and started getting up in the morning for pre-dawn prayer, Farj.

I felt so refreshed, but there was a war going on inside my head. My bestie, Brigid, put it best: "Why would you want to join a religion that doesn't want you?" Yes ladies and gentlemen, Muslims and non-Muslims, in case you somehow missed the memo, I'm queer as fuck.

I found an awesome organization called Muslims For Progressive Values, which, in their principles, states: "We endorse the human and civil rights of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, intersex, and queer (LGBTIQ) individuals. We support full equality and inclusion of all individuals, regardless of sexual orientation or gender identity, in society and in the Muslim community. We affirm our commitment to ending discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity." I just sat at the computer and cried. I knew there had to be other people out there like me, but I'd felt so isolated. Finding this organization was such a affirmation of my Self. I knew I wasn't alone.

Islam has given me the ritual I so love and the connection with the Divine that I so crave. It has given words to what I have been searching for. It has motivated me to better myself and be more loving to those around me. It has filled me with strength and hope and has given me a second chance at life, but I had to first come to a place where I was willing to allow Him to move me. I couldn't see past what the church did or the hateful version of God (Subhana wa T'Allah) that I was taught.

Alhamdullilah; Allahhu akbar! It is amazing what happens when you follow the path of God (Subhana wa T'Allah), no? As I sit here, I feel peace within myself in a place that has grown heavier and heavier for the last three and a half years. It is a peace that, inadvertently, I have been running from. I never would have made it here without His guidance.

Lately I have been feeling so discouraged. I've not been able to see "the light at the end of the tunnel" as they say. Instead, my life has felt like some fucked up Alice in Wonderland cover. It's funny how much of that I've been creating myself. In any case, this despair has found its way into my faith. I have been doubting myself and my pledge to Allah (Subhana wa T'Allah). In my prayers, I asked always for two things: wisdom to know His will and the strength to carry it out. During Dhuhr prayer Sunday, Allah (Subhana wa T'Allah) brought this hadith to my heart:

"Allah's Messenger said that Allah said: He who comes with a good deed, its reward will be ten like that or even more. And he who comes with vice, his reward will be only one like that, or I can forgive him. He who draws close to Me a hand's span, I will draw close to him an arm's length. And whoever draws near Me an arm's length, I will draw near him a fathom's length. And whoever comes to Me walking, I will go to him running. And whoever faces Me with sins nearly as great as the earth, I will meet him with forgiveness nearly as great as that, provided he does not worship something with me."

God (Subhana wa T'Allah), in all His grace has held to me when I do not have the strength in my own hands, masha'Allah.

Surrender - Narcotics Anonymous and Suicide

Hello there, blog world. I have missed you. I can't believe it's been two months since I've posted. I said in the last post that life was crazy. As it turns out, realizing you have a bunch of shit to clean up, and doing so, doesn't make life any less crazy. These last two months have been a whirl of moving, Narcotics Anonymous meetings, hospital visits, school drama, harassment in my neighborhood and a good bit of other stressors. Whatev. Things will alright, insha Allah.

I found a song (or rather a sequence of three songs) by Senses Fail the other day and I've become obsessed with them. I do that sometimes, find a new song and play it over and over and over until everyone wants to scream. So the songs are "All the Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues," "Negative Space" and "The Priest and the Matador." They are from the album "Still Searching," which, I have read, choronicals one young man's decent into depression, his decission to commit suicide and the suicide itself. These three songs cover him standing onto the top of a tall building getting ready to jump ("All The Best Cowboys..."), falling ("Negative Space," which is instrumental) and laying on the ground dying ("The Priest and the Matador"). The last song contains the beautiful line "My body lies/ kissing the ground/ like a cross turned/ upside down."



I can't help wondering what it would be like to stand there and actually jump. I can't help wonder about the psychological and symbolic implications of whether one would chose to fall face up or face down. No, I'm not going to jump off a building, I just have a morbid sense of intrigue. Bare with me.

See, in NA (Narcotics Anonymous), the addicts that I regularly talk to keep impressing on me is the concept of surrender. When addict #1 first told me I need to surrender to my Higher Power to further my recovery, I got pissed off. I left pissed offf, went to bed pissed off and woke up the next morning pissed off. Finally, during my shower (where some of my best thinking happens) I realized why: I equate surrender with being out of control. I know what happens when I'm out of control; I make destructive choices, I hurt people, my mental stability goes down the shitter and I end up drugging up or in the psych ward. When there are such blatant paterns in your life, you learn to pay attention. Why would you want to do that on purpose? I was pissed off because I was scared of letting go of control.

Later that day, I called addict #2 and told him how I was feeling. He explained that there's a difference beween letting go/surrendering and being out of control. When we're out of control, we are trying to hold on and control has been taken from us. Letting go is a willing decision. It's not trying to manipulate people and situations to get what we want out out of them, because that's what we, as addicts, do. It's letting things happen and accepting the outcome. "It is what is is."

I dunno. It's still pretty scary. "Jump! I'll catch you!" Yeah.

Addict #1 asked me the other day what it means to be honest, honesty being one of the three indespensible spiritual principals of NA. I thought for a while and said "not running away." I'm an extremely avoidant person. How can you be honest with an about yourself when you can hardly stand to see your face in the mirror? There's a saying in NA that sometimes we're "not comfortable in our own skin." That's about right. Well, It's more like it's the skin I'm okay with, but when you peel back the pretty outside layer, what's underneath smells rotted to me and is completely repulsive. How can I be honest about something I don't want to be in the same room with?

I think that's why these songs have been in my head. When I was younger, I learned that running was how you survived. My upbringing wasn't stable and so I learned to live in crisis/survival mode and I'm still running.

Another thing that is discussed a lot in NA is the danger of isolating yourself. If you go to a single meeting, you'll hear the phrase "Keep coming back" innumerable times. And really, reaching out is what it comes down to. Prolonged isolation is a ticket to relapse. I realized the other day, when sharing something I'd been holding back for weeks, that isolation doesn't just mean not coming to meetings and not connecting with other addicts. Sometimes you can isolate different parts of yourself. I've been attempting to (and succeeding where I do attempt :]) to dig deep and share the painful stuff. Also, to shut up and listen to those around me, inside and outside of the meetings.

The caption of this photo -stolen from another blog- was "We put off surrender until it's the last resort..."

My therapist describes my relationship with my mother as "...challenging" and that's pretty accurate, but I've been realizing lately that it's not all her fault. (I mean duh, right? But you can't see if you don't want to.) There have been a lot of things for which I have blamed my mother. Some things come from my upbringing. A lot of things come from being an addict. Before I admitted to myself that I'm an addict and started to take responsibility for my actions,  I felt the need to blame, blame, blame. Because it's sure as hell not my fault.

I attempted to write a poem that started with the line "I'm pretty sure you can't call yourself a good Muslim boy if you call your mother a bitch on a regular basis - even if she is one." It was supposed to be funny. I think, perhaps, there are few greater sins than making a punchline out of the truth.

So mom, I know you're not reading this, but I was listening when we talked yesterday. I'm sorry. I am listening more now. I'm trying to draw the line between your faults and mine. I'm proud and so thankful for the things you could have passed on to me, and, through blood sweat and tears, managed not to. I know you hurt. I see it. I want to stop being a part of that hurt. I'm trying, one day at a time.

PS Just for shits and giggles, the antithesis of the last video (Don't Jump by Tokio Hotel):

Broken and Beautiful

Hi. My name is Andrew. I am a drug addict. I have alcohol problems, too. I think it'd be fair to say that my life has been a little crazier than usual of late, and for whatever reason, I'm having a really hard time coping this time around. I was diagnosed with ADHD when I was seven. I was on some sort of psychiatric medication from then to early last year. That's about 13 years, and as I type this, it makes sense to me why I think that drugs make things better. If there's something wrong with you, you go to the doctor/psychiatrist, they give you a pill and the pill makes you better. Pills are good things, right?

My biggest issue is this sense of being broken. I've got a zillion and one things wrong with me, I'm sure, and the diagnoses to back them up: Attention Deficit Hyper Activity Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Gender Identity "Disorder." My parents knocked me around plenty, tried to strangle me with their muddied brand of Christianity. My birth father is not in the picture. (But whose is anymore?) A man from my parent's church sexually abused me for about a year before I went into foster care. I've been raped, lived on the streets and psychiatriclly hospitalized multiple times. My husband was charged with harming my daughter and then she was taken from me and given to my mother.

This is not a woe is me post. I've made more than my fair share of terrible choices and rightfully paid for them and so many have it worse off than me. I know this. Point is, I am broken. I don't know from where, or what the first crack was, biological or environmental, but there it is. My biggest fear is that this chaos in my mind will never stop. I can't stand to think that I will have to live every day of the rest of my life fighting. I'm so wrapped up in my diagnoses. Yes, please tell me I have any disorder you like. Call it what ever you want as long as there is an answer.

I don't want to die, but I can't live like this.

I went off all of my psychiatric medication early last year when I was looking into going into the military. I wanted to see who I was under all that and work through some raw things instead of picking through sugar-coated, medication-fabricated realities. It was pretty hard to handle at first, but I learned myself. I learned my manic and depressive cycles, my borderline outbursts, learned that rosaries and Hail Marys are imperative to surviving panic attacks, learned that the right hormonal balance makes a world of difference. And yet, still broken.

Recently I posted on my various social networking sites "Sometimes the hardest thing I do in a day is get out of bed." Melissa said it's the depression. I said I'm tired; I'm weary. I have no energy left to put into surviving, much less thriving. She said it's the depression. I said it seems like I have to fight twice as hard as everyone else just to maintain pace. I said that if life is a race, I have my peddle to the metal and I'm still always a lap down. I said I see myself slipping into my high school cycle and I don't want to do that again. I don't want to be that person. I said I want to finish school, want to open my own business, want to make something of myself.

I am broken. Medication fills the cracks. Friends, family, support network fills the cracks. Art fills the cracks. Love fills the cracks. I've seen my faults, weaknesses and addictions as something separate from Pure Me, something to be cut off, suppressed and never spoken of again, but as I sit here, I realize what Melissa was trying to tell me last night. She said that if you look close enough, everyone's life is a mess.  I felt like going back on psych meds was like admitting defeat, that I'm less than perfect. She said I have a disease and that me taking my mood stabilizer is no different than her taking her insulin. I'm broken, yes. But, no shame.

It's the same with drugs and alcohol. From the first time I started thinking of getting sober in March of 2007 until one hour and 53 minutes ago, I saw addictions and myself separate. I told myself, I'm not really an addict. I just like DXM way too much. I won't do that anymore, but other "safer" drugs are okay in moderation. Sure, for someone who isn't an addict, a little pot here and there isn't a big deal. It's like a non-alcoholic having a a beer with dinner. But I don't stop with a hit or two of weed. I don't stop with one beer. My drug of choice is more. I need the high; anything, anything to get me out of this brain. Drinking leads to pot, pot leads to Vicodin, all the various highs awaken the itch and before I know it, I'm back in it. Ironically, I usually win the fights. If I fall back to DXM (or whichever), it's usually an I Don't Give A Fuck Impulse.

No more drugs. No more alcohol. No more exceptions.

Tuesday I had an intake appointment with Trillium to go back on psych meds. Things are starting to get out of hand and I have come to a place where I realize that I cannot do this without help.

I am broken.

I am an addict.

I am Andrew.

I am beautiful.

I am a survivor.

I am lovable.

I relapse.

I pick myself up.


All these statements mean the same thing. This is who I am.

Genderfucking is fun until you're out in public and have to pee

Perhaps it's because I am about as queer as they come, but I've never quite understood why gender conformity is such a big issue in society. No, let me rephrase that. I understand why it's such a problem with all that has been indoctrinated in us and the generations before us, but I cannot fathom how we let it get this far.

Yes, this is the blog where I tell you that transgender and gender-variant people are not only accepted, but respected, revered even, in other cultures. This is the blog where I tell you that I have thought long and hard about why law-makers and society at large is threatened and angered by how I chose to live my life and how I choose to express myself and I can't seem to wrap my brain around it.

So here's the thing, I'm transitioning from from female to male, but I still enjoy women's clothing. There are some days when I mix and match men's and women's clothing, wear lip gloss, cute earrings, etcetera. (I don't know how anyone, regardless of their gender identity, can not feel sexy in a pair of strappy, red stilettos, but that's just me. :]) Genderfucking is fun and makes me feel great, however; doing it in public is even more complicated for me than crossdressing binarily.

Case in point: I use the men's restroom, but the other day I was at Quaker State with Vertigo and Josh while wearing men's skinny jeans and a women's red tank top (nothing fancy) and I wasn't wearing a bra or binder. I had to go to the bathroom and stood outside looking a little confused for a minute or two before finally deciding to use the women's. It was the boobs that ultimately swayed my decision.

The other complication here is that I'm starting to get noticeable facial hair. Facial hair, lip gloss, mix-matched clothing, boobs and a gentlemanly bulge... what the hell do you do with all that? My mom used to tell me when I was little that I was "a lady in training." Well I sure didn't get any training for this. Pft.

It's been almost 5 months since I started hormones, and the stares are starting to lessen. It's nice. I get "sirred" even in my pink bandana and sparkly nail polish. It's different when you're taking on multiple aspects of different gender expressions though. I'm a little tired of the "What is it?!" looks, though I don't feel that I have much room to complain since I'm so actively inviting them. Still, it'd be awesome to be able to walk out of the house in whatever I feel like wearing that day (or don't feel like wearing that day) without feel like a freak exhibit. I can dream, can't I?

Fortunately, the first guy I dated after starting hormones didn't have a problem with me transitioning and didn't seem put off or uncomfortable with my body. The same goes for for Josh. He is extremely supportive, even now that I am starting to do more experimenting. He told me the other day "I don't see a woman or a girl. I just see you for who you are." That made me feel so good.

Oh! Speaking of things I don't feel like wearing, I've been having a lot of issues with my chest lately. I've been looking into geting top surgery done with the help of Kevin from Satori World Medical, and the more time goes on, the more I feel like they just need to be gone. I was explaining this dysphoric feeling to Josh the other day and I said that it's like there's a pile of the nastiest garbage - spoiled milk, rotten food, dirty diapers, etcetera- and you've fallen into and can never take a shower. That's about the closest I can get to articulating the worst of the dysphoria. It's been a lot better since starting hormones but it still nags at the back of my head, and let me tell you, I am about sick to death of having them.

Time for the next step.