Coming Home

As I type this I am sitting in the backyard of my parent's house. My Mom is resting comfortably and recovering nicely from the surgery on her shoulder. I didn't sleep much last night due to the fact that I was in caretaker mode. I'm a pretty light sleeper as it is but when I'm looking after someone I maybe sleep an hour or so through the night. Needless to say, between the drive down, the lack of sleep and the stress, I'm pretty wiped out.

Laying in bed last night I got to thinking about the time I spent in this house. I've always been a bit envious of those whose family still resides in the house in which they grew up and whose family is still intact, for lack of better words. (Remember, my brain is functioning on a very low level at this point.) They have so many stories to share and a place that they've always called home. I hadn't ever realized that I have that, as well. Sure, I moved around a lot growing up (9 elementary schools, 1 junior high and 3 high schools, to give you an idea) but once my Mom married my step-Dad she stayed put and even though this place never really felt like my home while I was here, it turns out that it is. It has been for the last 24 years.

The room in the front of the house, the one that used to be mine, was the room where I figured out how to deal with my increasing feelings of loneliness. I was a loner my senior year in high school. It was the third high school I had attended and since most of the kids there came from affluent families and spent most of their lives growing up in that school district, there turned out to be many 'clicks'. Clicks that I would never be a part of.

Needless to say, I spent hours in my room with my headphones on listening to music and drawing or writing. The world that I created in my head was perfect and in that world I was as cool as Elvis Presley, John Schneider or any other 80's 'hunk'.

Sitting there at my corner desk with my headphones blasting rock'n'roll or country music, I made plans to buy an old Chevy Luv truck and cherry it out, complete with etched glass and chrome rims. She was going to be painteda metallic Midnight Blue, too. I spent hours looking through truck magazines. She'd be lowered in the front and raised in the back with sweet, fat racing tires on the back. Never mind the fact that their engines were wee and racing was not their strong point. She was still going to turn heads.

These were my days while I lived here. Get up, go to school, go to softball practice then go home, close my bedroom door on the real world and climb back into mine. It was all about coping and finding my way. The world and my future held so many possibilities. I knew I could do anything. I also knew I would have to do it on my own. This place, my childhood and my high school days gave me my strength to get through the rest of it.

My parents may not have been the best parents but they did the best they could with what they had. While there were things that I wish I hadn't ever had to fight through, I am glad that I did. Every single one of those things have made me who I am today. A strong, caring, loving, loyal, compassionate and passionate person with a good heart and a playful spirit.

That's pretty fucking rad, if you ask me.

Welcome To Singledom. Population: Me

The subject of being single has been haunting me these past few weeks.  While I am incredibly happy for those around me who have found someone to love and to be loved by, the constant reminders that I am currently a citizen of Singledom is sometimes excruciatingly painful.  My hearts need to love and be loved is sometimes overwhelming.  Specially during this season when the leaves begin to change and the temperature begins to drop, which makes for really nice cuddling in front of a movie weather. 

I spent this morning reading through some of my old journals and after a bit of contemplation on the patterns I noticed within my past relationships, I have once again come to realize that I really need to work on loving myself.  I’ve made this realization several times within the last few years but, to be honest, haven’t really done the work.  There have been times where I’ve put forth a good effort but I have yet to completely follow through until it stuck. 

What made this realization rip through my chest and smack me in the heart was an entry I made on January 18, 2005.  It goes something like this: Am I not raw enough? Not passionate enough? Not hot? Not sexual? Why does it always seem to come to “I love you. You’re so sweet, so tender, so generous, BUT I NEED MORE.”? 

The funny thing is, when I think about each and every relationship I’ve been in since then and the way in which they ended, I could have made this entry after every one of them.  The answer to the question is, yes, they do need more.  More of me.  Loving them so intensely and unconditionally is only part of it.  I would venture to say that it’s only half of it and ask myself what it is I’m giving them to love.  Am I only giving someone my love, the things I do for them and the way I treat them to love?  That’s not giving of myself.  There’s a person in this body and these actions.  Who is that person? 

The pain of losing relationships and fighting through the storms of my life has closed me off.  The titanium, concrete and brick wall that surrounds my heart has become incredibly thick.  It’s time to start dismantling it and directing that love that I so freely give to others towards myself.  I can do this without diminishing the love I continue to give to them. 

Imagine what could be possible if I started loving myself as much as I’ve loved them.  I have journals filled with letters to the women I have loved through the years.  Letters I wrote while we were together and letters that I wrote after we broke up.  What if I started writing love letters to myself? 

With all of you as my witness, I hereby make this my declaration to love myself.  To make this trip home with the intent of remembering who I am and where I come from.  To be and remain proud of who I have become and to not allow anyone to make me feel less than.  I am stepping off, once again, onto the path of self-love and discovery.  This time, I’m sticking with it to see where it takes me. 

Your Judgments Do Not Define Me

Last week my step-Father called to tell me that my Mother took a bad fall while in their back yard.  She recently had surgery on her right shoulder and, thankfully, didn’t fall on that shoulder.  Unfortunately, she fell on her left shoulder and there may be some fractures.  She also fell pretty hard on her head.  Needless to say, she’s in quite a bit of pain and isn’t able to do much.  Her left knee was recently replaced and there seems to be some speculation that it may not be working properly so she’s falling a lot. 

I spoke to her during the call and she sounded so defeated and ready to give up.  Being the person that I am I immediately offered to come down and help.  She tried to tell me that she’ll be ok and that there really wasn’t anything that I could do.  (There’s no doubt where I get my independence from.)  Then she said that the house was a mess.  To give you perspective on my Mother’s thinking, having a messy house means visitors may not want to come and, also, she would feel bad having someone there when the house is such a mess.  This was the hidden message in her statement so I told her to let me come down and clean up the house for her.  She immediately started to cry.  At that point, I knew that I needed to go.  

A few calls later I am set to make the 16 hour drive in one day either Tuesday or Wednesday of this week.  It seems crazy but it’s cheaper than flying at this point and it’s a drive I’ve done many times since moving to Oregon in 2000.  Plus, the idea of having my car with me brings a sense of freedom.  I can escape quickly, if absolutely needed. 

Now, you would think that this would not really be a big deal, aside from the fact that my Mother is in this physical state, and that I should be completely focused on helping her in her time of need.  I mean, she is my Mother.  (To clarify, she is my adoptive Mother.)  But, the fact of the matter is that it is a big deal.  It's a really big deal.

The thing is, I am beyond stressed out and really concerned about the possibility of this trip setting me back mentally and emotionally during this time of major transition in my life. 

In general, the judgments that people place upon me I see as just that.  Judgments that belong to someone else and that are not what make me or break me.  But, the judgments that are placed upon me by my family shoot through my chest and penetrate my heart and soul.  In an instant I am transported back to that little girl who just wanted to be the perfect child and make everyone happy.

The truth of the matter is that I’ve never lived up to their expectations.  This part of my family is where I got the idea that I was to grow up to become someone who made a lot of money while sacrificing any sort of happiness or love.  Become a doctor or a lawyer or an accountant.  Anything that made money because how much I made would determine how successful I was and how worthy I was.  After all of that, I was to be married to a man and have two kids.  The ‘American Dream’, right?

Being a tattooed, lesbian who looked like a guy was not what my family had planned for me.  It doesn’t matter how ‘good’ of a person I am inside.  All that matters is what is seen on the outside.  Before you get to know me. 

To give you an idea of what I’m talking about let me explain the reaction that my tattoos invoke.  Since the last time I’ve been home I’ve gotten two more tattoos.  When my Mother discovered my first tattoo she looked disappointed then proceeded to tell me that she was just talking to one of her friends about me and told her how I was such a good daughter because I never got mixed up in drugs or alcohol and never had any tattoos.  I was instantly judged as something bad because of my tattoo.  Then she tried to explain that she already worries about the way people judge me for looking the way I do and now they’ll judge me even more for being tattooed.  I tried to explain to her that their judgment was none of my concern but she just wasn’t getting it.  In that instant I felt like a little girl again being chastised for the way I thought and acted.  Immediately I shut down and tucked away any feelings that were bubbling to the surface. 

I spent a lot of time journaling while growing up.  It was the only way for me to get things out.  Before long that was the only place where I felt safe to ‘talk’ about the things I was thinking.  It was a place where I wouldn’t be judged. 

At some point I became fearful that someone would find my journals so I got rid of them and kept things in my head which eventually made me crazy.  It’s taken a lot of time to come out of that space and start to sort through the crazy and I feel like I’ve done a fairly good job of it so far.  It’s just that each time I go home I fall back a bit into that crazy space where I can’t do anything right and am completely unworthy of anything. 

While thinking about all of this as well as other stressors that I am allowing to effect my everyday life at the moment, I felt incredibly close to completely losing it yesterday.  My stomach was in knots and the tears were on the brink of falling.  Honestly, I kind of wanted to hit something.  Ok, no.  I wanted to hit something.  This is where football used come in handy.

I need to go take care of my Mother but I cannot allow this trip home to set me back.  Specially right now during this major transition of my life and while stepping into my power to take control of my life. 

Dammit.  I am not that child anymore.  I am 40 years old.  I am an adult with my own life, capable of making my own decisions and I am a good person.  I am not that little girl who can be controlled by her family.  Their disappointment in me is not my baggage to handle.  It belongs to them.  I am not living this life for them or anyone else. 

My choices and my life are mine and mine alone. 

"Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life; define yourself."
~Harvey Fierstein

Grief & Trust: An E Ticket Ride Through My Thoughts

My mind goes back and forth between peace and turmoil this evening. Questions constantly arising about my thoughts and why I’m thinking them and where they are coming from.  I’m working through a lot of feelings, emotions and grief.  The loss of significant relationships take time to grieve. I have to continue to remind myself that there isn’t a set time limit on grieving.  It will come and go for as long as it needs to and when it’s here I need to bring my Zen Buddhism philosophies into practice and sit with it.

Feeling emotions is fairly new to me, considering I’ve been in this existence for the past 40 years and learned at a very early age to turn them off or tuck them away.  Now that I’m feeling them I’ve been trying to figure out how to balance them.  Just how long do I sit with them and am I allowing them to consume too much of my time?  Am I living in the past by dwelling on them for too long?  Am I dwelling on them or just feeling them?  Trusting in this process is difficult.  Are these feelings coming from something that was fabricated in my mind by creating a story from things that may or may not be happening outside of my realm of control? 

Stick to the facts.  Yes, this happened and this happened but it may not have been a consequence of this or that.  There are so many other explanations of what might be happening.  My instincts tell me something completely different but are those really my instincts or is that coming from the stories in my head? 

Am I obsessing?  Why does my heart feel the need and constant want to love someone?  When I finally find a peace with everything and the grieving ends, has it really ended or have I simply hidden away all of those emotions?  Will they return only to be worked through again and again and again? 

Do you see the chaos in this?  This process of working through all of these thoughts and questions help me define and learn from the emotions that I feel.  At least I hope it does.   It also feels like it’s making me a little crazy.

But, there has to come a point where I completely let go. Not only for my sake but for the sake of those involved.  No one wants to hear it anymore, including myself!  Move on into the future and be happy with the present.  See the past for what it was, appreciate it and cherish it but also stop living in it and holding on to hope that someday it may return. 

How much is lost in the present if I’m living in the past and holding out hope for something that may never come? 

So much is lost.  It’s time to kiss the past goodbye, send it love and wish it well.  If it does come back, I will love and appreciate it in the present.

I’ve fallen out of my habit of meditating again and need to start again with it.  It seems as though I lose focus every time I let that practice go.  Focus on staying present.  No matter what I’m doing.  It’s time to let go of the past and be in the present.

We Are Here

This evening I attended a community forum at The Q Center for the youth in our community.  It was about us, as a community, listening to them.  Listening to their stories and their ideas on how to make the world a better place for those coming up behind them.  The community packed the Q Center to capacity tonight.  It was an awesome sight. 

There were seven youth on the panel and each answered three questions.  I’m going to do my best to remember them.

(1) What has been hard for you?

(2) What has helped you the most?

(3) What would help you more? (Think outside of the obstacles.)

These aren’t word for word but they are the basic premise of what was asked in this forum.  The idea of the evening was to listen to these youth and use what they tell us as a jumping off point to brainstorm ideas of how to better help them. 

It was pretty clear that the majority of these youth struggled to find an ally or a mentor while growing up.  A few of them were seeing counselors who they didn’t feel comfortable completely opening up to so finding just one person who would stand on their side and create a safe space for them was very difficult. 

I heard a lot of them ask more teachers to sponsor GSA’s in the schools.  While, I believe, every public high school in Portland has a GSA the outlying areas do not.  The suburbs of Portland like Gresham, Troutdale, Beaverton, Hillsboro and many other communities surrounding us.  The youth need more teachers and school administrators in these areas to come forward as allies.  The problem that arises for many of these teachers and school administrators is that for them, becoming an ally could jeopardize their careers. 

In reality, it’s a much bigger issue then what we are looking at here.  The basic fight is against homophobia.  If we can’t, as a society, become more loving and accepting of everyone these issues will never go away.  While there have been so many strides made in our movement for equality already, we have so much more to do. 

To start, we as the adult Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer (GLBTQ) community need to step in somehow and start mentoring our youth.  They are the future of our community and of this world.  We also need more visibility outside of our community so that we can reach the youth who are struggling to find their allies. 

Mentoring was also talked about at the Butch Voices Conference here in Portland and it’s an excellent idea.  Something along the lines of Big Brothers and Sisters for queer youth.  If we could start something like that based out of the Q Center to mentor the youth in the SMYRC program and Outside In, imagine the changes that it could make for our youth and the future of our community.  Imagine the lives it may save.

The stories behind I Was That Kid and the It Gets Better Project show that these issues have been with us for generations.  It’s really a human issue.  When will we move past this?  When do we start respecting each other, stop casting judgment upon each other and start loving one another? 

5 Days

One afternoon in December of 1969 my biological mother gave birth to me. She was young, un-wed and it was 1969. Because of these facts and a few others, it had already been decided that I was to be given up for adoption. So when I was born, my mother was only able to hold me just long enough to count all of my fingers and toes. I was then swept away to the nursery to be cleaned up, poked and prodded then left swaddled in one of those plastic bassinets on wheels.


This would be my ‘home’ for my first 5 days in this world, only to be picked up or touched when I needed to be fed or changed.  I was the only baby in the nursery for those 5 days.  My Mother spent all of her time at the nursery window trying to keep me company.


I came out of the warmth, love and safety of my Mother’s womb only to spend the first 5 days of my life alone in a sterile, cold, and unloving nursery. No hugs, no cuddles, no connection.


After doing a bit of reading on this subject, I am willing to bet that those 5 days alone in that nursery did more emotional and psychological damage to my then tiny brain than any of the other abuses I experienced in my life.


I feel like I’ve spent the last 40 years doing everything I could to get people to love me, to touch me, to hold me, to stay with me. Yet, I struggle to actually form an attachment because there is this knowing in me that tells me they’re not going to stay. I’m not good enough.


Later in my life, my adoptive Mother told me that I never cried as a baby. The doctor told her once that she needed to let me cry so my tear ducts would form properly. She told him that I was a quiet baby that never cried. There didn’t seem to be any explanation for it.


I had become the perfect, pleasing child. The one who wanted to make everyone happy. The one who wanted to make everything ok. Because, if I did, they would stay. Right? They would love me. Right?

Forty years later things are becoming much more clear to me. This was the beginning of my journey through this life. The first 5 days.


(c) Wendi Kali July 29, 2010

Her

There’s an image in my mind of a woman dressed in a soft, silk nighty with a flowing dark red robe that reaches only as far as her mid thighs.  She answers my knock and takes me by the hand.  Without a word she pulls me into her arms, closing the door behind me.  Her arms wrapped around me, mine around her waist, holding tightly.  Her hand cups the back of my head as she nuzzles into my neck and breathes me in.  We stand in this warm embrace for a few moments.  Gently, she pulls away, looks into my eyes then leans in to kiss my forehead.  Without words she knows what I am feeling.

Silently she leads me down the hallway to her bathroom where a warm bath awaits.  She helps me undress then reaches for a washcloth while I climb into the wonderfully warm water.  Slowly my body begins to relax and release the tension that has been building for the past 40 years on this planet.  All of the stress, the worry, the frustration, the anger, the pain, the unbearable fucking pain, begins to melt away. 

I am tired.  So tired.  She knows this.  In the silence she bathes me.  I close my eyes and hear only the sound of the bathwater.  The gentleness of her touch sends me deeper into the sense of relaxation.  Tightened and tense muscles soften and grow heavy. 

She finishes bathing me then leaves the room for a few minutes.  Sitting in the complete silence amongst the candles and the dimness of the room, I simply breathe.  A tear rolls down my cheek as even more frustration dissipates.  She left because she knows I cannot cry around others and I needed more then anything to release those tears.  The release exhausts me.

She returns to the room just as I’m preparing to step out of the tub.  The warm towel she wraps around me smells of lavender.  As I lean against the wall she gently dries me off, wraps the towel around me tightly then uses another to dry my hair.  I look into her deep blue eyes and pull her close to me.  Her smile is so beautiful.  Her skin, so incredibly soft.  She leans into me and kisses me gently. 

Laying the towel across the edge of the tub, she takes hold of my hand and leads me to her bedroom.  The downtown lights shine through the large windows creating a light glow in the room.  Exhausted, I fall onto the bed after dropping the towel onto the floor.  A moment later I feel her straddle my back.  With a bit of warm oil she begins to massage my back and shoulders. 

Feeling the remaining knots in my muscles begin to dissipate I begin to drift off to sleep.  She lies beside me, slips her arms around me and pulls my head to her chest.  Her warmth and love completely surround me as I drift off to sleep.  

 

© Wendi Kali 2010