Hopefully won't end up in police custody like she did, tho.

I talked with my therapist recently about ‘the rest’ of transitioning. I don’t mean The Surgery, although that’s something which is still on my mind, I mean moving from actively transitioning – changing my name, going on hormones, fretting about levels, watching my boobs grow, constant hair removal – to simply living as a woman. (As if living were ever simple, for anyone.)

More specifically, I said I’d been having trouble getting motivated lately. Sure, I could spend extra time doing my makeup, extra energy wearing a skirt, extra effort walking in heels. But I’m never going to look like Mexico’s beauty queen over on the right (using her as an example simply because she came up when I did a Google Image Search for ‘beauty’) so why not just throw on jeans and a t-shirt?

Laura, my therapist, smiled and said that’s part of what being a woman is all about.

Except I’ve become very used to the idea of transition as moving toward something: getting hair removed, growing breasts, buying a new wardrobe. The idea that I’ve arrived (or am close to arriving) at status quo, at whatever ‘normal’ is going to be for me for the foreseeable future, is battling it out with internalized transphobia and, more simply, internalized desire for the unobtainable female ideal.

On good days, I’m able to remind myself that I’m not only attractive “for a trans woman” (whatever that loaded statement means) but simply attractive as a woman. Touring this summer demonstrated that; it may not be that all the girls wanted me, but enough did to be a boost to my confidence.

On bad days, however, I feel stuck. As if I’ve reached my asymptotic height. And while convincing myself that transitioning was possible has helped keep me sane for so many years, I now need to put the breaks on that line of thinking: there is a limit to how I’ll look, determined by genetics and biology. I’m never going to be 5’6″ and 120 lbs, or have a 36-26-36 figure.

But that’s OK. I’m working on it being OK.

The rest of the trip was as enjoyable as the first chunk. I got to see more shows (some good, some less so, but all fun) handed out a shit ton of postcards (probably around 2,000), and was the highest selling show in my venue, Loft 122, meaning I won the coveted Kansas City Fringe Festival Hangover Award and received a bonus performance on the final Sunday of the festival. Woo! Being in Kansas City reminded me how much I like performing and how much I particularly enjoy the festival atmosphere: lots of friendly people, tons of things always going on, built-in socialization opportunities, and a very finite list of tasks to accomplish.

I’ve been thinking about that since I got back to Chicago and my stress level went back up. Being in Kansas City meant I didn’t need to worry about everything, just a very specific thing: getting people to see the show. And I really only had one tool to do that: going out and talking to people while handing out postcards. So I didn’t need to think about contacting colleges to perform, festivals to perform, researching grants, thinking about my next show, thinking about Kickstarter fundraising, and on and on and on.

I’m trying to recapture that while back home, to give myself a finite list of tasks. Say, contact ten colleges by the end of the week, three festivals, find one grant, and so on. Make things I can reasonably check off my list, instead of just feeling like I need to do everything all at once.

Being in Kansas City (and DC back in March) has also awakened some wanderlust in me. And I’ve begun researching grad school. Eeek!

Right now I’m thinking about perusing a masters in gender studies. I think a masters, because that seems more do-able than a PhD, and in gender studies because I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. Let me explain. I’m really enjoying performing, but I could see myself wanting to move to activism or teaching or (dear lord protect me) law. On the other hand, I can pretty confidently say I want to continue to work with issues surrounding gender and sexuality. So gender studies seems like a good way to feed what I’m doing now while also allowing my future possibilities to remain open.

A part of the grad school draw, though, is definitely the excitement about getting out of Chicago. I love Chicago, I really do. Literally everything except the winters: the architecture, the theater scene, the culture, the vibe, the lakefront, the bike-ability, everything. But I’ve also really liked the ability to newly define myself when going to DC or KC (and presumably next week when I go do Indy). I feel like I get a new stab at saying who I am, one that isn’t muddied by 26 years of living in the same city. Likewise, I think an academic environment would have some structure for meeting people that I don’t feel in Chicago.

That isn’t the only reason I’m looking at grad school, but I think it’s a good one to consider along with all the others.

More to come!

My mom’s logic is hard to refute: even though the gas millage isn’t quite as good on the Forester, it can hold more, is newer, has less millage, and rides more smoothly. At the same time, I like my Corolla. I want to drive my car to Kansas City and back (and then to Indy and back). Not her car.

If it were just that, I’d probably take my car. But I’m every-so-slightly worried about my car being covered in COEXIST bumper stickers, in Civil Marriage is a Civil Right, in Howard Brown (hearts) Lesbians, in labor rights and equal rights and gay rights stickers all across the back bumper, the trunk, and curving around the sides of the car. (I like bumper stickers. So sue me.)

I’ve never been to Kansas City, and don’t know the neighborhood in which I’ll be performing or staying. And I’m slightly nervous about leaving my car out on the street, with out of state plates and covered in ‘look at me!’ stickers.

I emailed the woman I’m staying with:

Concerning my car, it’s kiinnnnndaa covered in bumper stickers about union rights, gay marriage, all that jazz. Do you think that’d be cool in your neighborhood, or should I borrow a friend’s car?

And her reply:

Well, shoot, if you have your own car, you’ll be totally safe. We are inner city, but we are in a pretty safe area as long as you’re not wandering around on foot by yourself at night. I walk around my hood by myself regularly (during the day) and unless you have a phoebia of black people, then you’ll be fine.

That definitely reassures me some, but not 100%.

My current plan is to, first and foremost, see what my mechanic says when I take the car in later this week for an oil change. If he says “Um, driving 1,000+ miles round trip in a few weeks, and then another 500+ round trip in August, is a bad idea,” then I’ll probably just take my mom’s. If he says “Go for it,” I think I want to do some more research on the KC neighborhood in which I’ll be staying, and maybe some Google Street View stalking of the area.

But it is moments like this when I question exactly how far on my sleeve I’ve chosen to wear my heart. And I really don’t like that feeling of doubt or second guessing.

PS – Sorry for the very uncreative post title… Can’t have ‘em all be winners.

Friday night I went to Backlot Bash, a mini music fest in my neighborhood behind a local gym. (Hence the ‘backlot’ part.) My neighborhood, Andersonville, is pretty lesbian-y, and Backlot Bash is specifically women-focused. A friend of mine was very excited about the Friday musicians, as they were all acoustic, so we had dinner together and went over. She made yummy vegan pad thai, which was a new culinary experience for me, but much fun.

Backlot Bash was pretty perfect for a Friday night. Saturday and Sunday are usually pretty crazy, but Friday was lots of folks in lawn chairs, good lesbian acoustic rock and folk, and really excellent people watching. It also ended around 10, which was good since I wanted to get as much sleep as possible to prep for Pride. But I definitely want to look up the musicians who played – Katie Quick, Katie Todd, Edie Carey, and Catie Curtis – as they were all excellent.

On Saturday I had brunch with a friend who is going out of town for the next month to work at a sleep-away camp. It was nice to see her before she left, and a good little ‘goodbye.’

Then some friends and I trooped down to South Shore for Dyke March.

A little history. The first Pride Parades were held in 1970 to memorialize the Stonewall Riots and highlight both the actual existence of gay folks and gay rights issues. There were names like Chicago Gay Liberation, the Gay Activists Alliance, and Gay Freedom Marchers. But as time went on the events became more and more gay focused (as opposed to lesbian/gay/bi/trans/queer/intersex/etc) and more celebratory, and less activism-y.

And so, in May of 1981, the first Dyke March, with the goal of being more activism-y and more inclusive. (And less of a straight-up party.) In cities like Chicago this is particularly great, as  the Pride Parade is only minimally about activism and much more about beads, stickers, LOUD music, and scantily glad dancers. And those are all great, but there should also be a venue for activism.

A nifty thing about the Chicago Dyke March is that it moves every two years. It used to be in my neighborhood, Andersonville (although before I lived there) but community members and organizers realized that maybe the march should go somewhere that didn’t already have a strong queer community. So it’s been in Pilsen (predominantly Latino neighborhood) and this was the second of two years for it to be in South Shore, a South Side black neighborhood. I totally agree with this organizational choice, even though I selfishly hope they chose somewhere closer next year.

So I went to Dyke March with a few friends. We parked and got some water from a local Walgreens, and marched along with maybe 500 people along a main thorough-fair and to a nearby park. I have pics which I’ll post later, but it was a fun event. Great to see cars slow down in support (mostly in support, anyway) and to be with so many queers and allies who were there for activism as opposed to being there for a giant party.

The march ended at a nearby park for a rally, which was a very nice and emotionally satisfying picnic-y end. There were BBQs set up with for-donation food, folks handing out flyers for events and organizations (including me pushing Early to Bed with stickers saying ‘Some like it twat’) and difficult-to-hear speakers on a too-small sound system.

I also got in trouble for being topless, and then un-in-trouble. I’ll post about that soon, but no worries – someone overstepped their bounds reprimanding me, and organizers made a point of checking in with me to ensure I felt safe. (Which I did!)

Saturday night I went to the pride show of Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind, an amazing Chicago theatrical institution. (That I’ve auditioned for, was called back for, and didn’t get into, but still love.) It was a really fun time, with lots of nudity, Pride ridiculousness, and a good mix of celebration, silliness, and solemnity. Huzzah!

Because I’d been called back to the Neos auditions, I was invited to march with them at Pride, which was exceptionally sweet of them. I took ‘em up on the offer, so Sunday morning filled my Camelback with water, slathered on lots of sunscreen, and hopped on the bus to Boystown.

The adventure started on the bus, as it was rerouted due tot he parade. The reroute actually helped me, but left lots of people to walk a long distance on foot. I finally made it to the staging site for the parade, and wandered until some Neo folks saw my Too Much Light t-shirt and called me over. To wait for the jeep (our ‘parade float,’ which was running late.) We chilled, chatted, and watched the sights as people began to filter in.

One of the things I love about Pride, which I was reminded of over and over throughout the day, was the range of gender expressions on display. It was really wonderful to see people of all physicalities expressing themselves from extremely masculine or butch to extremely feminine, and everything in between.

The jeep showed up with supplies, and we got to work decorating. “Supplies’ including a sound system, lots of blow-up dolls, tons of streamers, and decorations for the hubcaps and such. We also made a classic Too Much Light style clothesline with numbers 1-30. (Really, you need to see this show. I’d be happy to go with you!) Likewise, we filled out tons of name tags (another Too Much Light staple) with sexually suggestive and silly names.

It was during decorations that I went from t-shirt to bra, and from bra to name tag stickers over my boobs. Ahh, pride! Incredibly, I was successful in sun-blocking myself, so only got a tiny bit red on my shoulders. Go me!

The parade was supposed to start at noon, but since we were far back we all knew we wouldn’t get going until around 1. And then 1:30. Then 2. Then 2:30. We got started around three. But we were cruising down Halsted, waving and handing out buttons and stickers, having a blast. Someone in our group was in a Big Bird costume, another was biking in a princess outfit, and a few (including me) were scantily clad. Then we hit Clark, and were turned onto an ‘alternate route.’

Apparently due to crowds, the police redirected about 40 floats down Clark and off the official parade route. Instead of about 3 miles, up Belmont and back down Broadway, we walked maybe a mile in total. Boo! This was a particular pisser since, marching with a non-profit, I totally think we were much more deserving than Office Depot or the half-dozen moving companies that marched much earlier in the parade than we did. I’ve talked to about a half-dozen friends who were watching the parade but – whoops! – didn’t get to see me marching because we missed most of the fucking parade.

I sympathize with the problem that 750,000 people can bring. I really do. But it’s pride. They knew how crowded it was going to be. (They didn’t, admittedly, know a bunch of floats’ tires would get slashed. That was bogus, and not the City’s fault.) Chatting with other queer folks at and after the parade, we discussed how it was particularly frustrating since so many people were clearly not LGBTQ, or even really allies, and had simply come to gawk. Pride is absolutely supposed to be a celebration, but – having not been in a few years – I forgot how it’s not really ‘our’ celebration.

I don’t know what the city can do, though. I wish there were a way to be, like, “Are you going to Pride because you really care, or just cuz you want to get free stickers and maybe see some boobs?”

I’m still glad I went, even though it was exhausting and somewhat frustrating. I got to meet (and become closer with) a bunch of awesome people. I went to the 7PM Too Much Light show after Pride and then to grab a bite to eat with folks, and was kind of in queer artist heaven. (This statement will be doubly embarrassing  if any of the people I hung out with read this blog.) And then, while walking along Clark, someone came up to me and said “Oh my god, I saw you perform at Fringe! You’re amazing!”

A nice confidence booster, and an awesome way to end Pride weekend.

One of the things I’ve said, which I’ve discussed here before, was my frustration at still feeling lousy. That is, I’m doing what I want to be doing: transition(ing/ed), performing, writing, freelancing, dating. In another way, I’m doing all the right adult things: getting my teeth cleaned, paying my bills, shopping for groceries, and so on. So if I’m doing everything ‘right,’ why do I still feel like shit? Why do I still want to hurt myself?

In response, my doc talked a lot about how we ingrain our behaviors and – ultimately – write certain paths in our brain. When I was younger, wanting to hurt myself as an escape was entirely legit. (Wow, it was awesome to have a medical professional validate that.) I couldn’t transition, felt like I couldn’t come out, was developing in ways that were absolutely wrong for me, and felt very trapped in many ways. In that situation, the escape of self-harm (which I fortunately did avoid) is a release valve when everything else is stuck.

But now, everything else isn’t stuck. But my brain is still trained to go straight for that release valve.

Dr. Cook talked a lot about What The (Bleep) Do We Know?, a movie which apparently discusses this idea a lot. That, in our behaviors, we not only develop habits but actually strengthen certain connections and physiological paths in the brain. That makes sense to me as a performer and as a pianist, because I know how doing something a certain way over and over absolutely – and seemingly magically – causes connections to strengthen. And, suddenly, you know your lines. Or the fingering for a specific song.

But what Dr. Cook argued (and, apparently, the movie argues as well) is that these paths aren’t only created for lines from a script or notes from a song. That every behavior builds up or breaks down these mental and neurological paths. Until you reach the point where, even though there’s no longer an external need to be so anxious or depressed or inflict self-harm, the internal path still exists: slight amount of stress equals MASSIVELY DISPROPORTIONATE negative mental response.

And so, I keep  walking over the same well-worn dirt path, reinforcing the very real neurological consequences.

The question, then, is how the hell to get off the dirt path. Dr. Cook said the What the (Bleep) Do We Know? has some good visualizations, but also just to think about going back to those assignments. To internally use positive ‘I’ statements following praise, or even just when feeling down. To acknowledge successes before failures. Dr. Cook admitted this all sounds a little touchy-feely, and that upping my antidepressants is still a backup option. But he said, and I agree, that it’s much better to retrain the brain to do the work itself than simply give it the chemicals that’ll do the work for you.

So here we go!

(And in that vein, I’m proud I wrote this blog post today, instead of procrastinating.)

One of the things my (awesome) doctor mentioned was the fact I’m really hard on myself. (No shocker there.) And that I don’t easily accept compliments. (Also, something I knew.) But he extracted some history from those ideas in a way that hadn’t occurred to me. One of the big things he said, which I’ve thought about before but never quite this explicit way, is I’ve trained myself to dismiss compliments because for so long they were at least partially false: “Oh, you’re handsome,” “You’re such a strong boy,” whatever. But I’ve trained myself to not only to dismiss compliments, but to feel that they were lies because the person giving the compliment couldn’t possibly see the ‘real’ me. Well, now that I’ve transitioned, that’s no longer true. So I need to unlearn that. Most of the tactics we discussed deal, at their core, with being nicer to myself and more open to accepting positive energy both from myself and from others.

The first assignment I was given was to think about what we called ‘internalized authenticity.’ That is, to really believe compliments. Not just accept them out of hand, or brush them off, but really internalize them. And to go a step further. When complimented, I’m now supposed to pause, restate the compliment in my head using an ‘I statement,’ and then respond.

This has been really hard, even just this past weekend, but also really rewarding. I still don’t always believe the compliments I’m given, but there’s something really powerful of stopping to say “I’m a good teacher” after a co-teacher compliments me or “I look cute in this top” after a friend does so.

The second assignment was asking friends for help. I’ve done this before in a ‘hey, be on the lookout for unhealthy behavior’ kind of way, but not in a ‘I think really poorly of myself’ kind of way. So I sent some of my closest friends this email:

I’ve talked to some of you about this, though not all of you, but I wanted to give you a heads up that I’m having a really hard time right now with a lot of things. I’m working on getting myself in a better headspace, both with my therapist, my doctor, and by simply trying to take care of myself.

To that end, I actually have a doctor-mandated touchy-feely assignment.

I don’t take compliments well. I have trouble believing them. I’m really hard on myself, and even when I think I should be proud of something I doubt and deny and say “Well, you should have done XYZ better.” But this email is going out to folks I trust, and folks I care about. My assignment from my doctor (not my therapist, my honest-to-god-doctor) is to ask for compliments. They don’t need to be big, but they do need to be real. That is, no cheating and saying you love my hair. We all love my hair – that’s an easy one. I more mean things you think are good about me, things that make me a valuable person, things that make me a worthwhile friend, artist, individual.

I don’t know what to expect from this, other than I’m really stressing about doing this…. As I said, asking for help and asking for compliments are two things I’m really bad at. But I’m hoping that y’all can help beat it into my head that my glass is, in fact, half full, and not as empty as it sometimes feels.

With much love,

-Rebecca

This has also been really hard, but incredibly rewarding. (Particularly coupled with assignment number one, where I have to repeat these compliments I’m getting!) I know, intellectually, that the folks in my life care about me and think highly about me. Often think higher of me than I think of myself. But with their help I am, in fact, beating it into my brain that maybe I am a pretty awesome person.

The final assignment, and the one that still makes me laugh (though I’ve avoided working on it thus far) is by 9AM tomorrow (Monday) morning, I’m supposed to email my doctor a list of things I like about myself/value about myself. Things I’m good at, proud of, whatever. This was, quite literally, the instruction from my medical doctor instead of an increase of anti-depressants.

Have I mentioned how much I like this doctor? Cuz I do. A lot.

I’m scared of this, and am putting it off until tonight when I have some downtime. This is maybe the thing I’m worst at: positive self-examination. I’m great at critical self-examination. (Hey, maybe I’ll put that on the list!) But examining myself and finding things that aren’t only ‘good enough,’ but GREAT is tough.

But I’m going to do it anyway. Maybe I’ll post the list here when I’m done.

So those are my tactics to fight The Dark Places. I’d love to hear thoughts on them, or any additional suggestions. That said, I’m feeling pretty tender right now so please don’t find ways to poke these assignments full of holes. They’re touchy-feely, yes, but they’re also helping me right now.

I’m always hesitant to post here when I’m having a hard time. It’s a few things. First, this is (obviously) a public forum. I don’t hide my ‘real’ identity. So there’s some reluctance to have friends I maybe haven’t talked to in a while say “Why am I hearing about this from your blog and not directly from you?” That hasn’t happened often, but once burnt twice shy. I also keep bumping into this weird public/private persona. I don’t make a conscious effort to distinguish between the two, but there is a distinction: there’s stuff about sex and relationships and emotions that I haven’t posted on this blog, or that won’t make it into shows I do. But I also feel this awkward need to justify my hard times, to say “I’m feeling shitty….but I know there are people worse off, so I can’t allow myself to feel shitty.” I think this is particularly tricky in minority communities (at least, it feels that way in the trans community) because if I say “I feel ugly” or “I feel masculine” or “I feel alone” there are lots of folks able to say “You’re not as ______ as me!”

But I still have those feelings.

This post is an effort to not justify or explain or couch my emotions. This post is simply an expression of them. Comments like “Well, you don’t have it that bad, look at XYZ” will not be appreciated, and may be deleted. I think I’m a damn generous moderator, but right now I just need some expression of self pitty and hardship.

With all that friggin discilaimering out of the way, lets get to it.

Being trans is hard.

It’s hard and it’s scary and it’s expensive. I went into researching surgery thinking ‘oh, a research project. I’ll make a spreadsheet.” (Which, indeed, I did. I’ll share it when there’s more info.) But I hadn’t realized how difficult the research would be, to think about tens of thousands of dollars I don’t have, surgery I don’t “want” so much as want done. (In the way that you want an ice cream cone, but you want to have had your teeth cleaned; I want the results, not the process.) And there’s this cultural expectation, which I think is fading with younger trans folks, that The Surgery is supposed to be unquestioned and unvarnished and pure. That you’re not supposed to be fucking terrified of having your sensitive genitals cut into, rearranged. That you probably didn’t use your cock too much in sex anyway, so the possible loss of orgasm isn’t a big deal.

And I don’t like my cock that much. But I really love to cum. The posibility – even the slim possibility – of losing that? REALLY SCARY!

But it feels ‘wrong’ to say ”Sometimes being trans fucking sucks. I don’t want to have to explain my body to sexual partners, I want to just wear my yoga pants to the gym without a stupid pair of exercise shorts so I don’t ‘show,’ I don’t want to research doctors or take pills or worry about legal protection or the fact I was fucking fired, I just don’t.”

On top of which, I’ve been thinking about self-injury again. I’m working with my therapist and doctor to get mental health help and meds (actually have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon to adjust meds) and I do have a support system, but still. I’m self-aware enough to know that thinking about self injury is a bad thing. I think trying to help a friend dealing with self injury a few months ago kind of backfired for me, cuz I’m now thinking about the self injury descriptions - that self injury is something folks do in part to physicalise emotional pain – and thinking “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea! I’m in pain emotionally, but wouldn’t it be better to focus it onto my body?”

I even have a plan, which I know is a Bad Thing In The Stages Of Self Harm. Of where I’d get the razors, where I’d cut on my flesh, how I’d hide it and not leave scars noticeable if I were wearing a shirt. The desire to feel physical pain instead of constant emotional pain.

I realized this week that a big part of the reason I always need the TV on, a book at my side, a podcast on my phone, is so I don’t have even a second to stop and think. It extends to the point where I only want to prepare food or do chores while listening to music or podcasts or watching TV, because once the wheels of my brain start turning they go to a dark place. Hence, in large part, my trouble getting to sleep. I don’t want to spend time alone with myself, so I do everything I can do avoid it.

I’m also feeling ironically and paradoxically alone. I have such a huge, supportive group of friends and family, but a limited group of queer friends, friends who ‘get’ the whole trans experience.

So what am I doing to work on all this? Well, I’m seeing my therapist and scheduled a short-notice appointment with my doctor, both of whom gave me great advice. I wrote the bulk of this post a few days ago, and have some strategies I’ve put in place since then. I’m still thinking of self harm, but not as strongly and the strategies (which I’ll expand in my next post) are helping. But it feels really good to get this out, without apologizing for feeling like shit, and just acknowledging that I do.

Self Loathing: Biking along Chicago’s lakefront, comparing myself to every beautiful woman I see, never feeling slim enough, curvy enough, busty enough, pretty enough.

Self Loving: Switching to a new (closer, more responsive) doctor to try and adjust my antidepressants to something more effective.

Self Loathing: Rushing into the switch (through my own laziness, not the doctor’s fault) and dropping hormone and antidepressant dosages way to fast. Panic attacks. Anxiety. Dizziness. Thoughts of self-harm.

Self Loving: Going to bed at midnight instead of two, three, four AM.

Self Loathing: Tossing and turning in bed, checking email, reading websites, IMing with friends until two, three, four AM.

Self Loving: Getting off my butt to apply for jobs, work on my show, apply for grants.

Self Loathing: Starting to apply for jobs, work on my show, apply for grants and then get overwhelmed and dizzy and lie on the couch until it goes away. Except it doesn’t, because the stress is still there.

I’m not in a great place right now. I’m seeing my doctor tomorrow, so hopefully we’ll be able to address my feeling shitty both physically and emotionally. I’m feeling like I did two years ago when I wasn’t eating enough out of stress, except I’ve been really carefully making sure I am eating enough. And the dizziness and nausea is coupled with mini-panic attacks.

I say ‘mini’ because I’ve had good ole-fashion panic attacks. Not for about a decade, fortunately, so I’m trying to focus on that as a positive rather than the ones I am experiencing as a negative. But having to pull over while biking, gasping for air and trying not to cry, still isn’t a good thing. Almost turning back from going to the bus to see a friend’s show. Feeling unable to go to a BBQ tonight.

I’m keeping it together as much as I can. I see my doctor tomorrow, so hopefully that’ll help, and my therapist on Wednesday, so I’m attacking this from both a medical and mental health angle. And my head is enough above water that I’ve been able to push down and ride out the bouts of major negativity: thinking about self harm has not turned into self harm. I can still pull myself back from a downward spiral of hating my body and hating myself.

Fingers crossed.

What made Nineteen Minutes such a hard read for me, though, was the portrayal and discussion of bullying. Peter Houghton, the shooter, was bullied since his first day of school. Was a sensitive and not particularly athletic child. Was a gamer and a computer programmer, dabbling in making his own videogames. A loner. Unpopular and massively teased as a result. Suicidal. And, ultimately, homicidal. Was, as I’ve thought about a lot, someone I could see myself having become in different circumstances. Someone I still sometimes – unreasonably, I admit – worry I am.By the light of day – and not, say, at 3AM when I finished Nineteen Minutes – I feel silly saying I worry about being unpopular, uncool, teased. I’m (hopefully!) on the road to artistic success. My family loves me. My friends are willing to take me to the hospital at 4AM, and visit me when I stay there for a week. (Ahh, gallbladders…) By any objective measure, I don’t need to worry about being ‘that kid,’ who everyone picks on at the back of the bus.

But I can’t help but feel I only missed that outcome by a narrow twist of fate. In middle school, I was the smart, quite, overly-sensitive weird kid who was teased and picked on. Who made weird jokes. Who fantasized about suicide and homicide. I was home sick from seventh (eighth?) grade when Columbine hit the news, and I remember thinking, “Yeah, I could understand how someone could be driven to that.”

So it’s sometimes a struggle to remind myself that I did escape. Socially, I have lots of people who care about me, and few if any people in my life who are willing to tease me to my face. Physically, I’m not exactly an all-star athlete, but I work out, take circus classes, objectively know I’m in better shape than I sometimes subjectively feel.

I’m not fourteen anymore. I don’t need to take the bus to school. No one else gets to decide who I am.

O, Canada...

I had a conversation tonight with my dad about the TSA, and it got me thinking about these United States: About discrimination, harassment, violence, brutality. Specifically, at what point are things ‘bad enough’ to leave?

I’m going to admit my understanding of any other country (particularly, say, the one directly north of the United States) comes from popular culture and a one-week trip I made to Vancouver a few years ago. I’m not seriously thinking about leaving the US for more northerly climes.

But what would it take?

My country is telling me I don’t deserve health care, my tax dollars should spent on war, my identity isn’t worth respecting, my rights aren’t worth respecting… What would it take?

There’s a big part of me that feels sad even considering this question. That thinks, “Hey, America is my country and – if there are things I don’t like – I should fight to change it for the better.” But there’s another party that can’t help wondering whether I should just pick up and go…