If Ignorance was Truly Bliss

There is not a day that goes by that we don't log onto the world wide web and stumble across a news story of some ill-fated characters who are being mistreated, terrorized, and even killed in today's society. Click onto Huffington Post's or any news site and you will be thrust into a whirlwind of horrific and heart-breaking stories: home foreclosures and unemployed America, pedophile priests and abusive parents, dying soldiers and civilians in war torn countries and freak mass shootings by 'extremists'. The perverse focus of modern day media on negativity has left many of us tainted with cynicism and a misanthropic outlook on the world and the many people in it. Is it any wonder we're losing heart in what seems to be a world destined for ruin? How can we shut out the dramatized reality every computer, TV, and newspaper spews out? Perhaps we could just chuck the media sources out the window, return to a simpler life; perhaps we should become Amish.

Years ago a study found that the Amish communities, in their simplistic and isolated society, were statistically significantly happier than the rest of us. Several psychologists and sociologists offered up their reasoning and rationales for the cause of this marked increase of bliss; a lack of conspicuous consumerism or possibly the ease of a less complicated and hurried lifestyle. But the most compelling evidence I had heard was that of absence of social media outlets. Having little to no access to the circus that is the nightly news, many of the more traditional Amish have successfully disconnected themselves from the outside world. Without stories of neighborhood shootings and robberies to strike fear into their hearts, without images of natural disasters and wars worlds away and all the victims that go hand in hand with such tragedies, without all the weight of the violence and hatred in the world bearing down on their shoulders, why shouldn't they be happier? They are, in essence, the ostrich with their heads in the sand.

There was a time when I, in seething protest of the foul manipulation of events and biased reporting, refused to watch the news. Refusing to partake in the brewing storm of scare tactics, refusing to allow two pixelated representations of emotionally disconnected human beings into my living room, I invested my attention elsewhere (usually in reruns of The Golden Girls, and who can be sad when the room is aglow with four saucy female senior citizens?). On the internet, I avoided the home pages of various servers who had the habit of posting headlines and streaming ticker tapes. And I found myself slightly more at peace in this brief hiatus. Without terrifying stories of muggings and rapes, I no longer tiptoed apprehensively through the shadows of my front yard at night. Without the disproportionate coverage of minority crimes, I no longer double-checked the minorities walking by on the sidewalk (yeah, being Mexican I was still checking the Mexicans). Without the countless tears of families and friends crying on camera over a fallen loved one, I was no longer feeling the bog of someone else’s devastation on my heart. Unfortunately, this peace was nothing more than a selfish escape from the real world, and while the Amish are happier, they and people like them are failing our society.

Too often we simply concern ourselves with our immediate environment, the people in our everyday lives, our family, our friends, and rarely give consideration to the others beyond our own little bubbles. The news media is our only window connecting us to the events and tragedies that befall our states, countries, continents, and our globe. Without these outlets, we would have never known of the Haiti earthquake or the Pakistani flooding. We would have never known of the decades-long Israeli-Palestinian conflict or that horrific crime against humanity, the Flotilla raid. We would have never known of the tragic shooting that took place in Arizona last week. And without this information, we never could have sent the millions of dollars in aid to natural disaster victims. We never could have lashed out in anger at the Israelis, consequently forcing them to ease off their blockade restrictions and allow the Palestinians some food. We never could have been inspired by the handful of heroic stories as good Samaritans rushed to the scene of the shooting to help whomever they could, in spite of being shot when trying to stop the gunman.

Despite the pain, frustration, and sadness that washes over us when these haunting images flash across the screen, it is human nature to empathize with the plight of our fellow man. It is our obligation to care for one another and help in any way we can. To reach beyond our boundaries, to force open our eyes to conquer our self-induced ignorance is our responsibility as global citizens. Excuse the forthcoming sap that will no doubt cue a Michael Jackson song somewhere, but we are one world, there can’t be divisions and isolation. People need help, and for those of us who are in countries far better off than the majority of the earth, where our worst days could be a utopia for a starving child in a third world nation, we must provide whatever assistance possible. But how can we know who needs help without the media? We cannot allow their blighted stories to destroy our well-being and our sense of security, but neither can we shut them off when the events they’re sharing can be made no more tragic than if we were standing there ourselves.

In my absence from the news media, I still continued to do my part the best I could. I ran a cancer fund for a few years, I donated my time to underprivileged children and juvenile delinquents, and even donated my money to endangered chimps in Tanzania (yeah they need money too, bananas don’t grow on trees, ya know…wait, they do? Crap…well played Miss Goodall, well played). But it wasn’t until I joined the ranks of that queen woman on YouTube that I felt I was a part of an initiative with a global impact, and being a part of that movement required me to dip back into the ongoing world events such as war, terrorism, and human suffering. Then, and only then, could we begin to fight it.

Turning your back on the world and averting your eyes from the pain of others may give you a sense of peace and happiness the rest of us are not afforded, but in the end, it is our consciences that will be cleared when we reach for our wallets, sacrifice some time from our schedules, or simply send out prayers and love to those across the state lines, across the oceans. So enjoy your bliss, Amish dudes, go till your soil and drive your wagons and try to forget us, but don’t forget, when tragedy struck you, we were there.

Separating Fat from Fiction

It is almost inevitable in any new year to walk down the street, turn on the TV, or gather around the water cooler and hear a stranger, an actor, or a coworker talking about the holiday pounds and whatever scheme they've cooked up to obliterate them. And let's face it, our hips and thighs are rarely safe in the last few months of every year with the endless parade of sweets, snacks, and, ahem, cocktails that marches through our offices and kitchens. Sadly though, I can't help but look at the people around me and think "what the hell are you complaining about?" While a few pesky pounds may have nestled comfortably on their abdomens, they are hardly noticeable, let alone worthy of a crash diet of tiny calories and psychotic carb-counting. Most fail to see that once returning to their previous lifestyle after the barrage of food, those little pounds will eventually fall off on their own. Most fail to see that there's nothing wrong with them in the first place.

The obsession of weight and beauty in pop culture today is not a novel one, but is growing ever more concerning as society begins to polarize, values are shifted, and the power of influence is won. Battles between activist groups and the media have ensued and results are sketchy to say the least. Italy banned too-thin models from their runways, hoping to reset the mode on the incredible shrinking shrews on the catwalks, but most models who couldn't find work there moved to France and New York, where such bans have yet to be placed. While there was marked outrage over an America's Next Top Model contestant whose waist was so small a judge could cup his hands around it, an incident which forced the show's creator Tyra Banks to issue a public apology, the model went on to take home the prize in the show. Celebrities speak out about being comfortable in their skin when the pounds are packed on, but immediately lose the weight in the face of criticism, (i.e. the martyr Jennifer Love Hewitt who viciously attacked the media for their comments on her cellulite before quickly slimming to a size 2). Magazines that even brag about healthy living and self-acceptance are slaves to the machine with ads and falsified photos. We are constantly pummeled with images of stick thin models and actresses, most of which are not even accurate images given the technology of retouching, but they nevertheless set the bar impossibly high and create societal standards of beauty no one could meet. But, we try, God help us we try, and with every failed attempt a piece of self-esteem withers and every mirror becomes our mortal enemy. The socially determined rules of beauty are a poison in our world, and it's trickling down to our children.

While our country is ranked as the second fattest in the world (we're down one from last year, thanks to our chubby friends south of the border, ole!), cases of eating disorders such as anorexia, bulimia, and other dangerous dieting habits are on the rise. Girls are dieting at younger ages, not under the careful supervision of a pediatrician or a nutritionist, but partaking in fad diets and pills that wreak havoc on their still-developing bodies. Believing that what they see in magazines, on TV, and in movies is what is expected of them, their minds are already warped before they're old enough to count the calories they're cutting. Not long ago my heart broke when I paid a compliment to my five year old cousin on a new pair of jeans and her response was "yeah they're nice but they're skinny jeans and I'm not skinny". Where does a five year old even hear the concept of being skinny or not? Though we usually blame the media, we forget the power of our own influence on our children: a conversation overheard from mom, aunts, cousins who constantly complain about their own weight are indirectly teaching their children that there are guidelines of personal image to adhere to, that they are not good enough on their own.

A child of such a situation, I've struggled greatly with my weight throughout my life. Though I was active in soccer, gymnastics, and dance as a child, genetics were not on my side. My mother was more mindful of our foods. We were not allowed the popular sugar drinks and snacks that my friends were fortunate enough to have in their lunches, but comments were made such as "do you really need another helping?" and my esteem slowly sank. I began my own line of fad diets when I was just nine, the first being Slim Fast, followed by a week long stint of pure vegetable soup and protein shakes, and eventually just starving myself. As I got older, my problem became poor eating and a sedentary lifestyle, and I got heavier. Comments evolved into "you would be so pretty if you lose that weight", or "you'll never get a boyfriend looking like that". Though I've dropped a good 40 pounds since high school, (yes I was that big), I'm still overweight and struggle with my self-esteem, avoiding most pictures for fear of a sneaky double chin sticking out or a bad angle of a flabby arm that spreads like a damn wing when you allow it to rest at your side. It's a work in progress, and I've had to work to shut out the world and their rules in order to begin to accept myself as I am, gingerbread, muffin top, and cottage cheese thighs altogether.

The media, in its own way, has tried to make amends. To the overwhelming joy of the general public, Glamour magazine published a photo of a nude plus-sized model (above) who seemed to be perfectly happy with the state of her body and was by all accounts quite beautiful; though I have to admit even with her little roll on her tummy she does not qualify as plus-sized in my book. RuPaul has a television show that encourages self-acceptance and self-love rather than changing to find that love. And model Isabelle Caro, who struggled with severe anorexia, used her influence for good and posed in several photo shoots and on billboards in a global anti-anorexia campaign. Regrettably, she passed away in November from complications of her illness, but even in death her life can be used as a resounding example of the dangers our obsession with weight can drive us into. Unfortunately, in spite of its best (non, mediocre) efforts, for every liberating photo and show, and every warning on a single billboard, the media spews out millions of contradicting images right alongside them in the magazines, on television, and on the dozens of other billboards that follow on the highway.

We know it, we hear it every day, and we see it on the internet, thanks to the paparazzi and tech-hounds who uncover unflattering negatives of photo shoots before our beloved celebrities and models are fixed up. This perverse ideation is a perpetual fantasy, a disastrous dream that corrodes our very well-being. So why can't our eyes see what our minds already know? Why can't we throw up that lovely middle finger to the press and go on about our lives happy, loving who we are, cherishing the beauty we have, and enjoying our cuisine and wine? I'm not saying we should throw healthy eating and exercise to the wayside, it's important to get your ass off the couch and move, and for God's sake, eat an apple once in awhile. But, don't starve yourself, don't hate yourself in that moment of weakness when you give in to temptation (or a boss that throws awesome paninis in your face), and don't obsess over those holiday pounds. Skeletons are out. Enjoy your extra fluff, believe me, it actually looks pretty damn hot on you.

To the Sound of Trumpets

Nine years. For nine years we have been fighting this supposed war on terror in Afghanistan and Iraq. For nine years we have been losing our soldiers, losing our money, losing face to the rest of the world. For nine years we have been terrorizing the innocent people of these countries trying to find a multitude of rats in bunkers, mountains, and deserts. And after nine years of killing what is estimated to be hundreds of thousands of civilians, sometimes mistakenly, sometimes intentionally, the army is finally realizing that our soldiers are not well.

Today, Peter Chiarelli, a top army official, argued that soldiers need more time at home in between deployments in order to recuperate before being shipped back to the front lines. They usually get a year off for a year's deployment, with a minor break in between lasting about two weeks, almost like a typical job we have here at home. Of course, we don't spend the year killing and trying not to be killed. And if a year off hardly seems sufficient to piece together their shattered nerves, it's not, which is being proven time and time again.

The toll of this war is turning our weather-beaten soldiers into cold-hearted psychotic killing machines, as first evidenced by a 2007 video leaked by Wikileaks showing trigger happy soldiers celebrating the accidental killings of four civilians. Carrying cellphones and cameras that were somehow mistaken for AK-47s and grenades (yeah, I don't get it either), the soldiers opened fire amidst cheers and trash talking like they were playing a Wii game on their living room couches. They laughed as one body was mangled by a tank that ran over it, and opened fire on another group of civilians trying to rescue a survivor, riddling their van with bullets and hitting two small girls inside. The sudden realization of the children's presence yielded the icy response, "that's what happens when you bring kids into a warzone". Another incident is a highly publicized criminal proceeding where a number of soldiers killed innocent civilians and kept body parts as souvenirs, and a more recent trial has come to light after a soldier admitted to raping a 14 year old Iraqi girl and killing her and her family because he "didn't think of Iraqis as humans".

The outrage that these attacks have elicited from the world and from me is almost immeasurable, and it's so easy to point fingers, to curse and spit and damn them to Hell, but are we pointing the fingers at the right people? Thrust into an establishment that has only recently encouraged soldiers to seek mental health services (despite existing threats of dishonorable discharges and labels of weakness), fighting for a government that worries more about how many soldiers are killing others than about soldiers who kill themselves when they return home, and having the Us versus Them mentality hammered into their heads every waking moment of every day, it's amazing these men and women last as long as they do.

In Lt. Col. Dave Grossman's book, On Killing, he discusses the multiple psychological casualties of war which, from the civil war to the present, haven't changed much despite developing technologies and the abandonment of guerrilla and trench warfare. Fighting fatigue, many soldiers fall into confusional states of dissociation where they depersonalize from their environment and can suffer from manic-depressive episodes. A prominent syndrome of the state is that of Ganzer, where the soldier will become silly and make jokes, trying to ward off the horrors of war, but in a delusional state that is overwhelmingly morbid. One such soldier fighting in the Korean war had retrieved the severed arm of a North Korean soldier, using it as a puppetry prop. He carried it around waving it in other soldiers' faces, calling it Herbert, and even pretending to pick his nose with one of the fingers. Sadly, this psychotic behavior did not land him safely in a mental ward, but on a double shift of guard duty, and today, only when this behavior becomes deadly such as in killing civilians and keeping "souvenirs" does it warrant attention. The dissociative properties of the confusional state also account for the dehumanization of victims that makes it easier for soldiers to kill, whether it be their targeted enemy, or innocent camera toting civilians and adolescents.

Given the prolonged time periods of service, multiple deployments, watching strangers die, watching friends die, and a war that has actually gotten worse, it's no wonder these people are losing their minds. Many war vets throughout history have come home to PTSD, drug and alcohol abuse, destroyed personal lives and obliterated mental health. Nowadays, they develop these issues before leaving their barracks. Swank and Marchand (1946) found that after 60 days of continuous combat, 98% of soldiers became psychiatric casualties. The other 2% escaped the fate only because they were found to already be unstable with "aggressive psychopathic personalities" (did I really just do an APA citation in my freakin' blog? What have you done to me grad school?!). So with our soldiers serving upwards of 90 days of continuous combat and no sign of our government slowing this fight, we will no doubt have many more horror stories of murder, torture, and mind-numbing stomach-churning morbidity to come.

But it is important to keep in mind, however, that these soldiers were not sick to begin with. These are not deranged antisocial personalities who come into the army with the perverse desire to kill. Romanced by promises of honor and the idea of serving their country and saving another, the harsh reality of war hits hard, and, disillusioned, their better judgment and morals dissipate in favor of basic survival needs and paranoid delusions about who their enemies are and how to deal with them. War makes people crazy, then we give them a small vacation and ask them to come back and do it again. And again. Then possibly once more. So no, Mr. Chiarelli, they don't need more time off, they need this war to be over. They need to come home. They need aftercare, they need therapy.

Voltaire once wrote "it is forbidden to kill, and therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets". Likewise it seems appropriate to write that all psychotics are locked away to protect society, unless they're zipped into fatigues, then they're given guns and asked to serve their country.

Side note: I can't write a blog about the army without at least mentioning our small triumph of the repeal of Don't Ask Don't Tell, but in spite of the success, I can only say to you now, dear gaybugs, stay home, not every right we're afforded needs to be exercised.

Moments Fleeting, Time Lost, Chances Missed

So we're smack-dab in the middle of the holiday season, amidst bustling Christmas shoppers, tree farms, and co-workers who bring in a hoard of sweets under the guise of being friendly when in fact they're snickering behind your back because they know that cheesecake is going on your thighs, not theirs (seriously guys, enough is enough). But as we hurry from point A to point B and zip through the weeks, sweeping aside various everyday tasks that seem menial in comparison to our ever-growing to-do list, how often do we really stop and think about the things we're missing? More specifically, the people in our lives?

Now I know that over the years this resounding message seems more like beating a dead horse than an inspirational note moving us to pick up the phone or write a letter, but stay with me on this. Tonight, in my last official class of my Master's Program, my professor shared with us a personal devastating story. Her neighbor, a war vet with PTSD who had a history of suicidal depression and alcoholism had taken his own life last week. Now my professor had gone the extra mile over the years, providing emotional support, checking in on him, sending him birthday and holiday baskets, food for Thanksgiving, whatever he needed, whatever she could give. However, last week, she wasn't well, in bed with a long-term migraine, feeling physically ill, and she took a moment for herself. It wasn't until she got out of bed one morning, head still aching, that she heard the ominous hum of an idling engine outside her house. Peeking through the kitchen curtain, she found a fire engine and four police squad cars lining her street, and her heart stopped. She knew, without having to ask, what had happened. Her mind flipped back through the past week or so, every moment that she thought to stop by and every time she said, "I'm just too busy to talk to him today." And that guilt, by my own observation, is taking it's toll on her.

First let me clarify, I do not slight this woman in the least. She has extended and over-extended herself for this individual and really had tried to save this broken soul by giving all the love and care she had. Life happens, we get busy sometimes, and unfortunately things get passed up. However, far too many times the rest of us brush people aside without having the track record this woman brought to the table. How many times have we said "tomorrow", or "maybe next week", or "I really need to call/write/email him", and never got around to it? How many times have we thought "I simply don't have the time"?

I have to own it, as my life has gotten more hectic with school, work, internship, and all the time I've invested in just going nuts, I have neglected some people: a cousin I used to speak with almost every week, my dad whom I really only speak to once a month or so, my grandparents whom I keep saying I'll take out to lunch, but have yet to get around to it, and friends that have faded into the background as my once idle and uneventful life takes wing. But it's no excuse, because everywhere we look, we see people, read articles, hear stories of sudden and unexpected loss and pass up the lessons unlearned until it happens to us. Moments that should've been are gone, hopes for memories that were never made have dissipated, and all we have is the "should have, could have, would have if only I had the time" that won't bring our loved ones back.

And, in these trying times when we can all use a shoulder to cry on, a sympathetic ear, or just a hug, we need to take time for one another; to prevent more tragedies, to stop someone from picking up a gun and turning it on themselves, or worse yet, turning it on everyone else, to heal some wounds or at the very least, alleviate some pain. Most importantly, to let people know that they are loved, that they're on your mind, and in your heart.

So get cracking. Make your To-Call list, and hit up some people who haven't heard from you in awhile, or call up some people you may have spoken to yesterday, but this time just to say hi rather than ask for a favor. Write a letter, write an email, hell, write a text message! Despite arguments of technology making social exchanges more superficial and impersonal, let's face it, a text message says so much more than a phone that doesn't ring or a letter that never comes. And while you're at it, give a friendly smile to a stranger at the mall, start a little conversation when you're waiting in those long lines at the cashier, connect to someone new. It might just change their whole day, and you'll feel better for it.

Standing Up for the Little Guy

Time and time again the majority has always ruled, and unfortunately, they've not always erred on the side of common sense. Whether it be stifling the human rights movement of numerous minorities throughout the years, voting in favor of multiple wars we had no business fighting, or collectively alienating a particular religious or cultural group for whatever ridiculous reasons, the hindsight afforded to us of past faults and folly is rarely applied to present day conundrums. However, despite reflections of public opinions in polls, on ballots, and in the media, it seems the tides are changing, and, if for a moment, the majority has found it's place: standing behind the little guy.

Yes, times for the gays have not been great these past two years or so. With the passing of gay marriage in California, then the removal with Prop 8, and a following rebuttal lawsuit, we now hang in limbo for the US Supreme Court to hear the case. And it's anyone's fight at this point. However, with the voting to repeal the Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy of the US Army, and a guaranteed failed appeal, the majority is starting to tentatively lean in our favor. Following the tragic suicides of five GLBT college and grade school students who were ruthlessly bullied into taking their own lives, a massive outpouring of support has flooded the internet with the It Gets Better project. Hundreds of people, from everyday gays and friends of gays and big name celebrities to high profile politicians like Senator Clinton and President Obama have historically lent their voices to an anti-hate campaign that has fostered the creation of over 5,300 videos on YouTube. Even that queen chick I'm always bugging on had a few words to say about the bullying (the broader term of simple "bullying" was used, 'cause Lord knows an Arab queen could never publicly defend the gays without getting her ass handed to her by her more traditional countrymen, but we all knew what they were talking about).

And the movement of the majority doesn't stop there. As previously mentioned in an earlier blog, there was a massive movement in defense of the Muslim holy book, the Quran, when some crazy old dude tried to stage a book burning. The movement not only led to public outcry to protect the Quran, but protests, petitions, denouncements from more political figureheads (Clinton again...she rocks, doesn't she?), and a particularly memorable stand-in where people of all religions laid their hands over a barbecue grill so a Christian fundamentalist group couldn't light the coals to burn the revered pages and covers. Turmoil still stirs against Muslims as emotions rise over the recent debate over the placement of a Muslim-funded community center near the Ground Zero site. However, the power behind either side of the debate has balanced as an equal amount of people have come face to face with the opposition to support the decision. While there is still some bad blood over the attacks on 9/11, it seems the majority of America has finally developed the brains to discern between Muslim extremists and true Muslims of Islam.

Unfortunately, we didn't have the mental capacity for such 9 years ago when the war in Afghanistan began. A nation broken, hurt, and angered, made the emotionally fueled decision to support George W. Bush in his bid to go after Osama bin Laden and the Taliban in the middle eastern region. Now, many years later, after wising up to the shady dealings that underlined this so-called war on terrorism, many people have denounced the U.S.'s presence in Iraq and Afghanistan and have spoken out against the continuing failings of the government. But such frustrations have not spread to our soldiers, some of whom were beguiled into enlisting, thinking they were going to kill terrorists, some of whom were misled into believing they were going to liberate a nation oppressed by a horrific dictator. Many did not choose to serve under the truth of the matter, nor did they wish to continue once they found themselves in the very real circumstances of a fictional war. And we as a nation have not turned our backs on them. Well, the majority of us haven't.

Protesters were making headlines for some time, showing up to the funerals of soldiers KIA, shouting hate-filled chants, claiming the deaths of the soldiers was God's wrath being unfurled upon a nation that supported homosexuality. Bringing with them a black cloud to hang over an already darkened day for the soldier's family, they made their unwelcome presence known and tainted what should have been honorable memorials for soldiers who gave their lives doing our government's dirty work. But, a small town in Missouri was not about to let this happen for Corporal Jacob Carver. Upon hearing via word of mouth and Facebook that such a group planned to adorn his burial, not hundreds, but thousands of people from miles away arrived as early as before sunrise to secure their positions near the funeral site. Arriving in buses and caravans, nearly 3,000 people lined the roads with American flags waving to keep the protesters at bay. Most people had never met the young corporal who lost his life, many didn't know his family, but they gathered together to push out a tiny group of radical hate-mongers to protect his memory and his family in their time of need. The protesters were forced to set up nearly a third of a mile away from the funeral and despite attempts to shout across the town, their opponents out-shouted them and drowned out their message, forcing them to pack up and move out.

America was formed by the little guy, the ones whom, tired of being pushed around by a haughty king in a far-off land, sailed across the sea to escape the autocracy. But somewhere along the way we got too big, too strong, and slipped into the position of the oppressor, quickly forgetting what it felt like to fall beneath the ruling thumb of The Man. Laws that were created to protect us suddenly worked against us, and the power of the majority at times brought historic shame to our name. Granted, there were times when our government stepped up for the little guy amidst angered cries of the majority: a black girl may never have set foot in a white public school if a judge hadn't ignored the racist cries of a southern majority decades ago; blacks and whites would not have had the right to marry if the California Supreme Court hadn't ignored the cries of 92% of Californians who felt the races should not mix. And despite the efforts of 52% of Californians two years ago, a judge still had the cajones to stand up for the little guy and declare Proposition 8 unconstitutional. A group of a people with no personal affiliations to a religion risked burning themselves to protect it's holy book. A state of citizens with no personal connection to a soldier came from miles around to stand up for his right to have a peaceful burial.

They say never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups. Well, you better watch out for the power of large groups with balls and even bigger hearts. We will prevail...we must if there's any hope for this land and what we should stand for.

Happy Thanksgiving to my American peeps...stand up for the little guy...DAMN THE MAN! (sorry, I had to say it)

Sometimes You Gotta Lose Till You Win

Hello to those who may have missed me! Though you can't see, my head is hanging in shame over my month long absence, as I was priding myself on a steady production of monthly blogs. However, recently life for me has been a speeding freight train carrying me away to some glorious horizon I never imagined I'd be chasing. In exchange, it has brought my expressive process to a screeching halt. I am an emotional writer, words flow through tears or flaring anger; happiness is my kryptonite, but I've been feeling the bog of creative constipation and racking my brain for some inspiration. Upon reviewing my previous posts, I've noted the repetitive theme of negativity, whether it be trashing misguided and delusional celebrities, misgivings of world issues, or wagging a scolding finger at royalty. I found this to be reflective not only of my point of view in this world but of my overall personal mood and frustrations, and since things have seemingly fallen into place for me, it appears it's time for a more cheery topic. Though I'm typically not given to outright self-disclosure on this blog, following my preceding post, it seems to be the trend of the moment, and I'm going with it.

Driving home the other day, I had some awesome tunes on the radio, my window down, the sun shining on my face (in case you hadn't noticed, it's blazing in Cali this November), and yes, I'll admit it, I was doing the hand windsurfer thing out of the car when the speed was right. Calmed, joyful from a good moment at work, and relaxed, a wave of peace washed over me and it was at this moment I realized, "I'm going to be okay."

Life for me has been unsure up until this point. The victim of child abuse (emotional, physical, and sexual), the survivor of rape at a very young age, the broken product of a destructive divorce and torn home, and a frequent target for bullying as I grew, I found myself in the clutches of a crippling depression that nearly killed me, twice. The darkness that enveloped me blinded me to any fragment of hope one might find in an eternal night, and I went to bed praying for death in my sleep. In the morning I woke, dismayed to find my wish unfulfilled, but pined for the coming night that would bring a new opportunity to try again. I dragged myself through each day, never expecting much from life, never anticipating surviving this long, just an empty shell wandering aimlessly through, trying to get to the end of this journey as quickly and quietly as possible.

Diagnosed when I was nine, the following ten years of depression yielded fruitless series of anti-depressant cocktails, unwanted therapy sessions (forced upon me by my parents), and frequent run-ins with razor blades and broken glass. After one early suicide attempt and a later meet and greet with the remnant pills in my medicine cabinet, I found myself wringing my hands on a psychiatrist's couch rattling off my symptoms and failed prescriptions. One more. One final slip of paper, written upon it some fancy names shielding the countless chemicals beneath them: Zoloft and Wellbutrin, and a recommendation to see a psychologist. Frequent headaches, dizziness, and nausea pushed me to take myself off the pills after just nine months, but coupled with therapy, it was just enough, and after a year and a half, I was finally balanced.

The road back was shaky and unsure, after spending nearly 12 years wanting to die, how could I learn how to live? Learn to smile, laugh, and love? It may be strange, dear reader, to try and understand how a smile could be a novel concept, but the first time I noticed myself doing it without obvious cause, it truly startled me. To laugh everyday was unknown, to plan for a future, unthinkable. But I went to college and took my first steps on whatever path I fell on. Is it any wonder my spinning wheel of fortune landed on Psychology? However, despite personal experience, I wasn't convinced this was my role. Plagued with doubts, I wondered what if I invested so much time and graduated to find I was a terrible psychologist? After graduation I found myself working with severely emotionally disturbed foster kids. A difficult job that had it's gratifying moments, but it more or less left me exhausted and on a downward spiral back to depression.

I returned to school to get my Master's Degree in Marriage and Family Therapy. With this newfound pursuit came new concerns: what if I'm not happy treating couples and families? What if I don't find a job in this tanking economy after graduation? How will I pay my student loans? What if I have to take some crappy cashier's job after all my hard work? Where am I going and will I get there? Depression and hopelessness began to set in again and it was all I could do to claw my way up from the bottom of that familiar pit.

Nearing the end of my program, I began my search for a Practicum site, a pre-graduation internship. Carrying my own personal preferences for specific populations, in my heart I knew I'd be lucky to get any site, given California's non-existent budget and non-profits closing left and right. But, following the helpful tip of a classmate, I landed in a place ironically called Hope. The population? Autistic children. Feeling apprehensive because I had never worked with autism before, I was welcomed with open arms by the staff, and almost immediately hit with wave after wave of positive feedback and praise. "A natural," they said. I'd never been a natural at anything. Loving my work, loving the kids, loving my co-workers, being good at what I do, and feeling a pull to continue working with autism. What more could I ask for? Oh yeah, I was offered a part-time job as an aide, and there's talk of a full-time job as a therapist after I finish school this March (Update: I am now employed as a therapist).

What truly was 17 years of despair, frustration, anxiety, and apprehension seemed completely resolved after a month and a half of discovering Hope. Now still bearing some of that residual pessimism, I've not deluded myself into believing this momentary perfection is forever. Things happen, life happens, and my plans may be derailed. But for the time being, I will bask in the glory of it, because I really do think this is my time to shine, in spite of the current state of the outside world. This is my little sliver of sunshine that finally found it's way to my heart. And I deserve it, don't I? It's my turn for happiness.

The day after my happy drive, I serendipitously stumbled across this fantastic song by Sugarland. Now I don't normally plug anything, products or celebs or their work (except my Renee), but what I love about Sugarland is that in the midst of their bubbly kick ass rock out songs, they plant these little seeds of heart-wrenching truths that apply to us all. Little Miss is that song of their album, The Incredible Machine: "Little Miss you'll go far/Little Miss hide your scars/Little Miss who you are is so much more than you like to talk about". The chorus is hymned with repeating I'm Okay's and It'll be alright again's, soothing us into lullabies of reassurance. The song closes with the optimistic "Little Miss brand new start/Little Miss do your part/Little Miss big ole heart beats wide open, she's ready now for love". Yes, yes she is.

*Photograph above was provided by my friend Helen M., though I never actually asked her permission, I'm sure she won't mind :)

Hate: If You Give a Gay a Gun...

Signing online this morning, I was hit with not one but two blows on the GLBT front. Yesterday I read the story of a gay college student who was secretly filmed by his roommate while having a sexual encounter, then the roommate broadcast the video online. The roommate and an accomplice were charged with invasion of privacy for filming without consent and broadcasting the content. Today it was confirmed that as a result of this incident, the student, Tyler Clementi, committed suicide. As shocking and as horrifying as this story is, I was dismayed, but not thrown into despair. However, the second blow came when I signed onto Huffington Post and found that a 13 year old, Seth Walsh, had died nine days after hanging himself from a tree in what soon became a successful suicide attempt. He too killed himself due to being excessively taunted for his homosexuality. This was the moment the tears blurred my vision.

The pain of taunting and fears of being rejected is nothing new to me, and high school was one of the most difficult times of my life. I achieved a vague understanding of my sexuality when I was 14, but still believed I was attracted to men to some extent, either because I truly didn't know or because I was clinging to some semblance of normalcy. I even forced myself to hang posters of the latest teen heartthrobs on my walls because I knew it was the normal thing to do, whether I liked them or not. To this day I still don't see why JTT was so cute to everyone else.

In a house where homosexuality was not accepted, because "God hates gays" and I was "going to Hell", I thought I could be myself a little more at school. Though I wasn't a total dyke, I had pictures of attractive women on folders and maybe a few in bikinis inside, and those few classmates who were more intuitive figured it out, proceeding to make my life hell. A girl who came to the conclusion that I liked her constantly whispered and pointed me out to friends every time our paths crossed, an encounter always followed by disgusted looks and cruel laughter. A classmate once leaned across the aisle and whispered homophobic insults into my ear, forcing me to jump up from my desk and leave the classroom, running to a favorite teacher's room and I broke down crying on her desk. I even had a teacher who, having seen a bikini photo in my binder, informed my mother on Parent Teacher Conference night that I had inappropriate pictures of women in my folder that needed to be removed; a curve ball I had never seen coming, a complaint that was never brought to my attention beforehand. The evening concluded with an angry and embarrassed rant from my mother, driving me to tears, and souring our already bitter relationship even more.

My issues with my sexuality were just a few of many stemming from my childhood and current situation, but I know it was one of the issues in the front of my mind when I swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills one night at the age of 15. The despair of never feeling normal, never feeling right, and never being accepted tore through me. When so many other things set me apart from my peers, why did I have to be gay too? Luckily, I became ill and vomited most of the pills up, the rest just made me sleepy as I stumbled back into Hell the next morning for classes. But the taunting didn't stop, and it didn't stop at me.

I witnessed one of my friends, still very much in denial but obvious to everyone else, being repeatedly gay-bashed, beaten with hockey sticks in PE and called names. My heart broke when he was humiliated in front of the class as the same teacher who outed me to my mother on conference night told him to "stop dancing like a stupid little gay man" during one of his more cheerful moments. Others were smarter, more discreet. It wasn't until after high school, thanks to Facebook and MySpace, when you found out who was truly gay, because everyone else knew coming out in that environment could drive you to your death.

My senior year, I began the tentative process of coming out to friends and a few family members that I thought would be supportive. The reactions were mixed. Writing letters because I was fearful of facing the rejection head on, some were surprisingly supportive, even getting angry at my assumption that my sexuality would change anything between us. Others were hostile and refused to speak to me again. Many said they would pray for me, as though I had some horrible disease only divine intervention could resolve. Being that I was so close to leaving high school, I wasn't so concerned about losing some friends, but still hurt by the ones who left, wondering if I should have said anything at all, if I should have waited a few more years for maturity to set in (two weeks ago, I ran into the girl who had mocked me to her friends; she hugged me and chatted me up like an old friend).

But there's nothing that says coming out after high school is coming out safely. Obviously, as demonstrated by Tyler, college isn't safe either, nor is anything after that. Many I've known have lost jobs, lost friends, been asked to leave their churches, been asked to leave their personal lives out of the office, and worst of all, lost family over their sexuality. I still don't come out to people until I gauge their viewpoints on homosexuality (the Prop 8 issue makes this a lot easier). I still haven't come out to many family members for fear of rejection (though I'm aware of the risk of writing this online, I kind of want to just get it over with). And, in working at a therapeutic treatment facility with predominantly Christian people who don't hide their devotion to their faith, I live with the fear of being found out, not knowing what their reactions would be or if I would be asked to leave (this anxiety has especially increased since I accidentally sent a link of this blog to one of my co-workers, praying she didn't see it).

The anti-gay plague affecting today's youth is growing stronger. Despite my earlier blog that today's generation is more open-minded, there are still many who are tainted by their parents, tainted by their religions, who are raised to be hateful, teachings that they can't rise above, as evidenced by the four** GLBT suicides this month. Even in death, anti-gay comments have been left on Tyler's memorial pages. And our government is not helping issues. While some states have taken the positive steps to validate the existence of the GLBT community in legalizing marriage and gay adoption, many other states are fighting marriage, Congress can't agree on DADT and continue to fail with the Employment Non-Discrimination Act. What are we showing our kids? As my favorite lesbian blogger, Ms. Snarker tweeted, "when a government says it's OK to discriminate, youth thinks it's OK to hate".

These tragedies need to stop. This hate needs to stop. There's no reason for 13 yr olds to be hanging themselves, no reason for people to have to choose between living in fear or living a lie. To those hurting now, I can say from experience, it gets better. It's not perfect, but you can choose to live the life you're given and find the light through the darkness, or you can bury yourself in it. I was given a second chance and I'm grateful for it every single day. I still face rejection, I still face loss, but I still have enough love in my life to get me through. I hope you can find it too.

Much love and thanks to the family and friends who never left.

If you or someone you know is struggling with homosexuality, there is hope. Visit: It Gets Better on YouTube, or call 1-866-4-U-Trevor for a suicide hotline at The Trevor Project.

**UPDATE: The day after the publication of this blog, a fifth GLBT college student, Raymond Chase committed suicide...condolences, thoughts, prayers, love to the families of all the victims.