Things That Make Me Cry
Wednesday, December 10, 2008

I'm actually a soft-touch when it comes to weeping. Sappy movies, empathy for others -- but in my day-to-day life, I don't get teary that often.

Tonight was an exception. There's nothing huge and tragic going on for me, just a lot, lot, lot of little things, but I'm feeling discouraged and down tonight, which is very unusual for me.

I think part of it is a series of gear-ups and let-downs that I've experienced recently. I really needed a webcam for a project that I'm working on, and I worked out this perfect trade with someone who had a great cam to trade me for something they wanted as badly as I wanted that camera. It arrived in the mail today, and I was all excited like a little kid -- but it doesn't work on my 'puter -- not without significant fussing, and expense. I just felt like someone had pulled the wind out of my sails.

Now this event, by itself, wouldn't have done that. But honest to fuck, the last couple of months have been challenging -- not in a death and dying, or broken bones/spilled blood way -- a printer that died (got another one from a friend, and it, too, doesn't want to work -- techno-HELL!), a huge slow-down in my work, concerns about my mom's health (that thankfully, turned out to be a false alarm), bills piling up, my Beloved and I talking about whether we can afford to keep living here, the beloved elder cat who is struggling with her health right now, and my own internal wonderings about what constitutes "right action" for me in all of it.

I've kept my chin up, really, through this and more -- every day, there is far more good than bad, and I've honestly felt that -- savored it -- felt rich in a time when money is thin because I am truly blessed in so many other ways. I'm a genuinely optimistic and upbeat person, and I've seen far, far worse times than this. Generally, I consider these inconveniences and challenges with equanimity -- but tonight -- I don't know -- tonight I am just feeling like my stuffings got knocked out.

It's such an unusual state at this point in my life that I'm not even particularly resistant to it -- it's new and unfamiliar in some way, and I'm just observing it and the inertia it seems to be breeding in me right at this moment.

Maybe it's because it was my "day off", and I was looking forward to R&R, and playing with the new camera that was supposed to (and did) arrive today. Instead, I ended up fussing, and googling, and trying to find workarounds, and freezing up my computer, and going to two stores to see if they had a part, and thinking that even if they did, I really shouldn't spend money on it, but the camera could be a source of income-production, so maybe I should spend money on it, and I was feeling so hopeful and upbeat and excited about it before all this happened -- and -- as I was driving away from the second store (that didn't have the part I probably shouldn't be spending money on anyway) on the way home, I just started bawling.

That's really unusual. It was that kind of sad, disappointed kid crying -- but I knew it wasn't just about the camera -- that was just the excuse for the release. It was a tired sort of weepy crying that says to me that I'm tuckered out.

It's not just the stuff in my personal realm, either, I don't think. I tend to believe in that stuff about "If you do what you came to do, the Universe will support you" -- so I think I'm having deep questions about what seem like frequent obstacles and tepid support recently -- questions about whether it's all a message that I need to be doing something -- or many things -- different/differently.

There's also the fact that I personally know people who are dealing with far, far more difficult things than I, so I feel a little weird and give myself a hard time that this shit is getting to me. Then I think, "Well, maybe I'm releasing for others who don't feel as comfortable releasing".

I honestly don't know. I just know that when I sat down to blog tonight, with all these ideas about what I might write, I found myself sitting there, staring at the computer, and needing to express this -- just to get it out there and out of my way, I suppose -- to clear the thing that's clogging the pipes.

So this is a post with little cohesion or direction -- just an expression -- like my tears in the car.
=========================

OK. I wrote that part so that you could see the kind of process that I go through every fucking year around this time.

You see -- around 49 years ago, I had a very bad thing happen to me at this time of year. I won't go into the details, because I'm not at all sure that they're important anymore -- suffice it to say that when people hear the full story, they always seem to look a little haunted afterward -- as I once was.

I spent years in therapy healing the wounds that resulted from that time of my life, and am now remarkably whole, considering my history. This time of year used to be a crushing weight for me -- a time of fear and depression and despair. For years, before I had any clear memory of what had happened to me, this crushing weight came down anyway, in the weeks before Christmas, and I spun like a top in a maelstrom of emotion.

After I remembered and began dealing with my past, the storm continued to descend annually, but at least I had some idea of what was going on for me. My understanding didn't mitigate the difficulty of this season, but it did at least give me some way to deal with it.

I stopped thinking of myself as just a neurotic mess and began thinking of myself as someone who was having a response. That didn't take away the fear, or erase the depression, or dissolve the despair, but at least I could grab onto my newfound intellectual understanding as some kind of anchor as I tossed and turned and whipped around and wailed.

For six-seven years of my life, healing was pretty much all that I did -- and slowly, slowly, I did heal.

Now, mid-December approaches me and I do not shrivel up and crawl into a corner.

In fact, it's gotten to the place now that, like tonight, I forget that I might be responding to something much deeper than the surface, physical events that are happening in my life -- that I may be experiencing an echo of something that, while mostly healed, still presents patches of scar-tissue in my psyche.

I forget, and an unexpected crying jag overtakes me in the car, and for a minute or two (or a half hour, or sometimes even an hour or two), I am very mean to myself about what a big baby I'm being -- and then -- I remember.

I remember that I am not a wimpy whiner who can't handle disappointment, but rather, a miraculous testament to the perseverance of the human spirit.

I remember that it's a miracle that I survived my childhood, let alone those years and years and years of confused anguish.

I remember that it's a miracle that I made it through the six years of constant examination of incredibly difficult material, and the inching advance toward wholeness.

I remember that it's a miracle that I am a basically optimistic, and that 99.9% of the time, I believe in the potential, goodness, and worth of human beings -- because the things that I survived might have just as easily turned me into a very justified cynic.

I remember that I am a miracle.

================
There is this particular sensation I get at very specific times -- not whenever I cry, but whenever I cry in this particular way. It comes when I watch movies that are very sad in a certain way -- usually about human beings being unjust to one another, or yearning in vain for real connection with one another. It's that heart-breaking stuff that gives rise to this sensation.

Anyway, when I cry in that particular way, from that particular stimulus, I often get this very distinct sensation in the side of the tip of my left index finger. It's always in exactly the same spot, and it's like a sharp pinchy ache. I can feel it as I start to tear up, and the more I try to suppress tearing up, the more it aches until I cry.

It was so consistent and so peculiar that I looked it up on an acupuncture chart -- the spot that hurts is precisely on the Large Instestine Meridian (LI1) -- and in some disciplines, the "negative" aspect of that meridian is associated with the concept of guilt. The affirmative emotion suggested for its healing is "I am inherently pure and good. I am worthy to be loved."

Tonight, as I started this post, still crying, and listening to little assholey arguers in my head like: "Well why in the world would you post that? What earthly good will that do? Why do you think these people would even care about you?" -- I kept crying, and I could feel that spot in my finger aching. I can feel it now.

Much of the healing that I've done has been about learning to stop thinking that what happened to me was my fault. It's weird to me, at an intellectual level, that I could think that -- I was three years old when it happened -- but there were once large parts of myself that thought that.

Those voices are dimmer now, and I don't give them much weight anymore, but I think that they are my last bit of healing to do -- the voices in my own head that discount my experience, and denigrate my own strength -- the voices that tell me I'm a cry-baby, or weak, or whining. I think the stingy ache in my finger is stimulated by that inhumanity that I harbor in my own head toward myself.

I will go gently with myself in these coming weeks. I'll let myself cry when I want and need to. I'll give myself permission to let myself off the hook when the little stuff seems overwhelming. I'll open my heart and embrace the miracle that I can open my heart.

I'm sharing this with you in case you're struggling with this season -- or in case you struggle with any season -- so that you can remember that you are a miracle, too.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 10:00 PM 8 comments  

Labels: True Stories, Very Personal Details

20 Years
Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Today is the 20th anniversary of my being self-employed.

Twenty years ago today, I drove to my last pay-check job, had a head-on collision which totaled my lover's station wagon (but from which I walked away unscathed), and that was just the start of the day that ended my previous 15 years of wage-slavery.

I took my first "real" job when I was 17 (I'm not counting baby-sitting and other odd-job work that I did as a kid). In 1973 I was a Camp Counselor. Between then and April 1, 1988, I was paid money to hold the following positions:

• Camp Counselor
  
• Education Theater Company Performer
• Meat Packing Plant Weinie Packer (no shit)
• Meat Packing Plant Bone-Room Knifer (again, no shit)
• Dolly Madison Factory Worker
  
• Professional Actress/Singer/Dancer
• Catering Company Server
• Gas Station Attendant
• Bank Over-draft Manager
• Waittress
• Punk Rock Musician
  
• Institutional Cook
• Program Manager for HUD Pilot Program

The past 20 years have held even more job descriptions, and a lot of ups and downs for me, but I must admit that there have been far more ups than downs. One of the main reasons that I opted for self-employment originally was that I wanted to have more time for myself and more time with my family. I think it's safe to say at this point that I would never, ever, go back to work for someone else. For one thing, I think they would find me an insufferable know-it-all that doesn't take direction well -- for another thing, I'd hate it.

I haven't blogged since the turn of the Equinox.

I've been busy being . . . . well . . . self-employed.

That's part of it, anyway.

The other part of it is that I've been taking a good long look at my involvement on the internet, and how it has affected my outlook on life.

I love the part where I feel connected through this incredible medium -- the part where I have a sense that the conversation I'm having with thousands of other human beings might be helping us move forward as a species -- but recently, I've had the sense that I was just having the SAME conversation, over and over, and maybe none of us were really expanding in the process. So I took a step back -- not really consciously at first . . . but one day turned into two, then two into three, and then a week had passed, and now, nearly two weeks have passed.

In truth, I'm tired of the bitching and moaning about politics which are 90% dog-and-pony-show anyway, tired of reacting to a media that doesn't deserve my attention anyway -- and, turning my attention away from these recently, I've noticed that I haven't been certain that those who read my blog would be interested in the other stuff I might have to say -- because what I've been putting my attention on lately has been profoundly based in "real" world interactions, understandings, and spiritual question and answer periods with myself.

I thought about re-appearing today with some story about how it had all been an elaborate April Fool's joke to make you think I'd fallen off the edge of the earth (or been Raptured) -- but that would have been . . . . you know . . . a big fat lie (and you probably know how I feel about lying).

I've been remembering back a while ago when Waveflux disappeared at Shakesville for a time, and reappeared with a post about needing to just take a break, take a walk, get back to things real and visceral -- and I remember thinking: "Hmm. That's probably going to be me one day."

The computer breakdown helped, I suppose. A few days high and dry without my beloved computer, and I realized that I would not, in fact, die, if I didn't read every single blog in the Universe, much less comment on them.

Then, about the time I got to posting again, there was the pile-up of work that had accumulated while the computer was down, and an Equinox celebration to have, and then . . . . well, then there was the soul-searching.

I'm back, though. Again. And to Phydeaux, I'll say -- apparently I'm not shame-proof yet.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 10:54 PM 5 comments  

Labels: True Stories, Very Personal Details

Truth Be Known
Wednesday, February 27, 2008

My recent blog hiatus started, perhaps, because of an overload in the online world: Insults, cyclic arguments, disappointments, etc..

It continued because of an all-consuming project that I'm working on.

It was then compounded by some interpersonal shit going on in the intentional community that I live in (yes, I'm that kind of dyke) that has occupied whatever consciousness was left in me.

It's nothing personal. I don't hate you or anything. In fact, I kind of miss you.

I'm currently engaged in the kind of shit that gives intentional community a bad name, but truly, my time living in intentional community has been nothing but expansive for me -- even this apparent struggle between people who want to keep on keeping their agreements, and a person who doesn't.

A lot of people blanch when I speak of living, on purpose, with other adults who are not my spouse. The very words "intentional community" can conjure up for them visions of endless meetings, constant processing, and most people associate it with a loss of personal space.

That's not been my experience. In the main.

The past few weeks have been a sticky bit, though (and not in the enjoyable "sticky bits" sense of the phrase). I've watched someone with whom I've lived for five years go from "I need to do something else," to "You're bad, and that's why I'm leaving" in the space of a few weeks.

It's not that uncommon, and truth be known, I have compassion for the individual. Leaving is hard, even when it may be the perfect thing for all involved.

In our culture, I think that we're not really trained in the fine art of ending something.

The cultural ideal of nearly everything is that, if it's good, it must continue forever. Relationships are valued mostly for their longevity, regardless of the quality of the time together. So it is that we celebrate 50th wedding anniversaries in a sense of awe and wonder, even if the couple involved has been barely tolerating one another for the past 40 years, and have only the TV remote in common.

Don't get me wrong -- I like things that last. I treasure my oldest, bestest friend of (counting on fingers) . . . . wow! 30 years!

However, I think that there are some things that are not meant to last forever, and I think most people in our culture don't know how to handle it when that becomes apparent -- so they work hard to make the "other" wrong (even if they've been with the other for years or decades), because this makes it easier to part.

I feel sad about that bit. The person who is leaving my community seems busy re-writing history, when only a few months ago, he was misting up at a community-meeting, talking about how much having community had meant to him.
I honestly don't mind that he's going. I'm just not enjoying (at the moment) how he's going.

So that's where my head has been these past few weeks. In meetings. In communications. In cleaving to my own principles while someone else acts out in what I perceive is an unprincipled way.

It's taken a lot of energy, and if you have a prayer/good thought/some energy to direct this way, I'd appreciate it.

In many ways, I see this microcosmic event in my community as reflective of much of what I'm seeing in the larger culture -- the apparent dichotomy of principles versus practicality, the seeming rift between the physical and the spiritual, and the dissonance that is created when some people wish to move toward a greater functionality and sustainability, while others want to maintain the status quo.

Lessons, lessons, who's got the lessons? I do. I'm glad to have them.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 11:10 PM 6 comments  

Labels: Blogging, Very Personal Details

Something You've Probably Done
Thursday, January 24, 2008

A warning before you read on -- this post is NSFW (not safe for work) -- if you work for anyone who is sex-phobic.

Me?

I work for myself -- and I'm not sex-phobic by any stretch of the imagination, so this post is not NSFW for me.

This post is about masturbation.

Like I said: Something you've probably done.

My astrological complex is: Gemini/Cancer Cusp, Sagittarius Moon, Scorpio Rising.

I could use that to "explain" the importance of sex in my life, but I don't think I need to. I like sex. I've always liked sex.

While there are some people who do not like sex (and by this, I mean people who genuinely do not like sex, as opposed to people who hate the idea of sex, or think that sex is dirty/bad/evil/wrong), and while I completely respect the proclivities of people who do not like sex, I think that there are many people who do like sex, but whose upbringing and cultural entrainment may have steered them away from a complete enjoyment of their own sexuality.

Hence, this post.

About masturbation.

When I was a teenager, Saturday mornings were the only real free time I had. Mon-Fri was School (or a Summer job), dinner, family/homework in the evenings, and Sundays mornings, there was Church to get up for, then more family. Thus, Saturday mornings were preferred masturbation time.

My mother thought I just liked to sleep late (yeah, as if).

As they say: "Practice makes perfect" -- so I did my level best to practice the art of self-pleasure. I also believe that my lovers benefited from my endless self-experimentation, so it's all good.

Please note the following video, and how it's "funny" because it's preposterous to us that people would be this completely frank and open about this uncomfortable subject -- "Playing in a One Man Show", "Engaging in Super-Safe Sex","Much Goo About Nothing", "Tugging the Vertical Smile", "Getting To Know Yourself" (or my personal favorite, courtesy of best-friend -- "Waving at the Pod") -- in short -- Wanking:


I've wanked in many times, spaces, and dimensions, with and without aids, alone and with others. Despite all social commentary to the contrary ("You wanker!", "What? Hole in your inflatable girlfriend again?", etc.) I think masturbation is a good thing, and I say that as a person in a completely satisfying sexual relationship with another human being.

Too often, in our culture, I think masturbation gets short shrift. It's the thing you're supposed to do only if you have no alternative ("alternative" being: sex with another human being). While making love/having great sex with another consenting human is fantastic, there are still times when some "quality time" with yourself and your genitalia can be just the thing.

It's odd to me that something that is so nearly-universal in humans is still the source of humor-through-shame.

Which is why I was glad that I found the following video clip.

When I first saw it, I was absolutely stopped in my tracks, and wondered if it could possibly be "real" -- however, I believe that most of the people on this clip are really doing what you think they're doing -- and the vulnerability of that astounded and still astounds me. This is one of the most amazing videos I've ever seen on the internet.

It's outrageously courageous, in my opinion, and I salute all the brave souls who participated.



Keep doing what you've probably done.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 11:54 PM 6 comments  

Labels: Humor, Sex, Truth, Very Personal Details, Video

The Bedlam Yarns #1: Glen Miller in the Air Vent
Friday, January 18, 2008

OR: The Magical World of Anti-depressants

(Note to mental-illness survivors who commented on my last post and said that they wanted me to write the Bedlam Yarns, but didn't know if they could read them -- of all my Bedlam Yarns, I think this one is not likely to be terribly triggering, but YMMV.)

When you're hospitalized as a crazy person, doctors have you captive, so they can prescribe drugs in ways that they would never dare if they didn't have you under constant observation (or so they told me).

Normally, when you go on anti-depressant or anti-psychotic medications, they bring you on slowly, steadily increasing your dosages. When I was in the hospital, they put me on a high dose of anti-depressant medication on my third day in. They told me this was not how they would do it if I were in the wild (not their term, but mine), and that I should report anything unusual to my psychiatrist or the nurses on duty.

Mind you, when I checked into the hospital, I was not psychotic -- just severely and suicidally depressed.

I took the pills, went to my session with my psychiatrist, and joined the other inmates for meals in the common room. The rest of the time, though, I spent in my room, journaling, drawing, staring out the window at the concrete lightwell and the grey Northwest winter.

Very cheery indeed.

About 24 hours after I began taking the medication, I noticed something strange.

This hospital was shiny-bright and perfectly temperature-regulated -- a balmy 70 degrees all day and all night, thanks to the air-vents that blew continually in every room, circulating and purifying the shared air of hundreds of "sick" people.

The vent above my bed shushed out white-noise that was at first comforting, and then, annoying.

It became especially annoying when I noticed the faintest whisper of Glen Miller big band music emanating from it.

It was slight -- so slight that at first I wasn't sure I was really hearing it -- but as the day passed, it persisted -- the tiniest suggestion of rhythmic horns and bass just below the surface of the steady "whoosh" of air.

It became a bit maddening as I strained to hear it more clearly -- I even stood on my bed to get my ear closer to the vent.

I will swear to this day that it was there --though it remained elusive and subtle, the tunes actually changed. I longed to be able to switch the air-flow off so that I could listen without the interference of the ambient noise of the blower.

An orderly came into my room that evening. He was a very sweet guy who was obviously attempting to make a real connection to the people he was working with.

He must have seen me looking perplexed, because he asked me "Is anything wrong?"

I beckoned and said: "Come here."

He came over by my bed and stood patiently, waiting for me to let him know what I needed.

"Do you hear that?" I asked.

This is the part of the story that I think is so great. This guy cocked his head like the RCA dog and really, earnestly, listened.

"The air vent?" he asked.

"Do you hear anything else coming from the air vent -- like very faint music?"

He cocked his head again and gave it his all.

"No," he finally said, shaking his head and looking sympathetic -- "I'm really sorry [Portly], I don't hear any music."

It was a very weird, and very sweet, moment. I think he was genuinely sorry that he couldn't confirm my experience.

I had only been there a couple of days -- this guy probably had no idea what, if anything, my "diagnosis" was. At the time, I wondered if maybe I was sicker than I had thought I was -- like maybe I'd been hearing music all along without knowing it.

"It's big band music," I said," like Glen Miller . . . . . Look -- I didn't come in here because I was hallucinating -- I'm just depressed. Do you think it's the medication?"

"It could be," he said, "You should talk to your doctor tomorrow."

"Okay," I said, as he turned to go. Once again I caught the faintest riff of trumpets tooting away at a swing piece.

"You really don't hear that?" I asked again, incredulous.

He stopped, closed his eyes for a moment, brought his concentration to listening and said, with another slight shake of his head and a half-smile: "No. I don't. I'm sorry. I really don't."

"Oh . . . . Okay."

So, the next day, I attended my first "Coping With Stress" class.

This class was held in a 10 by 12 foot room, which held 14 crazy people, two orderlies, and "Rudy", the presenter.

Rudy had clearly trained for this gig. He pitched his very resonate voice as if he were giving this lecture in a 400 seat auditorium, instead of a 200 sq ft room (which was rather a lot of stimulus for people who were on drugs which have a tendency to make your ears roar anyway).

Maybe the whole idea was to subject you to some stress, so that you had some to cope with -- just in case being in a mental ward wasn't stressful enough for you.

As Rudy droned on, I experienced myself looking from one side of my brain to the other. (I can't tell you exactly how this happened, but it was very clear to me at the time.)

On the left side of my brain from which I was observing, I was processing Rudy's spiel, but as I turned to look in on the right side of my brain, I watched as I saw myself, quite calmly and surgically, slicing the top of Rudy's cranium off with a scalpel, and gently lifting his brain out to have a long scientific look at what made this man tick.

"Wow," I thought (from the left side of my brain), "That was weird."

I reported this, and Glen Miller's invasion of the air-conditioning system, to my shrink during the session later that afternoon.

"Hmmm . . . . . " said the Shrink, "Well, [Portly], you're experiencing episodes of what we call 'bizarre thinking'."
(Gee, ya think?)
"We'll be reducing your medication."

Which they did. I didn't have any more bifurcated brain observations. That kind of stuff stopped immediately.

What is weird is that the Glen Miller music never disappeared, or even changed.

Which left me wondering whether the whole air-vent thing was some kind of mental ward reality-check test (you know -- maybe they really were piping Glen Miller music through the air-co -- if you noticed it, they would know you were on the ball, and if you didn't, then they'd know you were truly crackers) -- or maybe I had developed some super-human hearing capability, or my orderly was partially deaf, or I was picking up some big-band station through my fillings that only transmitted right there in the vortex of that particular hospital light well, or someone was fucking with my head -- or maybe . . . I was just crazy.

What was also weird, to me, was the knowledge that they had loaded me up with drugs that basically made me more crazy than when I got there, and that this didn't seem to bother the professionals who were working with me . . . . at all.

I wondered, then, and now, how many "crazy" people were wandering around looking and acting really wacko because of drugs they were taking to keep them from looking or acting wacko.

Do you think that's weird, or am I just crazy?

Posted byPortlyDyke at 11:54 PM 8 comments  

Labels: Divine Madness, Mental Health, True Stories, Very Personal Details

Portly and the Loony Bin
Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Or "Why I Don't Want Anyone To Force Me to Buy Health Insurance."

Most of the Healthcare "reform" that's being touted by political candidates these days involves some sort of mandate that requires individuals who are not covered by their employers to buy health insurance from a private health insurer. Some of these plans include proposals for penalizing those who refuse by garnishing their wages or damaging their credit.

The following explains why I will be one of those who will face the penalty, rather than comply, if such a plan is put into law.

On April 1st of this year, I will celebrate 20 years of self-employment. Prior to 4/1/88, I had "regular jobs" with benefits and health-coverage (albeit shitty, Kaiser coverage) for my entire working life. After I became self-employed, I did the "responsible" thing and purchased private health insurance (thus foregoing any hope of long, lingering vacations in warm, sunny places, plus an arm and a leg).

I was an insurance company's cash-cow wet-dream -- the only claims I have ever made on my car insurance policy in a 36-year driving history were as a result of being hit by other drivers (which the insurance company recouped from the at-fault driver), I never made a single claim on my home insurance, and I'm generally healthy as a horse.

Except for this one thing that happened 15 years ago, which I've talked about before.

Hence the title of this post.

I'm not going to go into huge detail about my loony bin experiences in this post (hmmmm -- although I may start another series of posts -- "The Bedlam Yarns" -- what do you think?)

Suffice it to say that my first 8 day hospitalization for clinical, suicidal depression (the first time I had been hospitalized since I was born) -- cost $14,000.00.

At this time, $14,000.00 was well over half my annual income.

I didn't worry about that at the time, though -- because I had insurance, you see. Insurance that I paid upwards of $3000/year for. Insurance that was supposed to cover me if something bad happened -- like having a nervous breakdown.

Or so I thought.

Turns out that my insurance plan had a limit on any treatment for mental illness.

That limit? $1000/year.

Oh. Guess I missed that in the fine print (and it was very fine), on page 38 or so of the very lengthy policy.

Bummer.

So now, I was not only a wreck mentally -- I was also facing a $13G hospital bill. At a time when I was, shall we say -- not exactly "suited for work"? Not precisely a candidate for financial mover and shaker of the year?

It was at this point that I began to realize: Health Insurance is not about health coverage. It's about money. It's a gamble between you and a huge corporation.

They're betting that you don't get sick, and you're betting that you do.

Which is all kinds of fucked up, because the only way you "win" the bet is to do something that you probably don't want to do -- get sick.

(Life Insurance is an even weirder bet, since you're essentially betting that you'll die young -- and they're betting that you'll live to a ripe old age -- after they've sucked the bucks from you.)

During the five years I had been paying my insurance premiums before I got sick, I went to the doctor once a year for an annual check-up (which wasn't covered), and purchased a prescription drug called "Naproxen" (now known as "Alleve) for menstrual cramps (which also wasn't covered). That was it -- the entire extent of my need for medical care.

In fact, I had been taking Naproxen for cramps (as prescribed by my physician) before I purchased private health insurance, so the insurance company "rated" me on anything that involved my reproductive organs for the first 3 years of my coverage (which meant that they would not have covered any illness related in any way to my ovaries or uterus had I had a problem in those 3 years).

When I first applied for private insurance, I argued with the person who "rated" me for reproductive issues because I had taken a prescription medication.

I said: "Yes, I take it for cramps. Nearly every woman I know takes pain-medication for cramps."

She replied: "Not everyone takes prescription medication for cramps." (Note: Naproxen was de-regulated and went over-the-counter as "Alleve" about a year later, but I was still shit out of luck on my lady-bits. See how that works?)

But back to my story. I was mentally ill, suicidally depressed, owed $13,000 that I didn't have, and was unable to work. I was ineligible for any type of public assistance until I had been unemployed for four months or longer, and even after that, a social worker told me that applying for and getting medicaid assistance generally took one to three years -- if I qualified -- which meant that I would have to prove a long-term disability -- which meant that I couldn't get better if I wanted any help. The social worker told me, to my face: "You're going to have to look very sick to qualify."

During that first year, I was hospitalized again -- this time through an involuntary commitment process, as I was deeply depressed and ragingly suicidal at the time -- cuz life was looking so rosy, dontcha know.

The second hospitalization cost around $8000, which the hospital billed to me, even though I had been involuntarily committed. (They also booted me out much more quickly, because they had figured out that my insurance company wasn't going to pay up.)

I was able to work only very marginally for the next three years. I survived, during this time, through receiving generous help and support from loved ones (my ex, with whom I had purchased a house, cashed me out on what little equity I had), scaling back my life to nearly nothing (I lived in a used RV on community land where I paid $180/month for rent, and was able to raise a lot of my own food), and living on credit (which didn't last long).

Two years after my breakdown, I ended up declaring bankruptcy. Ironically, even though I had now learned the hard way that the insurance company was not my friend, I continued to pay my health-care premiums for four more years after the bankruptcy (like I said, I used to be crazy).

When they hiked the premiums to a level which I absolutely could not pay, I dropped my coverage. Since I was no longer grandfathered into a plan, and now had a history of mental illness, I became "un-insurable". To this day, I remain pretty much un-insurable -- at least in terms of insurance I could remotely afford (even though all this occurred 15 years ago).

I don't have health insurance now -- and I don't want it. For one thing, even if I had it, it wouldn't cover the type of health care that I focus on today (I see a naturopathic MD when I need a doctor, and focus on cultivating my wellness and health rather than "fighting" disease). I focus on preventative care, diet, and activities that tend to keep me away from the doctor's office.

I want to make very clear that I'm not "anti" traditional western medicine. There are some things that TWM does very well -- if I'm having a heart attack, or I cut my arm off -- for sure, take me to a well-equipped, traditional western hospital.

I'm just not convinced of the following: That the majority of western medical institutions, pressured as they are by the need to "show profit", inextricably intertwined as they are with private, for-profit insurance companies and Big Pharma interests who are more responsive to their stock-holders than to the people they are supposedly "helping" -- I'm not convinced that these institutions really have their eye on the ball concerning "health".

That's why I'm incredibly disturbed that the politicians of today, with rare exceptions (like Kucinich) seem to be focusing their health care initiatives on expanding a system (privatized insurance) that is already not working. ("Something broken? Let's do MORE of it! Yipee!!")

The only way a mandatory, privatized health plan would work for the customers/consumers would be if health insurance was incredibly regulated, and companies were forced to cover their customer's medical needs -- and if you're going to do that, why not rebuild the fucking system from the ground up?

The reason that they want everyone enrolled is that it broadens the "risk pool". That makes sense -- but in fact, it's just a form of socialized medicine, which is one of those "third rail" words that you will never hear falling out of a candidate's mouth. I'd be happy to pay into a system that honors my health choices, and let my "healthy-as-a-horse" condition subsidize someone who isn't as fortunate in their genetics or circumstances -- but not if my subsidy is doing more to line the pockets of some board-room fat-cat than to get a low-income kid an annual check-up, or a new kidney, or to help some working stiff get his back repaired after years of lifting garbage cans.

What I learned through the loony-bin insurance fiasco was this: The insurance company is not my "friend". It isn't there to "help" me. I haven't forgotten the lesson of that harsh thump against the Reality Wall -- that all those years I paid my premiums, we were just engaged in a particularly vicious little card game.

I won my bet. I got sick. Lucky me. But then, the company wriggled and squirmed and fine-printed its way out of its commitment to me.

Stupid me.
"Caveat emptor."
Let the buyer beware.

And that is why, in matters of health care, the game must not be one of sellers and buyers, but of providers and patients. Providers who are well remunerated for the invaluable service they bring (and I'm not just talking about Doctors, here), and patients whose health is the paramount focus of the entire system.

In my state alone, the biggest three health insurers nearly doubled their profit from 2003 ($243 million) to 2006 ($431 million), while the number of people that they actually covered dropped by 16.9% in approximately the same period (2002:2.37 million covered, 2006: 1.97 million covered).

Yeah. Let's take that as a national model. Yipee.

You can probably tell how moderate and calm I am about this topic -- and it is in that tone that I hope you'll receive my last sentence:

If the fucking government wants to fucking force me to buy fucking private health insurance, then they had better fucking BY GOD guarantee me that the fucking insurance company has to fucking cover my treatment -- every . . . fucking . . . . bit of it.

That is all.

(Please vote in comments if you would like to read any of The Bedlam Yarns -- don't worry, they're not all grim. The mental ward can actually be kind of funny . . . . after 15 years have passed.)

Posted byPortlyDyke at 8:20 PM 14 comments  

Labels: Health Insurance, Mental Health, Politics, True Stories, Very Personal Details

I Was Going to Be All Brilliant and Shit
Saturday, January 5, 2008

. . . . . . but the truth is, I'm not feeling very well tonight. I'm going to put myself into bed with a hot water bottle and "pretend to be sick", so I don't have to do the real thing.

*tottering off to bed*

Posted byPortlyDyke at 11:21 PM 1 comments  

Labels: Very Personal Details

To Sir, With Love
Saturday, December 8, 2007

If gender-stereotypes don't exist anymore . . . why am I still getting called "Sir"?

In recent discussions of my "Overheard at Safeway" (posted here and at Shakesville), some commenters said that they had been raised "gender-neutral" (one even referred to the "gender-neutral police"). Others posited that their male and female offspring were "just different" from day one, which seems to support the concept of innate differences between biologically male and biologically female humans.

Now, I am definitely "biologically female". I check out chromosomally and everything -- so why am I still getting called "Sir"?

(Warning -- some photos below may be NSFW.)

Exhibit A -- this is a photo of me snapped in September of this year (for Kate Harding's very excellent BMI illustration project):

Looking at this photo, you will undoubtedly notice right away that I am "obese" (I kid, of course -- but the BMI doesn't-- I'm obviously at death's door -- OK, I kid, again. Sorry -- this shit just cracks me up!).

You may have also noticed that I have short hair, and that I have a rather noticeable set of tatas (those are the things that are making bulges outward from my upper torso, and which gave rise to the now-infamous TWH^[tm] -- "Titty-Wrap Hug").

For those of you not "in the know" lesbionically, I am what is known as a "butchy" dyke.

Let me make it clear here that I am not a "stone butch", but I'm pretty butchy, and I always have been pretty butchy. It's been reported that I am "not butchy enough" for some dykes, and "too butchy" for others.

Que sera, sera.

(As a side-note, I just realized that when you include the word butchy many times in a single paragraph, it starts to look very strange. Butchy. Butchy. Butchy.)

There's the set-up.

The other day, when I was at the store, I was called "sir". Again.

As is usually the case, the person who sirred me, upon hearing me speak, became instantly flustered, apologized quickly, and then looked away -- as hard as they could.

This is not the first time that I have been called "sir" (nor, I imagine, the last). I used to get this a lot more than I do now, and I've pondered whether it was because my hair is slightly longer now than it used to be, whether I dress ever-so-slightly less butchy than in the past, or whether, since I gained weight, my tatas are even less avoidable than they were when I was a skinny little shit.

However, I don't think any of that is really the source of the gender-projection dysphoria that I seem to produce in strangers.

Here are some pictures of me from my past (click to enlarge):

During the time that these pictures were taken, I was sirred at least once a month (on average), even when I had hair down to my ass.


What you cannot see in any of these photos are these:

Face it -- they're kind of hard to miss, and they have been with me since age 13, at approximately the same size and shape (disclaimer: altitudinal coordinates have changed over time).

Do not click to enlarge this photo -- it's just not necessary.

My hypothesis is that it is not my hair, facial construction, or body type that results in me being genderized by strangers via a "masculine" form of address.

I am very short, my voice ranges from high-pitched to "annoyingly-squeaky" (depending on how much I've been smoking and how excited/upset I am), and my fashion choices (I'm using the term "fashion" very loosely here) are decidedly gender-neutral -- usually sweat-pants and a fleece shirt -- 90% of the time (OK, I'll come clean -- more like 97% of the time)

So, I don't think it is my physical appearance or dress -- I believe it is my manner and my mannerisms.

I speak loudly. I am brash and direct. My natural stance is "feet apart, arms akimbo" (think "Stands-with-a-Fist" -- but only if you can avoid thinking of Kevin Costner at the same time). I tend to look people directly in the eye, to stomp when I walk, and my stride is long and forward-moving rather than short and side-swaying.

And it's always been that way:

So how did this happen?

Nature? Nurture?

I've decided that it simply cannot be "Nurture": I was raised in a culture and a time when gender roles were far more stringently applied than they are today.

I was constantly admonished to keep my legs/feet together (even though no one bothered to explain to me that to do otherwise was either an open declaration of my slutitude, or an attempt to emulate a man).

I was repeatedly lectured on the appropriate toys/activities/body postures/vocal tones that fit with the following descriptors: "Feminine", "Girl-Stuff", and "Lady-Like".

Somehow, it just didn't take.

I'm going to argue again that the gender roles and expectations that many people would like to attach to chromosomal sexual status CAN NOT be scientifically proven as genetically pre-disposed -- even if you do extensive studies about how humans are supposed to be able to identify gender by gait patterns -- because gender-expectations and gender-roles are cultural, Cultural, CULTURAL!!!

(Oh, and have I mentioned that they're cultural?)

Let's take a fairly external item: Clothing.

Even though fashion in clothing is a phenomenon which is incredibly mercurial, changing literally year-to-year within our culture, there remain clothing-based stereotypes which invoke gender-roles and expectations, such as: "Who wears the pants in this family, anyway?"

Ask any English-speaking person in western culture what that means. They can probably tell you. (Hint: It has to do with Patriarchy.)

Even though pants are relatively new to western culture (introduced in Europe as an evolution of the "hose" worn by men in the 15th century), it has only been within my lifetime that the thought of women wearing pants in the US was down-graded from scandalous/possibly-culture-destroying to acceptable-but-not-really-feminine. (The demurely crossed ankles that you see in the photo above -- the one with me pouting on the porch -- are those of my grandmother in 1964, who wore "slacks" exactly once in her lifetime -- and only after my grandfather passed away, cuz God knows that would have killed him.)

You may want to say: "Oh, hey, Portly Dyke -- now that's 'a bridge too far'! ;) No one really thinks that pants are reserved for men anymore!"

Wanna bet?

Google the phrase: "women wear pants", and take a look at the ongoing debate about whether good Xtian women can wear a specific article of clothing without incurring God's wrath by violating Deuteronomy 22:5.

Oh, and just for good measure? Why don't you suggest to some "Masculist" that he "get back to his roots" and put on a pair of tights? I double-dog dare you.

Never mind that, at the time Deuteronomy 22:5 was written, the men in question weren't wearing pants (not to rub it in or anything, but they were wearing dresses), and a woman wearing pants wouldn't have had a problem with being mis-identified as a man and being punished for cross-dressing, so much as being annihilated because she was mistaken for a Scythian.

See, it's cultural. It's Cultural. It's CULTURAL!!!!!!

Gender identification/roles/expectations are incredibly flexible constructs. They change from generation to generation, from country to country, and from tribe to tribe.

Still don't believe me? Tell me: who's the man and who's the woman?

We all know that graceful, swaying motions, make-up to enhance the eyes and mouth, elaborate jewelry and headdresses are the province of women, don't we?

Tell it to the Wodaabe:


I "read" as "sir" in this culture, because of this culture's gender-role coding. I don't "cue" correctly for this culture's expectation of what a woman is supposed to sound like, walk like, act like, dress like. I don't cross my arms over my breasts when a man stares at them. I'm more likely to stare back and when he finally looks up, say: "Are you lookin' at me?" in my best DeNiro.

Truth be known, I don't even mind being "sirred" -- in fact, I prefer it to being "ma'amed" (which I think, sadly, testifies to my own internalized and culturally-coded misogyny).

I want to repeat again, in case anyone hasn't gotten this yet -- I'm not saying that it is impossible that there may be innate differences between biological males and biological females. I am saying that, until we can really perceive and understand our own cultural biases, assumptions, and projections about gender-roles, I don't believe that there is any way to perform empirical research on what, if any, those differences might be.

Which probably means that we need to have an extra-terrestrial to do the research for us:

Posted byPortlyDyke at 10:30 PM 20 comments  

Labels: Gender, Overheard, Queers, True Stories, Very Personal Details

A Modest Proposal: The Thorny Issue of Sexual Consent
Thursday, October 18, 2007

There's been a lot of discussion about what constitutes "consent" in terms of sexual encounters. Personally, I'm a strong proponent of just asking my sexual partner (even after we've been together for years) the simple question: "Do you want to have sex with me?"

Figuring out what to do after asking this question is a very easy If/Then statement:

IF Answer = "Yes", THEN *sex ensues*, ELSE *sex does not ensue*.

Now, when I've proposed this solution to rape-apologists some people, they have challenged my programming sequence with a very thorny "ElseIF" equation: "But what if she changes her mind in the middle of it and then accuses me of rape?" -- because according to these rape apologists people, this apparently happens all the time -- just every time you turn around, I guess (on some planet).

These rape apologists individuals also say that getting clear consent before gettin'-it-on is a "mood-killer", and one of them stated "unless a woman is chanting "Yes' over and over for hours without interruption . . . . any woman can then claim withdrawal of consent."

And that's when it hit me -- my fool-proof solution to the thorny issue of "consent":

1) Get a clear "yes" from your partner before engaging in sex AND 2) BECOME A BETTER LOVER

See, I've never really thought of it as a problem if my lover was chanting (or screaming) YES! YES! YES! "over and over for hours without interruption" during sex. ("Don't Stop!" and "Keep doing whatever it is you're doing!" also do not disturb me in the slightest.)

In fact, this situation has been so common for me that I had simply assumed that it was par for the course.

You may be wondering: "But PortlyDyke -- How do I become a better lover?"

So here are PortlyDyke's Quick Tips for Better Consensual Sex:

1. ALWAYS get consent from the other person(s) involved before engaging in sex. Awkward as it may sound, I have found that most people who want to have sex with me actually enjoy being asked. (I still ask my partner of many years, and y'know what? -- it tickles her pink! -- no pun intended) Yes, this means that you may have to deal with the inconvenient fact that your prospective partner is too drunk/unconscious to either comprehend your question or answer you -- but in that case --DO NOT PROCEED. See? Isn't that simple?

2. If, at any time during the sexual engagement, your partner says "Stop", "No", "Don't" -- then stop, no, DON'T! If your partner resists you physically -- stop, no, don't. Immediately. DO NOT PROCEED. (There are some exceptions to this rule if you are engaging in consensual S/M, but if you're playing those games without talking it over first and employing "safe words", you deserve whatever fallout you get, AFAIC.)

3. Now here's where the "better lover" part comes in -- If, at any time, you perceive that your partner looks uncomfortable, apathetic, disinterested/disengaged about what's going on, stop and ask them questions like: "Are you enjoying this? Is there something else you want?", etc.. Then listen to their responses and take creative, consensual action on what you hear. I suppose that having apathetic, listless sex may be a turn-on for some people, but if you want to hear that resounding and enthusiastic consent (YES! YES! YES! over and over for hours without interruption), then continuing without enthusiastic response maybe isn't such a great strategy in terms of building your sexual mojo. Jus' sayin'.

(On a totally serious note -- if you are having sex with a stranger, and both of you aren't sober or conscious enough to at least have a coherent talk about STDs and birth control before you make the beast with two backs or commence with the muff-diving/sword-swallowing -- maybe you should consider exchanging phone numbers, going home alone, and having a nap. Seriously.)

Posted byPortlyDyke at 3:17 PM 10 comments  

Labels: Bad Behavior (Others), Consent, Feminism, Rape Culture, Sex, Trolls, Truth, Very Personal Details

The Parental Summit Report
Saturday, September 15, 2007

Well, in the spirit of considering parents and their children everywhere, I want to start with an announcement that my blog-rating has changed since I last checked. This Blog is Now Rated:



This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:

* dyke (20x) * pissed (7x)
* fucking (16x) * death (5x)
* shit (13x) * dead (4x)
* suicide (11x) * hell (2x)
* fuck (9x) * mother-fucker (1x)
* kill (8x)

So, don't say I didn't warn you.

Not that there will be a lot of dirty words in this post. After all, I'm talking about my Mom and Dad.

All in all, I had a very nice time with them. I will highlight some particularly "parental" moments, to give you an idea of the visit.

Saddest moment (already recounted): Mom saying "Oh, I wouldn't write my stories down. I've never done anything exciting". I did follow through with frequent nudgings and encouragement to her to tell her tales, and I think that it might have gotten through. I'm going to keep on her about it, though, until she flat out says: "No. I don't want to."

Most Surprising Moment: My parents really loved one of my friends who I wasn't sure they would get on with. In fact, my mom even commented that "she has kind of an edge, doesn't she?", but also said to her as she left after a day on the whale watching boat: "I don't always like all of my daughter's friends, but I like you."

Best moment: My dad is really great at telling awful jokes. My mom only laughs at a few jokes at all, but those which she enjoys, she does make the attempt to re-tell occasionally. The moment of the visit that is most imprinted in my memory is my 80-year-old mother, attempting the tell the joke about the condoms and the Dramamine, but cracking up so badly that she was weak with laughter, and literally could not get the punch-line out. (The punch-line is "Son, if it makes you so sick, maybe you should consider giving it up.")

My mom is a bit of a mystery to me. She is incredibly self-contained -- a classic stoic midwestern Swede -- but she pops up with stuff like this every once in a while (she told me one of the funniest penis jokes I've ever heard -- I'd recount it here, but it's a visual joke), and even though she will seemingly walk a million miles to avoid an "uncomfortable" situation, she can also be suddenly and brashly honest (a couple of glasses of wine helps).

We went to a casino and played blackjack together (my parents, retired school teachers, only discovered that they enjoyed gambling after they had been retired for a number of years). My mom is incredibly lucky, and a really sharp blackjack player. She looks like a nice old lady, and dealers seem a bit surprised when she starts playing, and winning. We didn't win any money, but we didn't lose much, either, and we had a lot of fun.

On our way home from the casino, we stopped at a cafe that touts one of the nation's best hamburgers -- Fat Smitty's, on Route 101. I hadn't been to Smitty's since before 9/11, and the place has . . . . well, undergone a bit of a transformation. Smitty is an ex-Marine, and the cafe has always sported various Semper Fi stuff, but this time, the table-cloths were plasticized red, white, and blues, "patriotic" stuff was all over, and there was a framed picture of Preznut over the cash register (which, if my parents had seen it BEFORE we ordered, probably would have nixed this restaurant for them, as they are lonely democrats in a very red state).

We took an all day excursion on a whale-watching boat and saw stellar sea-lions, a mincke whale, porpoises, the beautiful San Juan islands, and lots of fog. The Orcas were hiding out, apparently. My parents have become avid travelers since their retirement, so they enjoyed themselves but did not seem over-awed by the magnificence of where I live, except in that way that I still am, after nearly 30 years in the Northwest.

I ate more meat this last week than I usually consume in a month, beat my Mom at Scrabble three times, learned how to play rummi-cube, and hung out, hung out, hung out.

We had some political conversation, and this part was interesting -- I was always the "radical" in the family. As we were visiting, and Bush was doing his speech on Thursday night (in the background), I made the comment that I sometimes felt a real human compassion for him from this perspective: That I don't think it's possible for a human to practice these deep levels of inauthenticity without suffering deep, soul-searing damage, and that, in that sense, I felt sad for him.

My mom said: "Are you kidding? He doesn't have a conscience. He's an idiot." It was kind of strange -- in some ways, my statement was still kind of "radical" -- this time because of my spiritual approach, rather than a political stance -- still, it was the first time that I had the sense of me being the "moderating" voice in the conversation.

I've had a rather strange life, from my parent's perspective -- I've had a million different jobs (they worked in the same field until they retired), a large number of relationships (they've been married to one person for nearly 60 years), and it's never been a big goal of mine to get rich. I live in intentional community, which is how I intend to live for the rest of my life, and this, I think, is kind of mysterious to them.

Sometimes I suspect that they come out to visit me just to make sure I'm "doing OK". Unfortunately, their perspective on what "doing OK" means has a lot to do with whether you own a certain type and amount of property, how much money you have in savings, and whether you have a "solid" job. My perspective on what "doing OK" means . . . . . no, wait -- I don't even WANT to just "do OK" -- I want to thrive and grow and flourish -- so my definition of a "good" life has to do with whether I love my work (which I do), whether I am involved in a vibrant, deliriously loving relationship (which I am), and whether I have real, thriving relationships with my friends and my community (which I also do).

I think of myself as incredibly successful, and very rich. Most people who would look at my bank balance (and thank god my parents' middle-class, midwest sensibilities are such that they would never, ever ask me what my bank balance was, because I think it would freak them out) would not think of me as "rich". However, a lot of people who look at my life tell me that they wish they had a life like mine.

My dad did (delicately) ask if I had a "401-K or anything like that" one day. I said "No". He then asked if I had kept up on my social security (self-employed for nearly 20 years). I said "Yes, of course." I could see them visibly relax. "Oh good," they said in unison. I think their concern is truly just a basic human desire to make sure their kids are going to be okay -- however, what would be "OK" for them is very different than what would be "OK" for me, in terms of a fulfilling life, so it's sometimes hard to bridge that cultural divide.

Still, it felt good to have my parents in for a close-up look at my world, and it seems to comfort them. Last year, when I went back to Kansas to visit for Dad's 80th birthday, as we were leaving, he said to my spouse: "Thank you for taking such good care of our daughter." Sweet, but the Beloved and I kind of rolled our eyes at one another as we drove away -- our relationship is based profoundly on each of us taking good care of ourselves, and supporting one another to take care of ourselves, and then sharing the wonderful riches that result from that self-care.

This year, as we were bidding the 'rents fare-thee-well, Dad said to spouse: "Thank you for loving our daughter so well."

"Ah!" I thought, "I think they may be getting it."

Posted byPortlyDyke at 10:13 AM 5 comments  

Labels: Family, Very Personal Details

How to Enjoy Your Parents
Tuesday, September 11, 2007

When I think about my parents as "my parents" (some monolithic cultural construct) -- I find that I don't enjoy them very much.

However, when I just sit back and observe/listen/experience them as individual human beings, I find that I enjoy them a great deal.

I'm beginning to form (or re-form) a hypothesis about how "grouping" people may decrease my enjoyment of the individuals in the group.

Still, I find that I do this mental "grouping" constantly. Today, I sat with my parents and one of my friend's parents (who are closely related in terms of their generational material), and I found myself thinking: "I'm listening to a generation."

In truth, however, I think I'm listening to four voices of a generation, which I do not dream represents an entire socio-cultural experience.

I notice my monkey-mind attempting to categorize this experience, however.

I think that this is probably enormously short-sighted and scope-limited.

It's ironic to me that the distinct individuality of my children proved to me that each human being is unique, but with my parents and others of their "generation", I seem to want to sweep them all into some broad category that "explains them" to me.

I think that this is, possibly, a sign of true laziness on my part.

This post seems disjointed and obtuse to me, in some ways, but I'm about to hit "publish post" -- think of it as a simple revelation: These are the thoughts I am thinking tonight, after a day in which I have been breaking down and observing the individualities of the unit I have called "My Parents". I have no conclusions -- no universally-encompassing insights -- just more questions.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 10:28 PM 3 comments  

Labels: Family, Very Personal Details

Family Stories
Monday, September 10, 2007

When my mom and dad arrived yesterday, the first thing my dad wanted to do was grub around in his suitcase.

"I've got something for you," he said.

He couldn't find it right away, but finally my mom poked around and found a manila envelope. Inside was a bright red peachie-type folder, with my dad's memoirs from WWII. He had, at the urging of my uncle, finally written them down.

Later, at the dinner table, I said to my mom: "Now it's your turn."

She answered: "Oh, I haven't ever done anything exciting."

This from the woman who survived the dust bowl on a small farm in Kansas, who was the first woman in her family to attend college, who defended the school library from censorship in 1968.

I realize, though, that what she really meant was probably: "I've never been to a war."

There were all sorts of levels of sadness in her statement. I'm wondering how much it has to do with being a woman in a man's world, in the devaluing of herself simply as herself, or even the dismissal of midwestern rural life as unimportant and "less than".

I'm going to be working on her during the visit and letting her know that I want her stories.

As I said before, I'm working on having a "real" relationship with my parents, which I believe means that I must come to know them better -- as they are now, and as they perceive themselves to have been (not just as I have perceived them to have been).

Funny -- the longer I go on living, the more interested I seem to get in the details of nearly every person that I know. Life is so fascinating, and humans are so diverse.

Here's to all the lost stories.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 11:51 PM 4 comments  

Labels: Family, Very Personal Details

Parents, Incoming at 1 O'clock
Saturday, September 8, 2007

Hi all --

I thought I'd take a moment to explain my rather funky, funky, funky absence from blogging.

I and all those I hold dear are fine. It's not a crisis thing -- it's a well-planned visit from the originators of my FOO (that's: Family of Origin, for those not in the know).

My parents arrive tomorrow at around 1 pm for a four day visit.

I'm actually pretty excited about the visit. They are both upwards of 80, and very spry, but I'm aware that every visit we spend together may be our last, or that, next time I see them, they may be in a very different state physically (although they show no signs of slowing down -- they have literally run my ass off when we have vacationed together).

My last visit with them was over a year ago, when I went to visit them at their house in the deep midwest. They are excited to come out to the great Northwest, and we've got a whale-watching excursion chartered for Wednesday, picnics on the beach, and fantabulous Scrabble games planned (my mom can KICK YOUR ASS at Scrabble -- guaranteed).

I suspect that I'll actually be posting during the visit more than I have during the preparation for the visit (OK, now you know why all that basement cleaning was going on). Today, I washed the fucking windows in the kitchen and scrubbed the crap off the bathroom ceiling (not literal crap, just that extraneous crap that seems to accumulate, no matter how much you run the fan).

It's not like I need to impress my parents, but they were a great excuse, to tell you the truth. Equinox and Rosh Hashanah are coming right up, so the timing's perfect -- as we head into another season, I'm going to be doing so with a whole lot more light in the kitchen, and without fear of the greebly mold-demons falling on my head while I'm showering. Thanks, mom, you're an inspiration.

I have some nervousness about the visit, but mostly, I'm just suffused with excitement. In the past 7 years or so, I've been working toward having a more authentic relationship with M & D. That's always a bit nerve-wracking in the preparatory phases, but rarely that difficult once the interactions begin.

So, look for me through the week. I'll either be posting some lame-ass redirect to youtube, or writing something deep and meaningful about my visit with the folks.

You probably won't see me commenting on other sites much. I'm sure I'll have a shit-load of blog-reading to catch up on during the coming days. I'm choosing to concentrate on enjoying and exploring my parents, and occasionally posting here.

Wish me luck!

PD

Posted byPortlyDyke at 10:56 PM 4 comments  

Labels: Family, Functional Relationship, Very Personal Details

The Personal is Political
Wednesday, August 29, 2007

This week, it just seemed like one of those weeks that, everywhere I turned, my issues were in my face.

It's not like I try to be impersonal at this blog. I've noticed, however, that my most recent blog entries have been pretty impersonal (credit this to the fact that I started that whole "Angst-Loss Challenge" thing last month . . . Wow! Was that just last month? -- I'm becoming Gonzo! . . . . and that whole angst-loss mission . . . .quest . . . thing . . . was, however unintentionally, pretty political overall, and rarely personal).

So, this post will be entirely personal.

The news and posts that set my issues clanging this week were about rape, and mental health/suicide. (Surely you must know that these aren't my only issues -- just the ones I'm currently ranting about.) Still, I figure I should just come clean about some of my personal biases and perspectives regarding these issues.

Yes, I was raped. Repeatedly. From the ages of 2 -5 and later, in my early teens. I aborted the fetus of my rapist into a toilet in middle school. It was terrifying for me at the time, and unexplained, and unacknowledged, and awful. Just like the rapes .

I was also diagnosed as "mentally ill" (age 37), institutionalized and medicated as such, and considered and planned suicide seriously enough that I was put into isolation and dis-allowed writing implements (one of the things that had kept me alive between age 13 - 37), cutlery, and q-tips (although how one is supposed to be able to commit suicide with a q-tip is still beyond me, even though I have googled it extensively).

Thankfully, my days of "clinical depression" are now behind me, and the thousands (literally) of hours and dollars that I spent on therapy helped me moved from "abject victim" to "thriving survivor" in terms of my sexual abuse.

Monday, I was reading various blog-entries about Owen Wilson's suicide attempt, and then, some posts about "gray rape". I felt mad. And sad. And bad. And then mad, and sad, again.

To give you insight into my emotional responses -- when I googled "Owen Wilson Suicide" the day the news broke, the top link read: "Owen Wilson's suicide bid" -- like he was "bidding" on his suicide? Like it's Ebay or some fucking shit?!?!

I'm the last person in the world to buy into the whole "every suicide is a tragedy!" thing. I have sat with friends who were dying (in enlightened Oregon) for whom assisted, intentional death was the greatest blessing in the world (prior to Oregon passing the Death with Dignity act, I had friends who were dealing with AIDS who passed by their own hand without public sanction, but shhhh, don't tell anyone -- that would be illegal and shit.)

However, I was shocked by some of the shock that I read in response to Wilson's attempt to depart.

Be warned that, given my biases, what follows are Portly Dyke interpretations of what I read in the MSM:

"But he's So Young! So Handsome! So Thin! So Rich! So Blond! So Famous! So Successful! So Cute! So Smart! So . . . . . so . . . . . . . so . . . . !"

So . . . . what?

So depressed? So desperate? So miserable? So hopeless?

I've been there. I was depressed, desperate, miserable, and hopeless, even when I was young, handsome/beautiful, thin, (never really rich or famous, although I was temporarily blond), and also while I was successful, and cute, and smart (which I think I still am).

I was one of those "super-copers", who hid my underlying depression very well -- even from myself, at times. I managed to dis-associate from my abuse history almost completely until my life fell apart at 37. In retrospect, this was a brilliant survival strategy -- it allowed me to complete college, get a job, and create a family in a fairly stable manner. I believe that my consciousness did what it was designed to do, very well -- it kept me together until I had the breathing space to disintegrate, and then re-integrate. The process wasn't "fun", but it was effective. /*pat, pat, pat*/ Good old brain.

So, now, when I read stuff about famous people like Owen who are obviously dealing with mental health issues (probably depression -- duh, ya think?), in a country where 10% of women and 4% of men take anti-depressants -- yet the CDC doesn't actually have a listing for the word "Depression" in its A-Z index of diseases -- I get a little . . . . . how do you say in zis cuntry? . . . . .PIZZED FUCKING OFF?!?!?! (Fire Ze Missiles!!)

Because if you google (without quotes) Owen Wilson Suicide right now, you get more than 7 Million hits, and if you add one word to this google search and make it Owen Wilson Suicide Depression, you get only 281,000.

This is what I was talking about in my last post -- about living in a culture that I believe is incredibly inauthentic. Fourteen to nineteen percent of our population can be under active treatment for depression (and who knows how many others are not being treated, or are self-medicating with booze and drugs?) -- but we don't want to talk about it.

I have some rather radical notions about mental health and depression, truth be told.

[Disclaimer: My opinions and ideas do not stem from laboratory research -- they are admittedly anecdotal and personal.]

I worked for more than ten years with low-income elderly and handicapped people (mostly mentally ill) as a social worker. Shortly after this time, I became a patient in the "mental health" system for about six years. One could say that I have a well-rounded (if that's the right word) view of the issue.

I believe that it is possible that some people's brains just "work that way", and produce a butt-load of chemicals that give them a tendency toward depression.

However, it has been my experience that a far greater number of people that I know, who suffer from depression, do so in response to a specific event or ongoing situation -- like being a Vietnam vet who never got treated for PTSD, but was just expected to come home and act "normally" after witnessing atrocities, or being a retired elderly person who gave their heart, soul, and body to a corporation and got cheated out of their retirement fund, or being a dis-enfranchised person of color who lived in deep poverty from birth but managed to put themselves through college, yet couldn't get anyone to hire them for a "real" job because of the deep scars that daddy carved into their face in a fit of drunken rage when they were 9 years old, or being a woman who was divorced by a husband of 40 years, after raising his kids and ironing his shirts and kissing his ass, because he found a younger, more attractive woman, or . . . being a survivor of severe childhood physical and sexual abuse.

One of the descriptions that fit my depression perfectly is "Depression is just anger without enthusiasm." - Steven Wright.

I had a lot to be pissed about, and I had never really gotten pissed about it. When I was a child, and my abuse was happening, it wasn't safe, at a very physical and tangible level.

When I was just starting out in my life, and needed to "look good" and qualify for a job, it still wasn't safe, although now, the un-safety was more about a financial security and social acceptance.

While I was raising kids who depended on me, and needed my loving care and financial support, letting this rage out didn't seem safe or effective, in terms of my life plan at that time.

Finally, when I was no longer a "mom", and my lover began to act verbally and physically abusive towards me, it was safe for me to let that anger emerge. But some part of me seemed to know that the abuse that I was experiencing at the time (though bad enough) wasn't the thing that I was really, truly pissed about -- and so, not knowing who to be pissed at -- I turned that rage toward myself. Depression. Suicidal ideation. Anger (huge, and totally understandable, anger) -- turned inward.

My personal journey to understand, process, and direct that anger where it belonged took me the better part of a decade.

During that time, I took medications to "manage" my depression. I don't think that this was a mistake. I think it saved my life. The medications that I took allowed me to get adequate sleep, and eat normally (I had the sleepless, anorexic version during the time I was suicidal, rather than the sleepy, listless type I had experienced at other times in my life). However, those medications did not "cure" my depression. They only helped me to function well enough to move toward the root of my anger.

I don't hold with the prevailing thought that depression is just a brain-chemistry thing, and if you find the right magic combo of medications, it will disappear. I think depression is also an internalized anger-in-response-to-trauma thing -- and if 14% (conservatively) of our population is being treated with medication to handle internalized anger, what does that say about our nation, and why can't we fucking talk about it??? Just how pissed off are we?

One of the things that is pretty well documented is that women are twice as likely to experience major depression as men -- worldwide. (I am not discounting the ravages of depression on males here, just working up to a point.). There are a whole lot of studies that show a whole lot of variability on things such as race, education, and income, but statistics on depression among women vs. men are very, very consistent.

Hmmmm.

So, you just had to know that I was going to bring in the rape theme here, huh?

And I am going to.

I don't think it's a coincidence that the incidence of depression is so much greater in women than in men, while, in the last ten years, as the number of murders, robberies, and aggravated assaults have dropped by 15-22%, the number of rapes has dropped only by 2.4%. (And that, BTW, is not anecdotal -- it's from the FBI crime statistics spreadsheet.) Hmmmmm. Think there might be a connection?

It fucking pisses me off -- more than I can possibly express -- that I am still actually having, and witnessing, conversations where we argue whether it's OK to fuck someone who is passed out drunk -- that we are debating whether this is "really" rape or not.

The fact that we are still having that debate, to me, speaks volumes to the validity of the concept that we live in a rape culture.

Speaking up and out about it is part of my therapy -- part of the way I keep myself out of depression.

Here's my hypothesis: The more you are being screwed (and I don't mean that in an enjoyable, consensual way), and the more you feel/think that you have no power to stop being screwed, and no way to speak up and out toward the person screwing you, the more likely you are to be depressed.

That was my experience.

Which is why, I think, we have so many women, and so many vets coming home from Iraq, and so many Native Americans, and so many people in poverty, and so many elderly people -- who exhibit depression -- because these people are getting screwed -- and considering that a majority of the nation wants the war over and the president and vice-president impeached, and that elected officials are doing precisely squat about that . . . . . it's no surprise to me that antidepressants are the most prescribed drugs in the US.

I'm not even going to go INTO the whole anti-depressants as a cash-cow for pharmaceutical companies thing at this point. I would probably implode.

Hokay. Just checking in with myself to see if I've ranted enough. Yes, I believe that I have.

Oh. And I hope Owen figures out what's pissing him off.

Portly Dyke's Prescription for Ongoing Mental Health: Speak your mind.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 4:30 PM 14 comments  

Labels: Divine Madness, True Stories, Very Personal Details

I Do Everything I'm Not S'posed To Do
Monday, August 6, 2007

On purpose, even.

I smoke. I drink. I'm "fat" (from now on, I'm going to be using quotes around that word, because I think it's penultimately subjective, but according to the Holy BMI, I am F.A.T.). I don't "exercise" (likewise, "exercise" will be in quotes hereinafter, because I don't consider gardening, teaching, the ability to lift heavy objects, or sex as "exercise" -- even though these activities, for me, frequently involve heavy lifting, pushing, sweating, panting, pushing, groaning, grinding, thrusting . . . oh, you get the picture).

I curse. I blaspheme. I lose my temper. I whine.

I am a big old homo. I have consumed nearly every illegal drug that exists at one time or another.

I choose not to send birthday and christmas cards to my family of origin.

I let my leg hair and armpit hair grow without harvesting it.

I allowed my kids to watch TV, and play video games when they were growing up. I watch TV and play video games myself to this very day.

Clearly, I must be a menace to society.

I am a statistical anomaly -- according to "conventional wisdom", I should be, at the very least, rampantly unhealthy and unhappy, and at the most, dead -- but I'm none of these.

So much of status quo media and advertising seems to be concentrated on nailing down some formula for "health" (completely subjective), or some bomb-proof prescription for "happiness" (completely subjective), or the demarkation of some standard of "normalcy" (not even subjective -- non-existant -- normal never existed, and never will!) -- that it seems to me that many people that I know spend a great deal of time trying to figure out where they are on some farcical (and ever-shifting) scale of healthy/happy/normal, rather than spending much, if any, time figuring out where they actually are.

I was born in the 50's, an era which had its happy/healthy/normal prescription pretty much sewed up -- all you had to do was a) graduate from high school and possibly college, b) marry someone of the opposite gender, c) squirt out a couple of babies (if you were female) or get a job (if you were a male), d) buy a house, e) sell your soul to your employer for 40 years or so, then f) retire and prepare for your ultimate fate (nursing home, followed by Death).

Easy, right? And Oh-So-Satisfying!

Except it wasn't. Not for anyone that I have ever known, even amongst the biggest dispensers of this prescription -- my parents' generation.

For me, the prescription broke down when I realized that I was queer, and that Step B was going to be a bit tricky for me. Once I figured out that I hadn't, and probably never would attain Step B, and I was still healthy and happy, while my sister, who had followed the prescription to a "T" seemed both unhealthy and unhappy, I really started taking a second look at that prescription. That was back in the 70's.

What is shocking to me is how many smart, educated young people these days seem convinced that the 1950's protocol of School, Mate, Babies/Job, House, Retirement is actually viable. Even though it didn't really work for their parents, or their grand-parents. I'm struck by how many young parents I hear repeating the same old cants of "Well, you don't know how hard it is to stay home with the kids all day!/Well you don't know how hard it is to go out and work all day!" -- I mean, hasn't this been done to death, already?

I'm struck by how many parents who are my age or slightly younger, who snuck out to smoke pot, drop acid, and/or drink alcohol as teenagers are absolutely shocked and outraged when their now-teen-aged children do the same thing. ('Cuz, like, their own parents shock and outrage was such an effective antidote, and kept them from doing these things, right?)

It's just weird to me.

That's why I no longer follow the prescription that Mr. Socio-Cultural Wizard handed me in 1956, and I'm pretty wary any time I see some new prescription that guarantees health, happiness, and normalcy.

In the 1960's, everyone knew that margarine was "healthier" for you than butter. Except now it's not, because trans-fats will KILL you, and everyone knows that. In the 1960's, everyone knew that you needed to eat meat every day to get all your protein needs met. Except now you don't, because meat will KILL you, and everyone knows that. Except the Atkins people, who know that meat will not kill you, but Carbohydrates will KILL you. In the 1960's everyone knew that drinking 3 glasses of milk every day was an important part of the "nutrition pyramid". Except now, it isn't, because milk has fat, which will KILL you. Or maybe it is, because it has calcium, which will help keep you from being KILLED. Or maybe it isn't, because you're allergic to bovine dairy products, and your gut will swell up, which will KILL you.

One of the wonderful things about getting a bit older is this: You get to watch a lot of "science" tell you a lot of things about what will KILL you, and you get to look around for yourself and notice who's actually dead, and who is actually not dead.

Personally, I think the number one thing that will KILL you is being dead while you're still alive -- paying so much attention to crap that doesn't really fucking matter that you have no attention left for the things that do matter, or plastering your consciousness-windows with so much bullshit "science" (which in most cases is funded by food and drug companies with something to sell) that you can no longer see clearly into the world that you inhabit.

Facts: I'm a "fat", healthy, dyke, who enjoys tobacco, alcohol, red meat, video games, and television. I also read voraciously, breathe and get around just fine, thank you, have work that I enjoy and that people are happy to pay me to perform, and most importantly, am vibrantly alive, and "happier" than probably 90% of the people that I know or know of. Like I said, I'm a statistical anomaly.

I credit this to the moment I stopped paying attention to that man behind the curtain -- you know -- the one who was supposed to make everything all better?

That is all.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 1:24 AM 4 comments  

Labels: Fat, Queers, Spirituality, Truth, Very Personal Details

Time Out
Friday, July 13, 2007

Portly is taking a time out today. Processing teh emotions. No worries, mates, I'm not emotion phobic -- just taking a real life break to process on through.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 5:54 PM 7 comments  

Labels: Blogging, Very Personal Details

Must excuse myself for the night -- back in the morning
Tuesday, June 26, 2007

I've had an unexpected turn of events at home tonight, which requires my rumination, so I'll post this tiny bit now, and more in the morning -- in the meantime, please enjoy one of my favorite videos, and I'll explain everything in the light of a new day.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 11:10 PM 2 comments  

Labels: Funny Fluff, Mr. Deity, Very Personal Details, Video

Teh Tag
Sunday, June 24, 2007

I didn't realize it, but I'd been tagged by JackGoff and many days ago, at that.

I'm not normally responsive to anything remotely resembling chain mail, but heck (I mean "hell" -- must keep that rating up), I needed a subject to post on, I've just committed to daily blogging, and the blog's fairly new. So in the spirit of . . .

Rules (per Jack): Each person posts the rules before their list, then they list 8 things about themselves. At the end of the post, that person tags and links to 8 other people; then visits those people’s sites and comments, letting them know that they have been tagged, and to come read the post, so they know what they have to do.

1. I am pierced in exactly five places. Guess where correctly, and you win 500 irredeemable points (h/t to Phydeaux for the concept of irredeemable points).

2. I have a tendency to alternately rant wildly and then collapse into a puddle of cross-transferent empathy.

3. I have had a maximum of 3 concurrent cats living with me at any given time.

4. I have "kept" (if that's the correct phrase -- as in, "she keeps cats") a total of 13 cats in my lifetime of 50 years. (A pitifully low average, IMO -- only .26 cats per year. I hope to remedy this in future. Please be kind. My mother was allergic . . . I got a late start . . . . and for good measure --- The dog ate it.)

5. I possess a completely useless college degree, but a very good education.

6. My best hours of the day are 10 am - 2 pm, and 10pm -2 am.

7. I have a temper which I have not taken pains to tame, as it has sometimes been my best friend, and once allowed me to transcend a queer-bashing. I keep Teh Temper in a specially-marked drawer in my Wiccan cupboard. Keep your hands off the cupboard, and no one will get hurt.

8. I eat animal flesh, although I was vegan for many years, and for many reasons.

I really can't bear the thought of "tagging" anyone without their consent, so I hereby "tag" the first 8 volunteers who make a comment on this blog indicating that they have consensually agreed to be "tagged" by me.

Are you It?

Posted byPortlyDyke at 4:23 PM 6 comments  

Labels: Funny Fluff, Tagged, True Stories, Very Personal Details